Artistic Decisions

Giving a sharpie to a four year old and an almost three year old is risky indeed, but with my constant presence and standing close by I thought we’d be fine.

I promised my granddaughter we would paint the smooth rocks we had collected on our recent trip to the beach when I visited the following week. Yet as the day approached, I changed the plans and instead pre-painted the smooth rocks with black and white paints, thinking we could use metallic and bright colored sharpies on the rocks to avoid the messy paints.

I stood between them at the kitchen table closely watching the two happily drawing designs and colorful shapes. I ensured that they kept the coloring on the rock and not the table, or their hands, or worse their clothes. As we drew we chatted, and laughed, and shared markers and funny stories. The rocks stayed on the table and throughout the day we returned to add more shine and more color to any space left on their rocks.

Mid-afternoon my son entered the room to grab a cup of tea. Before returning to his office (the dining room) he commented critically on the use of sharpies. I shared that they had been great with just a little marker ending up on their hands. “It will come off eventually,” he noted. We chatted a few more minutes, catching up on a host of other topics. As my son left the room I heard a loud scream focused at my grandson. I looked around the table to see my little guy was on the kitchen floor, black sharpie in hand, coloring the hardwood floor!

Some quick google searching, fast scrubbing, and various products later we managed to lessen the damage to the kitchen floor. My heart sank as I scoured the floor and listened to my grandson crying over his errors in time out. I was devastated knowing I was partially to blame. I guess we both learned a lesson yesterday. I’ll stick to the messy washable paints.

It’s Tuesday and I’m joining the wonderful writing community hosted by Two Writing Teachers. Take a peek and consider joining in.

The Red Tree

My dad was a milkman and spent his days driving mile upon mile delivering dairy products to his customers in the inner city and rural towns of central Massachusetts. Driving his truck far and wide six days a week he was able to see some wonderful sights. When I was quite young, I particularly recall his overwhelming enthusiasm for a specific fall scene. He enthusiastically described the most beautiful tree he had ever seen in a field on one of his routes. It was a red maple the likes he had never seen. He spoke nonstop about that crimson sighting.

That Sunday he announced we were going take a little drive to see a that famed red tree. With rolling eyes and sarcastic comments we piled into the family station wagon for a ride. None of us were quite thrilled with that adventure, except dad of course. After driving for what seemed like eternity we came to a wide open pasture. In the center of the field stood one small maple tree. We got out of the car and stared as my dad claimed, “Isn’t that the most beautiful tree you have ever seen?” We were dumbstruck and wondered what to say to our dad. Were our eyes fooling us? All we saw was a scrawny dull brown tree. We chuckled. While not the most beautiful tree we had ever seen we could only respond with beauty is in the eyes of the beholder.

But all was not lost that day because fortunately for us, having a milkman for a dad also means having knowledge of the location of every ice cream shop within 100 miles. Ice cream makes everything right for sure!

It’s Tuesday and I am joining the writing community over at Two Writing Teachers. Take a look and consider joining in!