• Andrew Wyeth

    I’ve thought many times of that trip to Pennsylvania in 1958. The outing was arranged at the request of my widowed grandmother who, urged by fleeting time and memory, had been struck with a longing to see the farm where she had lived as a young bride and to visit Aunt Katherine, the widow of my grandfather’s brother. To say that I was unenthusiastic was, of course, an understatement. I was 12 years old and engaged with more important activities. I knew the excursion promised only a confined and boring afternoon surrounded by a gaggle of uninteresting adults. “Do I have to go?” I whined. “I don’t know any of…