One summer Mother invited an artist friend, a portrait painter, to come stay at Sunnycrest to paint some portraits of our family. Dad said he was too busy to sit, but the rest of us; Mother, Nana, Yeaman and I sat for our portrait. Knowing my artistic ambitions, Mother encouraged me to watch the work as it progressed, and although my attention span was pretty short, I managed to sit quietly for short periods, because I loved the smell of paint and linseed oil, and I was facinated to observe the painstaking steps from charcoal sketch to thin washes of color, and finally, the application of thick creamy oil paint. It was tedious work, with none of today's mechanical aides. The painters of that day distained the use of photographs for reference. They were purists, relying on their skill as draftsmen to achieve a likeness, and I watched with sympathy as our artist friend struggled to get just the right expression or shading.

When our four portraits were finished, Mother gave a party to show the finished paintings to the neighbors, as well as to promote more commissions for her protege. I haven't forgotten one sitting, because I was allowed to go along to watch, provided I would be absolutely quiet. The subject was a middle-aged man, a rather heavy, pompous individual, and not at all handsome. The artist had sketched in his features, and started to lay in color, when his wife came in to look.

"Why, you have only given him one ear!" she exclaimed in an accusing voice. The poor painter-lady tried to explain that when you look at someone from a three-quarter view, it isn't possible to see both ears. The woman wasn't convinced until she was invited to look at her husband from the same angle, and she agreed that yes, she could only see one ear from there, but she insisted that since her husband certainly had both his ears, the painting had to have two ears as well. I squirmed and bit my tongue, remaining "as quiet as a mouse" just as I had promised, but I was disgusted with that ignorant woman. I couldn't understand how anyone who lived in such a fine big house could be so ignorant. And I was absolutely positive that one kind of artist I never wanted to become was a portrait painter! I don't think that I ever knew the outcome, but I imagine that the painting had to be started over, with a full-face likeness staring straight out of the picture, in order to please that demanding wife.

Later I found out that practically every artist has to please the clients.

0ne Sunday after church, when I was visiting Nana in her upstairs rooms, she looked out her window and gave a little gasp.

"Oh . . . oh, oh! she whispered, clicking her tongue in a disapproving way.

"What it it, Nana? What's the matter?" I asked. I had never seen her upset like that. Grownups didn't show their emotions in front of us children, but she was too distressed to hide her feelings.

She blurted, "Oh, there they are again, walking together in the garden, while your poor mother lies downstairs, sick in her bed!"

I looked outside, and saw my daddy walking beside Glad, their heads inclined toward each other, deep in conversation. I couldn't see anything wrong. They were always talking togetherplanning, making arrangements to keep Sunnycrest running smoothly. In my little-girl naiviete, I wondered why my grandmother was so upset.

What was so wrong?

Now, in my imagination, I speculated over the romance which was growng between my father and Glad. Of course nobody ever toid "little Virginia" a word of the rumors and gossip that circulated in the social circles of Madison. It must have seemed to those nosy ladies like the Victorian novels that were so popular in those days: with the impoverished young employee falling in love with the "lord of the manor," but it had a twist.

Those Madison ladies admired and loved their dear friend, my lovely and talented mother. They were "on her side."

Both Daddy and Gladys had been brought up in the rigid morals of the times, and both held strong ethical values. How could they admit the attraction they were beginning to feel for each other? Especially with his gifted and beautiful wife lying ill on her porch?

And yet the two were inevitably drawn to each other, as together they discussed the running of the household, and the care and well being of that "second patient," me?

Many years later Dad and I would talk about those days at Sunnycrest. He told me that he and Mother had even gone so far as to discuss a divorce. That was a scandalous step to consider!