Young of Art- I and 2

YOUNG OF ART

 

It's hot. My wax crayons are melting away. I scootch into the vestibule where the sun doesn't reach, but it is stuffy and my nose drips on my blouse. Arthur, my smart older brother, opens the door without noticing me inside. I yell, 'Damn you, you broke my back and my best red crayon.' He bows, hollers at me for using a bad word, then he gives me a broad smile and begs my pardon. I really don't pardon him at all and let him know he owes me a new box of crayons. Arthur pats me on my head as if I were his pet dog and walks past me down the hall to the kitchen. As usual he disappears down the cellar. A sour smell from his huge clump of clay escapes and slithers across the kitchen. It makes me almost vomit. Our parents not only let him piddle with the clay, they encourage him, supply his needs, make sure a large piece of damp mesh cloth covers his clay while Arthur is in school.

 

Every day that he's down in the cellar digging his hands into the oily, smelly stuff, he gives me a clump of it and I make long snakes. Comes the day, he shows me how to make a small turtle, grapes, lots and lots of grapes. He's tried to teach me how to make a vase but mine always looks like an ash tray.

 

Mother calls me. 'Come upstairs, Joanie. Let Arthur alone. He needs to concentrate on his project.  I get angry and tell him to take his stinky clay someplace else and add–'Arthur, if I want grapes, Mom will buy them for me. What in the world are you making?' He ignores me, gets some metal pieces out of a cardboard box and connects them.  Again I ask him, 'Watcha' doin', Arthur?' He fiddles with the bars, bends them, straightens them, bends them a different way. As if I were bad, he sends me upstairs because he has to think. I tell him not to let the wood burn. On the stairs, he waves to me and promises to buy me new wooden crayons and show me how to color better. 'Just go away for a little while.'
'What should I do, Mama? I'm bored.' Turning to me she hands me a potato peeler and tells me to get busy. My potato peeling seems to be a punishment, but what did I do wrong? A loud scream comes up the stairs as Arthur calls, 'Help, help, I'm bleeding.' The door flies open and there is my big brother, holding his hand over his head. Mama grabs his hand to see what Arthur did to himself, drops it as if it were a dead mouse. 'What, what' so terrible? Band Aids are in the bathroom cabinet. Get one for yourself, a little one.'

 

The excitement stops. Arthur survives and goes back to what he was doing. I sit on the cellar steps and watch. The metal pieces get moved around and become something I think I recognize. 'Is that a giraffe, Art?' Oh, my lord, he gets angry, 'No, it's NOT a giraffe. Don't you know giraffes have long necks?' As he makes faces at me, I watch and watch how he puts the clay on the metal bars. He stands back and looks at them over and over, adds a clump of clay, smooths it over with a little tool that looks something like my potato peeler and I shout, 'It's a cat or a dog? Isn't it?' I don't think he hears me at all and keeps adding, taking off, smoothing, chopping. At last he covers the 'thing' with a damp cloth and we go upstairs for supper.

 

Mom starts keeping the door to the cellar locked. Unless Art says I can go down there, I can't. I look in the small window from the outside whenever he's down there and he knows it, keeps his back to the door so I can't see what he's making. Days go slowly. The smelly clay doesn't fill my nose anymore. Mom and Dad seem happy. They smile and talk nice to me. For my birthday on Sunday, July 7, Mom bakes a four layer chocolate cake for me. Cousins, my Uncle Jim, come over, bring me little presents, crayons, water color paint, brushes and a book with pictures of cute little animals for me to enjoy.

 

Arthur has a big box, wrapped in aluminum foil. He carries it slowly, carefully, and offers the box to me. 'Open it, Kid,' he says but be very careful. The foil crinkles makes a lot of noise, Daddy slits the top of the carton open. Art pushes back the flaps, reaches deep into the box and slowly brings out a beautiful dog he made out of clay. It has hardened, been painted lots of pretty colors, mostly red. He shows me the medal he got for the best clay work in his art class. Around the adorable statue's neck is a brass ring with a tag that says 'Joanie.'

 

I hug him, go so far as to kiss his cheek. My dog Joanie sits on the floor near my bed and every night when I say my prayers, I thank god for giving me such a good brother.