Beech Tree News Network

One night my granddaughter, Sabria, and I were coloring in a couple of those flowery coloring books marketed for adults.  She noticed hers had words beneath some of the images. 

                “Why does mine have words?” she asked

                I leaned over her book and flipped to the intro.  “The person who drew these pictures explains that she doesn’t use computer-generated images,” I said.  “She draws first with a mechanical pencil then fills everything in with artist pencils.  The words under each picture tell the story of the picture’s inspiration.”

                “Let’s go, Gee,” she said, “We’re going to make our own coloring book.  You write the words, and I’ll be the…what’s the person called who draws the pictures?”

                “The illustrator,” I said.

                “I will be the illustrator,” she said.  “We’ll be famous then we can travel around the world.”

                I followed her back to the room where we keep paper and pens and paint.  She took a large sheet from her sketch pad, placed it onto a TV tray and began to draw.  “It’s going to be called THE TWO DUCKS,” she said.  As she drew the ducks, first with beaks together then swimming away from each other, she dictated the story—love and conflict between two waterfowl.

 As I wrote down the words, I remembered myself at her age.  In Mt. Washington, Kentucky, on Markwell Lane, my seven-year-old self dreamed of becoming famous, as well.  I sang and danced on the brick sidewalk outside our small frame house, dressed in my oldest sister’s tossed-out cancan slip.  I wore red tights on my head—every famous person had long silky hair, I believed. 

I involved my younger sisters and the neighbor kids in plays I made up on the spot.  Our stepmom and my friend, Patty’s, mom watched from the front porch as we performed.  It was an important time in my life.  I would need those memories when I turned eleven, when we moved from that place of light into the shadows of Ashes Creek, some thirty miles away.

After Sabria and I finished our illustrations and words that night, she continued her imaginings on into our bedtime.  Lying between Garey and me, she said, “Papa, Gee and me are going to be famous, so you’re going to have to dye your hair.”

“I like my hair,” Garey teased, “Don’t you like my gray hair?”

“That’s not what it’s about,” she said.  “All famous men have either black or dark brown hair, so you’re going to have to dye your hair one or the other.”

I was impressed that she gave him a choice.  She’s pretty much an “either or else” person.

“I don’t think I’ll dye my hair,” Garey said, as he turned over, putting his good ear on the pillow, so as to muffle the rest of the conversation.

Sabria moved over next to me.  “Gee,” she whispered, “When we get famous, you’re going to have to make Papa dye his hair.  You’re going to have to drag him into the shower and make him let you dye it, whether he wants to or not!” she emphasized.

“Okay, I will,” I whispered back.  I didn’t have the strength for a lengthy conversation on respecting personal boundaries.  That would be for another day.

That night, as I drifted off to sleep, I once again caught sight of the seven-year-old me, wearing red tights on my head.  Maybe, I should have dyed my hair red.   Who knows? I might be famous today, if I had.