Ode to a Great Lady

 She was a stern looking woman for being only 30. She had severe black hair parted in the middle, and she looked down at those around her as if to say, “You disappoint me.”

Her picture hung over my grandmother’s fireplace for as long as I could remember. For a long time I assumed—as did most people—that she was a relative. My grandmother’s great-grandmother, perhaps.  It wasn’t until later that I found out she was no relation at all, but merely a painting my grandmother had liked. So when my dear grandmother died and my sisters and I went through her things, I chose Mrs. Maria Ogden.

I don’t know why. I think it was because I also got my grandmother’s piano, and Mrs. Maria Ogden seemed like she needed to preside over something grand. It wasn’t until I took the painting that I was able to read the back:

“Mrs. Maria Ogden,” it read. “Age 30.” I think that was it. I remember being surprised that she was a couple of years younger than I was at the time. There was also a date that was right around the time of the Civil War.

For a few years after Mrs. Maria Ogden moved in, I stood a little straighter when I passed her because she looked like she didn’t approve of slouching. I watched my mouth; I’m sure she didn’t approve of colloquialisms, let alone swear words, even mild ones. I’m certain Mrs. Maria Ogden believed that young ladies needed to conduct themselves with decorum even though I was quickly becoming a much older woman than she had been when her portrait was painted. “Be careful,” we whispered. “Mrs. Maria Ogden is watching.” And she was, of course; her eyes followed us.

Then one year when my life was falling apart, I wrapped up Mrs. Maria Ogden and put her in my car and drove her across town to the estate dealer, and I sold her. I cried behind my sunglasses on the way home. I have no idea who this woman was, but over the years she had nonetheless become a part of my roots. I missed her.

Mrs. Maria Ogden helped put my son through college. Now that I’m much older and wiser, I am certain she would not have been disappointed. In fact, I’m sure it’s what Mrs. Maria Ogden would have wanted all along.

Beauty is a miracle of things going together imperfectly. ~Anne Lamott, Stitches