A Memory of a Farmhouse

It was my own little world. A place to dream. A place to create. A place to just ‘be’.

At some point after the original farmhouse was built, an extension was added on to the west side of the structure. It was quite old and built with the same beams and stones of the original construction, but no doorways attached the two living areas.

While the original farmhouse was fairly large, the addition was not. It consisted of two stories with a long, narrow living room, a small kitchen with an attached porch and a narrow stairway going up to reveal two small bedrooms and a clawfoot tub accessorized small bathroom. A narrow door in the kitchen led down steep, treacherous steps to a dingy basement. Although the addition had a separate furnace, the basement foundation had been removed in a narrow section toward the ceiling so that both sides of the house could share the coal bin.


The downstairs of the addition became my studio and my over-flow kitchen. The upstairs became a place for children’s sleep-overs and house guests.

The entire addition was layered with lumpy wallpaper covering both walls and ceilings and since my paints and brushes were all handy in the kitchen cabinets, I began painting on the walls. I painted simulated mortar and bricks going upstairs. The only windows in the addition were on the north and south sides, so I added a small painted window to the stairwell. Regardless of the season, the painted panes looked out over verdant gardens and a bright blue sky with summery clouds.


I painted the walls in the first bedroom at the top of the stairs into our family life story. Children and visitors were always allowed to add their own touches to the walls and often my visiting nephews would disappear for hours at a time. The excited ‘reveals’ of their artistic additions made my heart sing. An excited boy would run into the main house, eyes shining in excitement, “Aunt Jenny, Aunt Jenny! Come see the squirrels I painted in the trees!”

Because our finances were always strained the addition (and to be honest, most of the main house) was furnished in repurposed, discarded furniture from open trash days and surplus treasures given to us from friends.

The repurposed furniture in the addition was painted fancifully. Tables had my favorite quotes painted in a continuous spiral. Dizzy reading, indeed, for anyone brave enough to undertake the task. Chairs were painted in different colors, some adorned with painted cats and painted rag mats. The clawfoot tub was painted in flowers and then polka dots and eventually ended up clad in plaid.

My then-husband rolled his eyes at my endeavors. He was not enamored of painted surfaces or of pretend windows looking down on pretend gardens.

I stubbornly resisted his pleas to ‘paint the walls like normal people’ and continued to paint on any surface I could.

I have pictures somewhere of this place of magical murals. Unfortunately, everything in my home is boxed up getting ready to move so I cannot share them here.

But I invite you to close your eyes and paint your own murals on the bare walls that surround you.

What will you paint? A tree with carved initials? The first house you lived in as a newlywed? Your Grandmother’s little dog named, and not cleverly, Tiny?

What will you paint on the murals of your mind?

I was so fortunate because in those years, I painted whatever I wanted.

Because I had my own little world. A place to dream. A place to create. A place to just ‘be’.



This little memory is written in honor of the letter “M” for Alphabe-Thursday. M is for Murals!


To read other 'M' offerings, just click here.