I could always imagine.
I could always draw and it wasn't hard or a fight to get what I thought onto paper. I loved that outlet, I loved the energy it brought me and the satisfaction of seeing or reading it over again.
One thing that was confusing to me was where I got this urge and talent to draw.
Writing was easy enough, that spawned from my father, He read books often and I was curious what would make him read so much. I read his reader digests and the books the reader digests put out. I read dad's Louie Lamore westerns. I brought home books from the school library and I brought home books from the church library, that wasn't enough. I wanted to OWN books, I wanted them to be mine. I wasn't aware of book stores, having lived way out in the country, but people had yard sales and estate sales and I frequented them for the books.
From there I thought and planned, characters came to mind and became real. They had homes and ideals and desires.
But my drawings, where did that emerge?
My mom and dad cannot draw at all.
They would laugh at their attempts but held pride in mine. Art was delightful for me and I found another outlet to enjoy.
My mom, dad and brothers are athletes and sing very well. As my dad would say, I cannot carry a note if it were in a bucket, and I am barely coordinated to push a shopping cart.
I started watching relatives, cousins, aunts and uncles and others to see if the talent came from them. I found no one.
My mother's mom and dad were very poor and had a large family. Grand pa was illiterate and barely made a living, but he gardened and his garden was large and plentiful.
My Grand pa was a very large and tall man and not very affectionate. He fascinated me because he didn't seem to fit in any category of anyone I knew, and he was rough in his talk and actions.
Looking back, I wonder what he thought of me, a very tiny long haired girl that followed him around, yet never saying much of anything.
It wasn't until I was in my early teens and I had gone to Grand mom and Grand dads that I learned something new.
It was summer and very hot. Their house was very tiny and everyone was inside, no sitting room,and I was looking for a cool place to read a book and be left alone.
Grandpa's small metal shed was open and I peeked inside to find a chair to put in the shade. I was amazed. I stood stock still and took in the walls. With simple crayons Grandpa had drawn everything inside on the walls. His dog Buddy, horses, a farmer on his tractor, houses, on and on it traveled. No one was allowed in his shed, and I had stumbled on the reason. Grandpa came up and at first he was angry to find me in the doorway until he saw my face and then his face became sheepish and he looked down. I said quietly and in awe, "Grandpa, you're good." He placed his hand on my shoulder just briefly, grabbed his hoe off a hook and left.
I watched him and I felt something new, something warm, a connection to a man I never understood.