I grew up on a small farm in Southern Michigan, one of seven children. With three boys and four girls, we put on shows, had a band, formed clubs and had almost enough kids to have a baseball team. We had creeks to wade in and fields to roam. The woods were filled with wild flowers and mushrooms. Summers seemed endless.
My earliest memory of wanting to be an artist is the smell of crayons. Ours were kept in an old cigar box. They were broken, chewed, and well used. You couldn’t even recognize the different colors, so you had to test each color by drawing on the lid. Oh, the smell when you opened that box … ahhh … and a nice sheet of white paper … my life’s requirements were met!