The big box of 64 Crayola crayons was my reward for sitting still at Auntie Anne's. Like all Sunday visits to relatives, there was the behaving part. At Auntie Anne's, sitting still was done on a wooden straight back chair, not saying a word. “Thank you," was about all we ever said. Smiling and getting our cheeks pinched seemed to be all that was required of us kids. Small paper cups of ice cream with small wood spoons was our usual treat for a couple hours of sitting still there. Auntie Eva's visits were stops at Dairy Queen. I liked visits to Auntie Eva's best. Mom would sometimes bribe us with trips to the Dime Store, making us promise to be extra good on our visits. Frances got a goldfish and my little sister Cathy got a small doll. I would usually get caps for my Hopalong Cassdy cap pistol.
This time, when Mom took us to the Dime Store, their window had a display of things for going back to school. My eyes spotted the big box of crayons, 64 different colors. I had to promise not to touch Dad's good letter writing paper as Mom checked her purse seeing if she had enough money. I promised, knowing full well I would sneak a few sheets of Dad’s paper to draw on...
Auntie Anne had made a pumpkin pie for our visit. I hate pumpkin anything, and with a scoop of vanilla ice cream it was the worst. Why ruin good ice cream on something so terrible? Mom gave me her look and I knew if I was going to get to use my new crayons I was going to have to eat it and say it was good. Lucky for me, Dad was sitting right there next to me and when the time was right he took a fork full of pie off my plate. Why couldn't he do that when Mom made liver? We sat around the kitchen table for an hour listening to Dad talk about working in a lumber mill and spending the summers in Minnesota with his cousins. Auntie Anne had photos to show of her last trip to Minnesota. I could picture the saws and the trees my Dad sent through the big mill. I can still smell the coffee percolating on the stove in an old beat up coffee pot, as I pause from my painting. Henry wakes up from his nap and Dad’s voice fades. Those visits come to mind as Henry looks for a suitable spot in the small park below my studio window.
The idea for a trip to Minnesota to do a painting of that sawmill came to me. I did my first interior of a distant relative’s kitchen and a couple nice paintings of the logs lined up for cutting. I regret selling those paintings. Dad would understand though. it's my job.
