I remember as a kid having a painting session in my dad's kitchen, painting pictures on a summer day in Mineral Point. No ornamentation or description of those summer days at my dad's house, under the care of Wealthy, a kind old woman who still mystifies me today, her relationship to our family, why she would watch after us kids...because she was paid? Where did she come from? Regardless, we were painting water colors in the kitchen of the old Victorian house down on the corner of the large hill. Not knowing what to paint, I took my cue from a public service announcement alarming the cartoon watchers of the fact of child abuse, how to spot the signs as a poorly painted water color depicting a monster standing by a child's bedside, fangs and blood imagined as the abused psyche of the truth telling child. Taking this cue, I painted this picture, hoping to get some kind of recognition as damaged goods, a deep dark well of emotion justifying my fears and wants. My brother wasn't impressed, probably recognizing the picture for what it was (a fake). My father equally less so. No one brought it up and it escaped the world again.