My first artistic expression

Music has always played (pun intended) an important role in my life. We sang as kids to my Dad’s ukulele, my Mom’s favorite rounds, like “White Coral Bells” and “Frere Jacques” and “Three Blind Mice.” My parents even claimed that I sang before I talked. The song was “There’s a Great Big Turkey Down on Grandpa’s Farm” which I sang wordlessly but in the right tempo!

The words were:

“There’s a big fat turkey down on Grandpa’s farm who thinks he’s really gay.

He spreads his tail in a great big fan and he struts around all day.

You should hear him gobble at the girls and boys.

He thinks he’s singing when he makes that noise.

But he’ll be singing another way upon Thanksgiving day

CHOP!”

My Dad’s favorite ukulele song was Mockingbird Hill. I sing it often with fond memories. And do it with my ukulele.

As kids, we often tried to think of ways to make money, selling toys, or lemonade, both unsuccessfully. We even dyed sand with food coloring and layered it in tiny sample jars that we had gotten from a drug representative we knew. They didn’t sell either. But they were very pretty.

My Mom’s aunt was a second-grade teacher, and she gave us old mimeographed school papers, so we played school. Since I was the oldest, and bossiest, I was always the teacher. We made up stories, lined up chairs for the school bus, and made up stories about the drama of school.

Naturally, we had the usual crayons, finger painting, sandbox shaping and snowmen. The snowman one year was really tall, and skinny. As the weather warmed the snowman started leaning towards the street. He had a face on both sides of his head, so we could see a face from inside the house, and from the street. Over the weeks, he leaned further and further over, in the direction of Tower of Pisa before he toppled.

Day by day we checked whether or not he was still upright. Eventually, much later than we had predicted, he crashed to the ground in a melting pile of slush. Before that happened, we memorialized the snowman in movies, the three of us facing the way the snowman faced, first all of us looking down toward the ground, then turned and looking at the sky, checking his face as we did so.

We also starred in holiday quick changes in our best Christmas, Easter and first day of school outfits. We would be fully dressed, then suddenly we would be coatless. Our cousins watched and tried to replicate the miracle. We knew that Dad had simply stopped the camera, we took off the coats, then returned to the same places, and started the camera again.

Flash!

My dad was Mr. Fixit, always repairing damaged motors, toys, radios, what-have-you. One summer we had three operating gas mowers. The movies show us parading around the front yard, each being propelled by our own mower. We even managed not to run into each other!

I guess my rambling has gone far afield from the topic of “first artistic expression” to cover the creativity of my parents. My Mom was a wonderful cook and baker and seamstress, making many of our Sunday best clothes. She also sang like an angel. Maybe some of their creativity got passed on to us kids.