The Artist Within

"Why didn't you become a professional artist?" is a question I've been asked, never.

I don't often wonder why, but today I rediscovered this masterpiece from first grade:

A lot of unfortunate attention paid to detail here.  I love that I thought initials had the periods on the outside.  I kind of like that, actually.  I can kind of recall struggling with the flowers and being very proud of the tulip.

Sorry, art world, the physics was calling...

-----------------------

Side note:  This is my only relic from my original elementary school (we moved across town in the middle of my first grade).  I remember one day the teacher got mad at the class and had the entire class line up and gave each one of us a spanking with a paddle.  I didn't even know what was going on but all the kids were crying - mostly out of shame and confusion.  I remember when my Dad picked me up that day he said "Hey Kenny - what's wrong?" and I said I must have been bad because I got a spanking - the whole class did.  When he asked me what I did wrong, I said (honestly) "I don't know."

In retrospect, I wonder if this had anything to do with my parents moving in the middle of the year.  I mean they were going to move anyway, but maybe this incident accelerated the timeline?

-----------------------

Side side note:  One other negative memory from that half-year:  I got beat up by a girl during recess.  In my memory, I was waiting for a swing and this kid finally got up and left so I jumped on it and started to swing with joy.  All of a sudden this big girl (maybe a 3rd or 4th grader?) was up in my face and yelling at me.  "Why did you steal this swing from my brother?" I didn't even understand what was going on and when I said "But he left..." she proceeded to pull me off the swing and we rolled on the ground while she got some punches in and I honestly don't even know what I did.  This time when my Dad picked me up and he said "What's wrong Kenny?" I said "I got beat up by a girl".

---------------------------

Side side side note:  My Dad once told me another sorrowful pick-up tale for which I have no recollection.  Apparently when I was in pre-K, my parents enrolled me in Head Start (a national program for impoverished families to ramp up on academic skills before kindergarten (both parents were in grad school in those days)). Apparently I was the only white kid in the program in Tuscaloosa, Alabama in 1974. One day my Dad was late picking me up and I was the last kid waiting.  I was moping around, kind of despondent and my Dad said "What's wrong Kenny?" and I apparently said "Why can't I have a black Daddy?"

My Dad never told me this story until I was in my late 20's but he remembered it vividly after all those years even if I don't...