The Girl Who Stayed
She’s been hanging above our fireplace for more than thirty years.
Three sets of furniture have come and gone. We’ve rearranged rooms, changed colors and welcomed countless seasons of life. But through it all, she’s remained right where we first hung her.
She’s a young shepherdess, barefoot and simply dressed, standing in a picturesque countryside with a staff resting across her shoulders. Her beauty is quiet and unassuming. There’s nothing particularly grand about her, and perhaps that’s part of what I love.
I can imagine her as a young woman living in a little French village, tending her sheep, walking barefoot along country paths. I wonder what her life might have been like. Did she know the artist who painted her? Did she have any idea that more than a century later, someone halfway around the world would be admiring her?
I first met her in Tulsa, Oklahoma.
My mother-in-law, Betty, lived in Pennsylvania and wanted to visit the Philbrook Museum of Art. Since my family lived in Oklahoma, she invited me to meet her there and tour the museum. My mom joined us, and the three of us spent a lovely day together.
It was one of those outings that doesn’t necessarily announce itself as a memory in the making. Just three women enjoying a day at an art museum.
And then I saw her.
The Little Shepherdess, painted by French artist William-Adolphe Bouguereau in 1889.
I was captivated.
She was lovely. Simple without being drab. Beautiful in an unassuming way. I loved everything about her, right down to her bare feet.
Both moms admired her, too.
Neither Betty nor my mom particularly enjoyed shopping. So how the three of us managed to find our way into the museum gift shop remains a minor miracle.
And there she was again.
Not the original painting, of course, but a poster reproduction I could take home for relatively little money.
Well! That was that. I purchased the poster, rolled it up carefully and carried her home.
But I had no intention of simply tacking her to a wall.
She deserved something special.
That’s where John entered the picture.
John was a dear friend and neighbor with a wonderful eye for beauty. He had a gift for recognizing it in unexpected places and helping others see it, too.
Photography was one of his passions. Before digital cameras, he would return from vacation with roll after roll of film. He’d have the photographs developed, study them, choose his favorites and have those enlarged.
Then came the part he particularly enjoyed: selecting just the right mats and frames to showcase each favorite photo.
He could spend days at a framing shop, considering colors, textures and combinations until everything felt just right.
When John saw my Shepherdess, he was every bit as intrigued by her as I was.
And he offered to help me dress her up.
Off we went to the frame shop, where John patiently helped me discover just how much difference the right mat and frame could make. Together, we chose a dark green velvet mat and a gold frame.
I spent considerably more money on the framing than I had on the poster itself.
But I didn’t mind.
I remember the excitement of making those choices. I remember picking up the finished piece. And I remember the day we finally hung her above the fireplace.
John was as proud as I was.
He has been gone for some years now, and I still miss him. He was a treasured friend.
And every time I look at the Shepherdess, I remember him.
I think of Betty and my mom, too. That lovely day at the Philbrook, our unlikely gift-shop visit and the pleasure of discovering something beautiful together.
It’s interesting how an ordinary purchase can gather so much meaning over time.
When I bought the poster, I wasn’t thinking about preserving a memory. I simply loved the painting.
The memories came along afterward.
And perhaps that’s part of what makes her so special. I loved her long before those memories became part of her story.
I love her just as much today.
We’ve never discussed replacing her with something more fashionable or better suited to new furniture or a different color scheme. The thought simply hasn’t occurred to us.
She’s always belonged.
Some things we bring into our homes serve a purpose. Others we enjoy for a season before passing them along.
And then, every once in a while, a painting, a child’s poem or a treasured family heirloom speaks to us.
We don’t always know why. We don’t need to.
We simply recognize that it belongs.
More than thirty years ago, I stood in a museum in Tulsa and was captivated by a barefoot shepherdess.
I brought her home.
And through all the changes, all the seasons and all the years that have followed, the girl stayed.
What a beautiful story. Thank you for sharing.