The Unknown Rockwell: A Portrait of Two American Families

Autumn arrived on schedule and brought with it the annual foliage spectacular. The changing leaves turning the valley into a sea of crimson reds and brilliant oranges and yellows. Halloween came and went, and a chill filled the air with the hint of winter.

I was bringing the cows in from the top pasture, headed back toward the barn, when I saw my father walking toward me. As he got closer, I could see from the look on his face that something was terribly, terribly wrong. My mind raced in an instant, wondering what it could be - my grandmother? Mother? Perhaps one of my sisters?

My dad looked at me, tears just on the edge of his eyes, and he tried to talk, but no sound came out. I braced myself for the worst, I had never seen my father like that. I suddenly realized I was holding my breath, waiting for him to speak. When he finally managed to find his voice, it was shaky.

"There's been an accident," he said slowly," a hunting accident, and...Jon's gone."

My legs gave way at the news, and my father took me in his arms as I wept. I took a deep breath and slowly wiped the tears from my face. Together, my father and I led the cows to the barn; regardless, the farm chores still had to be done. Downcast, we crossed over the lawn and went inside to my mother and sisters. More than any other time I can remember, that day, family was everything.

The sense of shock, irony, and pain remains for all of us, even fifty-seven years later. It is still unthinkable that Jon would have so narrowly escaped death in the river, only to lose his life three months later, and just two days after his eleventh birthday. But, we don't talk about how it happened, and we won't talk about how it happened now. Like I said before, that's not how folks in Vermont handle things, and the "how" doesn't matter anyway. There never was and never would be any blame, no need for discussion. All that mattered was that this terrific boy, whose life was saved in August, was lost to us after all.

A few days later, family and friends, including Norman and Mary, gathered at the West Arlington Methodist Church to pay their last respects to my young cousin. It was a beautiful New England day, warm for mid-November, as I recall. The sky was clear, blue, with wispy white clouds, and the sun shone brilliantly. There was no breeze, it was still, quiet. It was as if even the heavens were being respectful as we laid Jon to rest.

My Uncle Bob and Aunt Amy were strong, stoic. They stood, hand-in-hand, silently. The love that flooded the church sustained them, and somehow, everyone got through that day and the days that followed, moment by moment. I learned some days later that after the funeral, Bob had gone up the mountain behind his house and had smashed the gun against a tree, until there was nothing left to it.

As with all of Bob and Amy's friends, Norman and Mary were sadly touched by Jon's death. A few days after Jon's funeral, I was heading into the house from the barn, when I saw Norman walking up the dusty country road from where our houses sat, headed toward Bob and Amy's. I waved to him as he went by, but I guess he didn't see me, he just kept going. He walked slowly, deliberately, his signature pipe in his mouth, a package wrapped in brown paper neatly tucked under one arm.

Up the road, Bob was sitting on the front steps of his house. His chores were finished and his heart was heavy, and he had gone outside in the fresh air to be alone for a few minutes. Amy was in the kitchen, making dinner, not that Bob had much of an appetite. He had just picked up a knife and small piece of wood, and began whittling - nothing special, just to keep his hands busy - when his attention was suddenly caught by the sight of Norman, walking up the steep driveway and across the flagstone steps to their modest house. Norman hesitated, and Bob shifted to the right, gesturing for Norman to sit on the stone step beside him. They sat silently, side-by-side, looking out over the yard, the air still and the sound of the Battenkill making a whooshing sound as it rolled over the rocks.

Without saying a word, Norman took the brown wrapper and extended it to Bob.

Norman stammered quietly, "I'm sorry it's not so good; I did it from memory."

As Bob slowly opened the brown wrapper, he was stunned to see a beautiful, charcoal portrait of his precious son, Jon. He did his darndest to hide his tears. The portrait was a profile view, not Norman's typical pose, the eyes soulful, the mouth gently closed.

Bob tried to talk, but no words came out, until he finally was able to whisper his thanks. With that, Norman looked down and smiled, then stood up, nodded, and slowly walked back down the country road to the haven of his studio.

Jon's portrait proudly hung on the knotty pine paneling of my aunt and uncle's living room. For almost sixty years, the family has kept the gift from Norman private, comforted by its beauty, and appreciative of Norman's heartfelt gesture of friendship. The portrait itself is special since, unlike all of Norman's other paintings, it was done from Norman's memory, drawn from Norman's heart, with purpose other than work. But the greater gift, perhaps, was the thoughtfulness and caring that motivated Norman to create what he did for our grieving family - an expression of his own wordless grief for the loss of a young boy he had known and cared so much about.

I recently asked my uncle, now ninety-one years old, why he thought Norman drew the portrait, and why he thought Norman felt the need to bring it to him personally.