With all the current coloring craze, my library writers' group had a Coloring for Grownups party and I added a cake to celebrate my birthday. (See below for the coloring I did that day.) Then I remembered a short short story I wrote about my early coloring days.
The White Crayon
One rainy July afternoon, the summer I was four, my grandfather bought me three new coloring books and a box of 24 Crayolas.
My mother told him that one book and a 12 color box would have been enough to keep me quiet. “How many colors does she need to color Cinderella, The Three Pigs, and Puss in Boots?” she asked.
I began pulling crayons out of the box, gripping the waxy ends with chubby fingers: Forest Green, Magenta, Sky Blue, Light Violet, Crimson Red, and Pink. Delighted, I examined each one.
All went well until I pulled out the white crayon. I scrunched my nose. Grandpa watched as I snapped the crayon in two and threw the pieces across the floor.
“No good,” I said.
My mother said, “That’s a perfectly good crayon. You have to learn to take care of your things.”
I said, “No good.”
My grandfather said nothing, but his eyes twinkled and he went back out into the rain.
An hour later he returned with a giant 36 color box and waited for me to discover the white crayon.