I moved things around in my spare/craft/crap room to see if I could get better wireless reception (RCN? you stink. On ice) And I re-found this:
This is a rock I painted for my grampa. Probably I was 4-ish. When I was growing up, my dad let us paint on the sheet-rock walls in his studio where he threw pottery. He painted (in my mind) a magnificent scene of a train emerging from a rock bridge/tunnel. My grandfather was a huge train enthusiast and I tried to emulate my father's work on a river stone for him.
It sat on his mantle for years until he moved to the Rydel Park retirement village outside of Philadelphia and it went with him. Infact, my cousin threw that fact in my face over some petty spat where she made it a point to mention he brought it to his tiny room and proudly displayed it for years.
When my grandfather passed away 5 years ago (in two weeks it will be 5 years) I asked my Dad if I could have it back. it brings me a lot of comfort actually.
And actually? My renditions of trains haven't really changed that much