I recently moved into a space that I could decorate (within reason). The plan had been to have one of the walls as an “accent” wall, with all my Oz things. The remaining wall space would be “normal”.
The first hiccup.
The posters and artwork I already have fill that wall and two additional pieces are being made, plus the Amazon wish list for others.
The second hiccup.
Studs. The wall space I had intended to use has one stud. The posters are light enough, but the two big pieces… absolutely need studs.
First realization.
The other wall art I have has been allocated for the living room, save for one piece (I will get back to that one). I have no other non Oz art. So I would have to find and buy “normal” for the rest of my wall space. And there is a lot of wall space to be filled!
Second realization.
There are other studs. So I am scrubbing the “accent” wall idea. All my bedroom wall space will be Oz. This allows me to get things from my wish list, find other things and not have to find/buy “normal” art.
Third realization.
That other piece of art? Sure, it could go in the living space, but I want it in my bedroom. It was my Oma’s. It hung in her pink carpeted living room for the first 27 years of my life. I even lived with her for two of those years.
It got to a point, when she needed more hands on care than just one of her sons or grandchildren living with her. This woman was the matriarch of our family. I love (and miss) her fiercely. I vividly remember the day we moved her out of that house. She had lived their for 60 years and accumulated a lifetime of things.
Our family, under her watchful supervision from her chair in the front lawn, took everything out and presented it to her. A system quickly formed. There was the “It goes with me” truck, the “Who wants it? I do!” piles, the “It still has use, donate it” trailer and the “Ssh! Don’t let Oma see this going in!” dumpster.
I remember as the day was winding down, this picture was still hanging on the wall. I was actually hesitant to mention it, because as the fourth child of the fourth son, and grandchild number 23, the odds of me getting it seemed slim. Surely one of my older cousins would claim it first.
My Uncle Gary caught me staring at it. He came, stood beside me and the conversation went something like this:
Me: I love this picture. It is just so, Oma.
Uncle Gary: I couldn’t even tell you when that picture was hung there. It seems like it has just….
Me: Always been there? Yeah. (insert quiet tears from both of us)
Uncle Gary: (Takes picture off the wall) Its yours. (Hands it to me.)
It was heavy and a bit awkward but I wrapped my arms around it and hugged it all the way to my car. No uncles, aunts, cousins or siblings fought me over it or have ever tried to lay claim on it.
She passed away two years later in 2016. I still can’t believe it has been a decade. Every time I look at this picture I think of her, remember her. It belongs in my room.
And yet, in a perfect, slightly puny, way this fits seamlessly into the plan to expand the Oz-ness across all my wall space.
How?
My Oma’s name is Dorothy.
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