The Way I Walked

In seventh grade, I was given the choice of taking Industrial Arts or Art. Not a truly fine distinction, but one I felt ready to make. Most boys were lining up, as were some of the girls, to take Industrial Arts. They understood if they stuck with it, they were sure to come out with a polished plastic ring or a burnished wood bowl. There were machines in the shop that drilled and scraped and cut in ways we all could only imagine. And if that experience took, there was always Metal Shop, which was a step up from Wood Shop and provided plenty more excitement and the potential for lost limbs. Stories circulated all the way down to my elementary school about the horrific accidents that took place in those cavernous spaces to kids who were not paying proper attention.
I chose Art. Not simply because I was afraid of losing a finger or two, but because that was where I felt my talent lay. I had dreams of going to work for the Walt Disney company, drawing Donald Duck in endless repetitions, creating new animated shorts and getting paid the big bucks. Disney bucks. When I went to the top of the stairs that first day and walked into the room with the high ceilings and windows that let in all the light that was generally missing from a junior high school, I felt that I had made the right choice.
Not that I didn't struggle. It quickly became apparent that my skills as a cartoonist were not going to be challenged here. I was going to be asked to produce a number of different works using a number of different media. Paint and sculpture and weaving were miles away from the hours I had spent furiously drawing animals and monsters on the paper supplied to me in reams by my father who worked in the printing business. I quickly became aware that I would not be left alone to draw flying pigs for an hour each day. I was given pieces of driftwood and yarn. I was asked to think about three dimensional space. I was told to consider the values of a pencil. I was being graded on this stuff.
And somehow, my artistic temperament did not die. I kept scribbling and sketching, when I wasn't attempting to create a mobile using chicken wire and folded construction paper. I kept imagining a career in the arts. We had a family friend who made a living as an artist. This was not outside the realm of possibility.
Once I had finished my one year of required art education, I moved on to other pursuits with my electives. The guys downstairs in the shop kept churning out their lamps and key rings, and I went on to study German. And typing. And band. I don't get a lot of opportunity to practice my German, and my trombone and tuba skills have atrophied in the void of practice and owning my own instrument. What's left? I am currently still typing.
And every now and then, I pull out a pen and some paper and draw a funny picture of an animal.