You Are My Sunshine
I was the youngest of nine kids. Boisterous kids. Lots of noise and teasing and tickling torture.
Big brothers who fought. Older sisters who fought.
I was the youngest and weakest, and I watched with big eyes, scared.
At one point, two older sisters were arguing yet again about whose turn it was to wash the dishes. I thought a simple chart would solve the problem, but I quickly learned they were not interested in a peaceful solution.
My mom was energetic, passionate, a hard worker, a great cook. She kept her house up to Dutch standards with the sheets washed every week, hung on the line to dry in the California sun, mangled (by a machine called a mangle), folded and stacked perfectly in the closet.
She was oh, so busy keeping everyone fed, clothed, bathed, their hair combed, their fingernails trimmed.
And boys, would you stop your fighting!
So amidst all this craziness, there was a perk when I got sick.
My mom would come upstairs and check on me from time to time, sit on the bed, straighten those sun-dried crisp sheets, bring me 7-Up in a glass with a straw on a bed tray.
And for a moment in time, I got her undivided attention.
I was her joy, and she mine.
I was the youngest of nine kids. Boisterous kids. Lots of noise and teasing and tickling torture.
Big brothers who fought. Older sisters who fought.
I was the youngest and weakest, and I watched with big eyes, scared.
At one point, two older sisters were arguing yet again about whose turn it was to wash the dishes. I thought a simple chart would solve the problem, but I quickly learned they were not interested in a peaceful solution.
My mom was energetic, passionate, a hard worker, a great cook. She kept her house up to Dutch standards with the sheets washed every week, hung on the line to dry in the California sun, mangled (by a machine called a mangle), folded and stacked perfectly in the closet.
She was oh, so busy keeping everyone fed, clothed, bathed, their hair combed, their fingernails trimmed.
And boys, would you stop your fighting!
So amidst all this craziness, there was a perk when I got sick.
My mom would come upstairs and check on me from time to time, sit on the bed, straighten those sun-dried crisp sheets, bring me 7-Up in a glass with a straw on a bed tray.
And for a moment in time, I got her undivided attention.
I was her joy, and she mine.
I was the youngest of nine kids. Boisterous kids. Lots of noise and teasing and tickling torture.
Big brothers who fought. Older sisters who fought.
I was the youngest and weakest, and I watched with big eyes, scared.
At one point, two older sisters were arguing yet again about whose turn it was to wash the dishes. I thought a simple chart would solve the problem, but I quickly learned they were not interested in a peaceful solution.
My mom was energetic, passionate, a hard worker, a great cook. She kept her house up to Dutch standards with the sheets washed every week, hung on the line to dry in the California sun, mangled (by a machine called a mangle), folded and stacked perfectly in the closet.
She was oh, so busy keeping everyone fed, clothed, bathed, their hair combed, their fingernails trimmed.
And boys, would you stop your fighting!
So amidst all this craziness, there was a perk when I got sick.
My mom would come upstairs and check on me from time to time, sit on the bed, straighten those sun-dried crisp sheets, bring me 7-Up in a glass with a straw on a bed tray.
And for a moment in time, I got her undivided attention.
I was her joy, and she mine.
8 x 8” oil on wood panel. Framed size, 9 1/2 x 9 1/2 x 1”.