This was the year I recall receiving art supplies, books and a TV for my room.
Now before you go, one of these things is not like the other one, let me explain.
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In fourth grade that year I wrote Shrinky-Dink Man and won the school Young Authors Contest. Or maybe it was just within my class. Point is, I wrote this elementary graphic novel and drew the art too. And my Mom took note.
So for Christmas—wait.
You think you know where this is going. You don’t.
Anyway, so this is the Christmas I recall getting markers and colored chalk and pencils. And books. Encyclopedia Brown. The Great Brain. Choose Your Own Adventure. Etc.
And the TV.
The television is key because without it, my creative dreams of one day following in Bill Bonds’ and Mort Crim’s footsteps likely would not have happened. Not saying I’m in remotely the same league as those cats but I think you get what I mean. I watched that TV like it was giving me oxygen.
And the books? The books inspired me to be more of a writer and dealer in the language arts. Knowing she will read this, I have my Mother to thank for that. You can’t be a wordsmith—on TV or otherwise—without a base to build upon.
Which brings us back to the art supplies.
Well, the colored chalk in particular. Dick Blick brand as I recall. Probably purchased by Santa himself in Dearborn on Michigan Ave.
Did I happen to mention Christmas of ’79 took place in our newly-built house that we’d only been in for 14 months? Did I also happen to mention my mom had chosen pure white carpet for our dining room, in which I don’t ever once in five years ever recall having had a meal? This room was for hosting Jimmy Carter if the President happened to, ya know, be in west Plymouth and his motorcade broke down. On our street.
I hope you can now see where this is going.
So yadda-yadda my step-sister who lived with her mother and stepfather across town came over and she, also being creative, and I chose as our colored chalk art studio…the white dining room carpet. And we got to work. Jackson Pollack himself would have been impressed with the wild abandon.
The resulting phantasmagoria would later be covered with a garish Persian rug to hide the evidence of our crime. I think. It’s best if we don’t think about the aftermath. Can you imagine trying to use water on chalk dust spilled on pure white carpet? I don’t have to imagine it. We were tried, convicted and sent up the river. Or to my room.
Thank goodness I had the TV there.