“Art — Son — Trash.”

My parents recently moved and in the process I'm pretty sure threw away all my childhood art. Well, except for--possibly--this one pretty cool picture of some kind of armored buffalo. And I'm not even sure I made it!

To express my feelings, here is a piece from George Meyer's old Army Man magazine:


Do you still have the adorable crayon drawings you made in kindergarten? I don’t. Not a one. Which means that at one point, many years ago, the following thoughts must’ve gone through my mother’s mind: “Hmm, what’s this? Oh, I see. It’s that irreplaceable drawing by my firstborn son … the one he proudly brought home from school. I’ll just put this in the garbage.” Then, as time went by: “Oh, another one of my child’s drawings. What is it that I do with these again? Oh, yes — I throw them in the trash. That’s right.” Eventually, her brain probably got it down to “Art — Son — Trash.” And on the days when my mom was sick, and didn’t get around to throwing my artwork away, my dad would do it. 

I’m not bitter. I know they had good reasons for discarding virtually everything I ever drew, wrote, collected or pasted together during my one and only childhood. I love my parents. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for them.

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