FISHERMAN’S HOUSE AT VARENGEVILLE
My mother always loved “Fisherman’s House”. It was a welcome respite from life in town—so quiet and peaceful. We never went fishing when we went there together. That was dad’s pastime—if he ever took a break from minding the store. Instead, we let the sun and the sea fill our lungs, our hearts. We let the shore replenish our thirsty souls, restore our connection to creativity. I would climb down the bluff to my favorite perch, sketching, listening to whatever sweet songs came to Mother’s mind as she sat on the porch overlooking the sea. Our time was always the same—yet never the same. Even as a young boy, that place held a magic that inspired. My visits to the House were few after she passed (my heart broke again with each departure). Now, 26 years since her death, I can paint the place from memory. My memory—and hers.
can be found all around us ~
as well as inside