Excerpts

Andrew Wyeth’s Language of Things
By Anne Classen Knutson

Introduction

Shortly after I began this project, my father died. My older brother was tapped to deliver the eulogy and asked me to help him remember stories about Dad for his speech. As we spoke, our numb minds struggled to retrieve specific memories. It was not until I went through boxes of my father’s possessions that memories began flooding my mind. It was the things, the objects, that triggered startlingly vivid recollections of my childhood. A heavy pewter dish with silver beading instantly recalled the overcooked lima beans, green velvet drapes in the dining room, and seating assignments at family dinners, with a stern father at the helm. My Dad’s worn, black medical bag with rounded sides that folded down brought back memories of late-night earaches and the patient, gentle doctor administering shots of penicillin that eventually brought relief.

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