My grandmother ... She used to put her hand into her dress and hold her heart. I grew up and did the same quite unconsciously until some aging office-bitch pointed out that it was pure obscene. Who knew?
I do have pictures of her, but since this is the Drawing Bind blog ...
She was my comfort in her "feather bed" and my nurse when I was ill, my carer with a neglectful eye which gave me my freedom, for four and a half years, to roam "the forest" (a clump of bluegum trees) and the farm (a small holding on the wrong side of the tracks (literally) and she gave me a puppy for company and protection.
I drew this picture thinking about those days and how I saw it in my looking back glass. The moon was a big thing in our lives. She blew my warts off to it. I keep waiting for NASA to report on finding them, but they were small and I expect hard to find under the Moon dust and all.
She told wild and wonderful stories that always managed to involve the railway station and her running away with a good smacking of fairyland thrown in for child friendly material. She gave me my first paint brush and I had to make do with a stick for a pencil, but she taught me to write my name in the sand.
I wish I had pictures of all the people that worked that little bit of land because I had many mothers. A child, they say, is raised by a whole village. I was raised in such a village.
My mother I only really got to know when she forgot who I was. Note to the young. Don't wait that long. But, Mommy Dearest didn't make getting to know her easy. No matter. We were all good in the end.