NOVEMBER 23, 2023
“THE PORTRAIT”
BJÖRNHOLM – AUGUST 1974
The years passed. As my sisters and I pursued our training and educations away from home, our parents continued their old routines, which for Mother included preparing Björn’s daily meal, and for Dad, taking Björn for long daily walks. Every August our parents . . . and Björn . . . still decamped from Anoka for a full month’s stay at Björnholm. During my college years, I joined them for that best month of the summer.
If the place was a paradise for humans, it was a veritable playground for a dog. While Mother wielded brushes or pastels to capture the surrounding beauty, Dad was a non-stop project man, designing, fixing, building, maintaining things or hiking the woods for high-end firewood and harvesting, transporting, cutting, splitting, and stacking it to ensure that at all times at least a five-year supply was on hand. Björn, having been born free, was allowed to roam at will, and he took full advantage of his freedom.
We knew this because he would disappear for hours at a time. He’d be last sighted trotting gaily toward the hillside west of the cabin, his bushy white tail waving good-bye as he descended the earthen steps out of view. By the time the sun had sailed far along its daily arc, Björn would re-emerge from the woods, head heavy with fatigue, tongue hanging low, and fur bearing clusters of burrs. In all his own wanderings over the 68 acres that surrounded the cabin, Dad had never encountered such prickly hitchhikers.
When he wasn’t gallivanting through regions unknown, Björn followed Dad around or watched him at one painstaking project or another. At other times, Björn repaired to what became his pedestals—the front and back stone masonry steps of the cabin. What seemed to give the collie greatest delight, however, was chasing chipmunks around the long neatly stacked woodpiles—or perhaps it was frustration: the striped critters always outran the big dog bred by Scots to herd sheep.
Inevitably, Björn was a subject of Mother’s sketching and painting efforts. I remember one occasion in particular.
Björn assumed a regal pose on the front steps. As always, his front legs were crossed, and he smiled into the late morning sunshine that streamed through the tall Norway pines guarding the steep bank in front of the cabin. Mother had set up her paints and easel a few yards away and sat with her back to the trees and sparkling lake below the steep bank. I watched her while Dad was splitting another load of firewood off to the east side of the cabin.
While Mother focused on her subject with unbroken concentration, Dad put down his splitting maul, removed his work gloves and pith helmet and with a handkerchief, wiped his glistening forehead. He strolled around to the front of the cabin to check on the artist’s progress. Upon seeing his master approach Björn gathered himself up and with ears pressed back, wagged his tail against the front screen door.
“Björn, you’re a good dog,” said Dad. “Stay there. You’re being painted and need to stay on the steps. Lie down, Björn, lie down.”
Björn obeyed. Dad patted him between the ears, and with jaws closed the royal subject pushed his wet nose gently into the underside of Dad’s wrist. “Yes, and I love you too, Björn,” Dad said. “You’re such a good dog, such a great dog . . . But is Mother painting a great portrait of you—that’s what I’m wondering.” Dad moved back to the easel and placed his hand gently on Mother’s right shoulder as she used her left hand to dab added color to Björn’s emerging image.
I waited nervously for Dad’s assessment. “You’re making progress,” he said. I exhaled but prematurely. “The snout proportions are a little off, but you’ve got the basic idea.”
“It’s just an experiment,” Mother said, covering for herself, “so we’ll just have to see.” She was accustomed to Dad’s critical eye, and I had to give her extra credit: If Dad’s perfection at the piano gave reason for Mother to be hesitant about playing when Dad was within earshot, I never saw Dad try his hand at painting. I’d taken a couple of lessons and knew that it was far easier to criticize than to achieve Mother’s level of accomplishment.
“Your experiment with the colors is good, though,” said Dad. One thing about Dad being such a critical perfectionist was that the rare currency of his compliments was something to be celebrated. He continued watching intently—Björn, then Mother’s brush; Mother’s brush, then Björn—and added his own touch: “Gosh, but he’s a beautiful creature,” he said. “Most beautiful dog that’s ever walked the face of the earth.”
With that, Dad put his pith helmet back on and started back to his wood-splitting operation. “When you’re finished,” he said over his shoulder, I’ll build a frame and hang your painting on the front porch.”
Mother seemed too engrossed in her work to hear the best compliment Dad could’ve given her.
Just then Björn decided his sitting session was over. He jumped off the steps and caught up to Dad. As I watched the two friends, I saw Björn nuzzle Dad’s hand. Dad stopped, rubbed the sides of the dog’s neck, and looked him in the face. “What would I do without you, huh?”
Wagging his tail vigorously, Björn pushed his nose toward Dad, and the dog’s best friend answered with a loving pat.
Subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.
© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
