Of Life and Oil Paintings
Once upon a time, in a strange land known as Shiloh, NC (suburb of Elizabeth City) a little wayward, dark haired urchin made a friend. Two friends if we are to be perfectly honest. They were transfers in from a world vastly different than the one she knew. A world of concrete and tall buildings that blocked the sky from view; a world where live theatre was common place and walking several blocks was a daily occurrence. This world was known as New York, New York.
The girl was in thrall with the two men whom she’d come to know as Richard and Ray. A lovely and loving couple who had hundreds of original Holden oil paintings. For you see, Richard had once been in Holden’s inner circle. One of his good friends and lovers. The fledgling friendship the girl had with the two men rooted itself deeply when she slipped away from the party to sit and stare at the oil orb paintings and carefully leaf through the unstretched canvases. The entirety of the front room of their home held the paintings, and she was found there, after having been missed, with tears brimming in her eyes as she pointed and gasped, “How did you get these?” to the taller, older man with a brandy glass in one hand and a cigar in the other.
Whatever Richard had thought of the girl before, he’d warmed instantly to her then. Sitting down he went through the canvases with her, the party forgotten as the two entered their own world of stories about New York life and Holden. He shared with her his hopes for the paintings, how he missed his late friend and explained to her that each orb in certain paintings was meant to represent one person or another in Holden’s life.
They sat there for hours, occasionally being checked in on by another party attendee or the girl’s biological mother. Sometimes quiet, sometimes laughing, sometimes Richard would have tears in his eyes as he recounted a tale.
Allow us to fast forward. The girl had kept in touch, and would visit Richard and Ray whenever she was in the area. They would talk, go through the paintings, and enjoy the company of the other. Until one summer, the girl was living in Florida when she got a phone call.
Richard had died.
The girl could not return to work after the call; could hardly breathe after she heard the news. It was too sudden, he was too young. He had been so ALIVE.
Upon her most recent visit to North Carolina, and the strange world of Shiloh, the girl learned that she had been left two of the paintings. Unstretched, unframed, but rolled carefully and kept for her. Ray had set them aside for her, knowing that Richard would want her to have them, and given them to her mother to be kept until the girl could collect them when he moved away.
= - = - =
Right, so the girl is me, and the paintings made me cry. Never did I expect to be given something like this. I never asked, never hinted, it never even crossed my mind to. They were Holden’s legacy and Richard’s reminder. I had to mail them back to Georgia to myself, as I doubt I could get away with taking them as carry-on on the plane. I’ve never been so nervous to UPS something in my life. I’m still in a sort of daze that they are mine. That they were given to me. They aren’t a replacement Richard, but now the reminder is mine, and all the stories that come with them.
I wish I could say thank you. I wish he hadn’t died. But I’m grateful for them. Grateful for the friendship that I had and the companionship I found inside their home.
The girl was in thrall with the two men whom she’d come to know as Richard and Ray. A lovely and loving couple who had hundreds of original Holden oil paintings. For you see, Richard had once been in Holden’s inner circle. One of his good friends and lovers. The fledgling friendship the girl had with the two men rooted itself deeply when she slipped away from the party to sit and stare at the oil orb paintings and carefully leaf through the unstretched canvases. The entirety of the front room of their home held the paintings, and she was found there, after having been missed, with tears brimming in her eyes as she pointed and gasped, “How did you get these?” to the taller, older man with a brandy glass in one hand and a cigar in the other.
Whatever Richard had thought of the girl before, he’d warmed instantly to her then. Sitting down he went through the canvases with her, the party forgotten as the two entered their own world of stories about New York life and Holden. He shared with her his hopes for the paintings, how he missed his late friend and explained to her that each orb in certain paintings was meant to represent one person or another in Holden’s life.
They sat there for hours, occasionally being checked in on by another party attendee or the girl’s biological mother. Sometimes quiet, sometimes laughing, sometimes Richard would have tears in his eyes as he recounted a tale.
Allow us to fast forward. The girl had kept in touch, and would visit Richard and Ray whenever she was in the area. They would talk, go through the paintings, and enjoy the company of the other. Until one summer, the girl was living in Florida when she got a phone call.
Richard had died.
The girl could not return to work after the call; could hardly breathe after she heard the news. It was too sudden, he was too young. He had been so ALIVE.
Upon her most recent visit to North Carolina, and the strange world of Shiloh, the girl learned that she had been left two of the paintings. Unstretched, unframed, but rolled carefully and kept for her. Ray had set them aside for her, knowing that Richard would want her to have them, and given them to her mother to be kept until the girl could collect them when he moved away.
= - = - =
Right, so the girl is me, and the paintings made me cry. Never did I expect to be given something like this. I never asked, never hinted, it never even crossed my mind to. They were Holden’s legacy and Richard’s reminder. I had to mail them back to Georgia to myself, as I doubt I could get away with taking them as carry-on on the plane. I’ve never been so nervous to UPS something in my life. I’m still in a sort of daze that they are mine. That they were given to me. They aren’t a replacement Richard, but now the reminder is mine, and all the stories that come with them.
I wish I could say thank you. I wish he hadn’t died. But I’m grateful for them. Grateful for the friendship that I had and the companionship I found inside their home.