I recently flashed on a memory of a series of coloring books published by Troubador Press in the 1970’s. Though I have never counted myself as a fan of “coloring,” the designs in these collections left an indelible impression on me.
There is a specific smell that pervades the elementary classrooms of my memory. The thick, heavy scent of broken crayons and reams of low-grade paper. Maybe you’d expect me to focus on the pungent miasma of squirming, unwashed bodies, funky shoes, and forgotten lunches? Maybe with a little bit of puke and piddle thrown in for good measure – but no. When I think “kindergarten,” it is the unmistakable, unavoidable, almost (but not quite) pleasant redolence of crayons and paper that wafts back into my mind.
Not My Vocation
Now, I don’t know about you but I was never all that taken with coloring as a kid. Oh, I had crayons, colored pencils, pens, and markers at my disposal. I just never really moved much past the primitive, “random scribble of color inside (and maybe outside) the frame” approach.
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