A Commission from Beyond the Grave

                                                   

A house is a big box for memories. I've drawn many, always striving to catch what the place meant to those who lived there. Here's a story from my archive:

Paul Ressler passed away in 2016, after celebrating sixty-four years of marriage to his sweetheart Marguerite. It took their daughter Lora a few years to process his papers. It was 2019 when, going through a desk drawer, she unearthed an envelope postmarked 1998. Within it was a newspaper clipping from 1997, an article about my house portraits, with a note saying he'd meant to have me do one for Marguerite.

Lora located me, and asked, Do I still do those drawings? Oh, yes, I said; I've done upwards of five hundred. Could I do one for her mom's upcoming ninety-second birthday, she wondered. Of course, I replied.

That exchange alone was goosebump-inducing, an appreciation of houses and memories and history, accompanied by a commission from beyond the grave. But then, the next part:

"You'll be drawing, not my parents' house, but Mom's childhood home. You've probably never heard of the town: Anna, Ohio."

"Gosh, I used to drive through Anna when I lived in St. Marys," I replied, and then added, thinking to show myself knowledgeable, "Lois Lenski grew up there."

A pause, and Lora replied, "You'll be drawing the house she grew up in, too."

Many of us have a private pantheon of celebrities, people we revere in fields that matter to us. I'm an artist who alphabetizes her books by the illustrator's last name, and I keep close to my heart the artists whose pictures make children's books come alive. Lois Lenski was one of the best. Books she illustrated vibrated with her kind-hearted, naive-yet-stylish illustrations. She was also an author who memorialized neglected chapters of American history. I raised my boys on her Mr. Small books; I have loved her histories (especially Houseboat Girl and Blue Ridge Billy) since I encountered them in middle school. She won the prestigious Newbery Medal for Strawberry Girl in 1945.

And Marguerite Mittermaier Ressler grew up in Lenski's childhood home! I made a trip to Ohio to view the house; it was sadly run down. As an illustrator, my task would be to restore it, and I did my best, replacing missing trim, removing weeds, and adding the family cat (the only memory Marguerite's daughters could cagily extract from her without giving away the surprise.) My choice to include the Victorian mansion next door proved to be a good one, for those neighbors, in the 1930s, had been dear to Marguerite.

When I'm drawing a house, my heart lives in what I'm drawing, and I feel, for a week or two, like part of the client's extended family. This project was electric with added connections, not only to Marguerite's family, but also to a cherished author/illustrator. A current passed through generations from the Lenskis, to the Mittermaiers, to the Resslers, to me.

Marvin and I drove to Dayton to deliver the finished work to Lora, and we all cried.

In this saga's next chapter, I again drove to Ohio to hear author Bobbie Malone introduce her biography of Lenski (Lois Lenski: Storycatcher), but, more important, to meet Marguerite and all three of her wonderful daughters. She hugged me. More tears.

And one more page of the story: Marguerite Ressler once met Lois Lenski's father. (Marguerite's father succeeded Lois's as pastor of Anna's Lutheran church.) On a return visit in 1932, Rev. Lenski took Marguerite by the hand for a walk to the ice cream parlor. When Marguerite hugged me, I became part of the story.

Every life is a web of connections to people, places, things. The web touches every bit of our daily life, but also extends backwards into history. We are, says Scripture, surrounded by a "cloud of witnesses" who went before us. And sometimes, their stories reach out to touch ours. I collect these links the way I collect antiques, and for much the same reason: they tie me to history and anchor my soul. A touch strengthens the link.

I collected another link when a 2008 illustration project connected me to a lady in her eighties who, as a toddler, went astray at one of those 1920s air shows popular when airplanes were new. She bumped into an impossibly tall person who looked down and asked, "Are you lost, little lady?" And with that, Charles Lindbergh scooped her up and carried her back to her mother. So, when I hugged Annabelle Smith, I hugged someone who had contact with the first human to cross the Atlantic in a plane. I was thrilled.

Hop-skipping generations, I was linked to the past, like a playground game where someone tagged me, and I was "it." In both my stories, a soul interacted, a century ago, with another soul, who in turn interacted with me. In writing this post, I pass the stories, and the links, along to you. Tag, you're it.

What are your links you to meaning and history? Name-dropping will be smiled-upon.

I encourage you to read Marguerite's account of the Lenski and Mittermaier families.

And of course I'd encourage you to subscribe here for my occasional essays on life, stories, and history. (This one checks all three boxes!)

As always, thanks for reading!