Who was Mary Anne, the artist compared to Georgia O'Keeffe?

Every family has a story.

They called her “Grandma Ach” because of her habit of beginning each sentence with a guttural sound of disapproval. “Ach! What is this?”

But her name was Mary Anne.

She was the daughter of German immigrants. Farmers. But Mary Anne was an artist.

Bright, beautiful, and serious, the photos of my great-grandmother remind me of a young Georgia O’Keeffe.

And like Georgia O’Keeffe, Mary Anne was devoted to painting. This is what she wanted to do with her life.

But times were very different for women then.

One day a man from a neighboring farm named Adam came to call. He was looking for a wife. His own wife, his beloved Elizabeth, had passed away and Adam needed a woman to raise his three kids and run the farm.

The daughters were called out and Mary Anne, being the most beautiful, was chosen.

She fought back. She didn’t want to get married. She didn’t want to raise children. She was an artist, it was her very soul.

But times were very different for women then.

Mary Anne would live in Elizabeth’s house, next door to Elizabeth’s parents. She raised Elizabeth’s children and each night she lay with a man who continued to mourn Elizabeth.

Over the years, she would give Adam 10 more children. Including my Grandfather.

I don’t know if there was a time that she ever liked kids. My Mom remembers Grandma Ach as hard and disinterested. I remember her too, with her long dark hair and piercing eyes. She fascinated me.

It wasn’t until she was already an old woman that she finally got all of the children out of the house and on their own paths. And the moment the last one left, Mary Anne marched to the store to buy herself canvas and paint.

She was an artist.

Finally.

But then life played its cruelest joke of all. It took away her sight.

Mary Anne went blind.

Grandma Ach would live a long life, but not a happy one. Because she was never allowed to do the work she felt most called to do.

And then I think about the choices we have now.

The freedom to decide how we spend our time.
The freedom to choose the work we feel called to do.

It’s easy to forget how rare that is.

I see artists hesitate. Delay. Wait for the right moment.

And I understand it. I’ve done it too.

But when I think of Mary Anne, I can’t help but ask:

What are artists waiting for to pursue their passion?