The year we moved into the house my father built. He did most of the work himself. A fact I can't wrap my head around today.
I moved out of the house in 1977. I did not have any idea how much I would miss the place, the time and all the occupants.
I can still feel the warm, breezy air on a hot summer day. I felt so free, running through the fresh clean sheets hanging on the clothesline.
This is an acrylic painting on an 8x10 canvas panel.
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