A Boy's Life
When I was a young boy, growing up on my grandfather's farm, I spent most days up on a tall hill that separated two sprawling cornfields. The hill was like an oasis...my personal oasis, away from an often alienating world. On top of this hill sat a lone apple tree, old and wise, that had witnessed countless years from its lofty vantage point. I would sit, high on a sturdy branch, under a leafy rooftop with soft pillars of hazy sunlight filtering through, and imagine the tree had watched and, perhaps, even played a part in history's grand procession- explorers, native American tribes and settlers in covered wagons passing through on their way to find and establish their place in a new world. Perhaps they stopped and rested under its shade, or enjoyed the offerings the old tree kindly dangled from its branches. I imagined I was yet another young explorer, but more so than the others, I was its friend.
This painting is for my old friend
When I was a young boy, growing up on my grandfather's farm, I spent most days up on a tall hill that separated two sprawling cornfields. The hill was like an oasis...my personal oasis, away from an often alienating world. On top of this hill sat a lone apple tree, old and wise, that had witnessed countless years from its lofty vantage point. I would sit, high on a sturdy branch, under a leafy rooftop with soft pillars of hazy sunlight filtering through, and imagine the tree had watched and, perhaps, even played a part in history's grand procession- explorers, native American tribes and settlers in covered wagons passing through on their way to find and establish their place in a new world. Perhaps they stopped and rested under its shade, or enjoyed the offerings the old tree kindly dangled from its branches. I imagined I was yet another young explorer, but more so than the others, I was its friend.
This painting is for my old friend
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