Sara Marberry

When I was 10 or 12 years old and my sister a little older than that, my parents bought us a set of oil paints, brushes, some canvases, and an easel.

“Paint,” they told us. “Paint anything.”

Having already dipped our toes in the artistic water by taking ceramics classes, we were up for the challenge.

So we painted.

Most of what I painted was pretty ordinary. Clearly I was not going to be the next Mary Cassatt. Neither was my sister.

But when I look at the painting I did of our family home at 1021 Gregory Street in Normal, Illinois, where I grew up, I think it’s pretty good.

I’m surprised by the painting’s detail, scale, and coloring. From the sloped roof to the three-paned windows and large double front door under a hanging light, the architectural features of the house are precise and accurate. I didn’t exactly capture the salmon color of the brick walls or the front door, but the brown wood panels and red brick front walk are correct.

Then there’s the gray cat in the garage window. And the basketball hoop in the driveway. A perfect green lawn. The black lamp post by the sidewalk. An exact number of bushes. The tree well.

I’m glad I kept the painting all these years. Because what I see when I look at it now is a house that I loved and the happy family that lived in it.