I love to color. Apparently, a lot of adults do – just look at the marketing of adult coloring books!

One of the best things to get as a gift is a brand new box of colors! It used to be crayons – today it can be colored pencils. For Christmas, someone who loves me gave me a box of 24 Prismacolor pencils! They are awesome!!

As I sat coloring last night, I was reminded of some of my earliest and most favorite coloring adventures.

 

 

During my childhood, my parents gave me multiple, oversized tablet styled coloring books of ladies in their native country costumes. They were very intricate – and far too overwhelming for me at my age. They were huge, at least to the 1960’s me, and very involved. I was petrified to color in them – as I knew I would never be able to stay in the lines. However, my dad, would sit at our North Jersey kitchen table and pick up a crayon and start on one side of the page. He would encourage me to do the same on my side of the page. And he would color, color, color. His side always looked so much better than mine, but he never said anything about quality of “line-minding”.

 

As I look back at who my father was, at least in my mind, coloring would not necessarily be what one would imagine he would do with his spare time! This was a man born to immigrant parents (1911), spoke no English until he went to school, whose father and mother worked in the woolen mills in Passaic during the 1926 strike, shared a flat with 4

 

brothers and whose mother was widowed when her husband died in a sanitorium in 1927. My dad was the eldest boy and at 16 was expected to help provide for his family. Both financially and emotionally.

 

This produced a man who would be in business for himself his entire life. It appeared he believed in the American Dream. His survival instinct must have been very strong. He, his siblings and his mom all survived this time – however, I know very little about it. There were few stories told in my home about this time in his life. Genealogy discoveries have told me there was some illegal behavior at certain points – this has been confirmed by family members – but this was NEVER discussed in our home. All I know is that my dad worked hard, in dire circumstances, and was able to be successful. Until the alcohol became in charge of his life.

My dad was 45 when I was born – so I am sure that by the late 1960’s, he was ready to not be responsible for much. Perhaps coloring was therapy for him as well. Maybe he was ahead of the curve on the adult coloring craze! And he colored beautifully! (He also wrote beautifully – when he held his pen/pencil, he would make “air circles” before putting the pen to the paper. Probably a leftover from his early days in a Catholic school and the fear of a ruler across his knuckles!) But color with me he did. I have no idea if we visited or talked during that time, I only remember the coloring. What a sweet memory those days have provided for me.

 

Now my sweet daughter-in-law buys me coloring books and a box of beautiful colored pencils. What she may not know is that this gift provides me a comfort memory and as I color, I am mindful of a generation ago, who took time to connect with me, and is still connecting with me more than 40 years after his death. Thanks for the memory Dad. I will do my best to color inside the lines.