Every time I clean my house, I dust a “trinket” that sits on the floor of my livingroom – a wooden, octagon, decoupaged purse.  The decoupage is of Holly Hobbie. I made this purse sometime late 1960’s or early 1970’s.  I was always pretty proud of this creation – mostly because I never classified myself as a “creative”.  Not until recently.  So, the fact that I actually made this from start to finish, was quite an accomplishment.

Now- lest you think I did this alone, let me clearly state that I did not. I had the assistance and direction of a woman, who was clearly old enough to be my parent, but I called her friend. She was an art teacher by trade, but a psychologist/counselor by calling.  

This woman, single and living in our families rental unit during the school year, was the person who taught me to reach outside of my structure artistically, to trust my instincts, to love hot tea. She allowed me to work on a project at my own pace. To show up at her door unannounced. She had supplies, snacks, and hot tea -but most of all an open spirit.

 

Be assured that this woman met all definitions of an “artist”. Just a little different than the average joe, walking to the beat of her own drummer (I mean she bought a house with a credit card!), and what I would classify today as an introvert. She had a small, close circle of friends, and what appeared to me as a child and pre-teen, to be a non-existent social life.

 

But she always had time for me.

 

At this time in my life, I lived on a barrier island off the coast of NJ and weekends as a child in the winter were nothing short of boring. There were few folks my age around, especially since I still lived and went to school in North Jersey during the week.  This left me with my parents and my aunt. And a household that was riddled with alcoholism and narcissism. Of course, I didn’t know those definitions then – I just knew that “things” were not easy at home.

 

Enter my aunt. Well – she wasn’t technically my aunt – she was my parents friend and business partner. And we shared this home on this barrier island. What I have now figured out, is that she understood that I needed to NOT be in this home situation for hours on end every weekend.  She paved the way with her art teacher friend, Sharon, to “invite” me to spend some time with her. I don’t remember a time I didn’t go to Miss Sharon’s on a Saturday afternoon.  These ladies knew that a pre-teen needed time to express herself, time to figure out who she was, time to not be thrust into adulthood before she needed to be. Unbeknownst to me, Aunt Marge and Miss Sharon were in cahoots.

 

We all think our childhood is normal, at least for a time, as we are living it. I was no different. In retrospect, it was far from normal. The abnormality is difficult to explain, so I will leave it at fitting nicely into the category of “dysfunctional”. However, these two women, schooled in education and trusting their heart, took steps to make sure I had some normalcy.

 

So we created. There were many different things Miss Sharon and I made. None of them do I remember, except this purse, but none of them really mattered. Around her table, with art supplies and hot tea and the ocean outside of her picture window, I processed life. I learned to cope. I managed my emotions. I worked at figuring out who I was and what I wanted to be.I talked, she listened.

 

Of course, I had no idea that was what was happening. I thought I was making stuff. Stuff to hang on walls, decorate my room, and to carry my personal belongings. And I was doing all of those things – just on a deeper level.

 

Today, I dust that purse, and remember fondly, the times spent with an awkward art teacher who devoted her Saturdays to a young girl searching for her identity. A young girl, who eventually learned how dysfunctional her life was and because of this time spent creating, was able to take steps to interrupt that dysfunction.

 

Thank you is not enough – so I will keep this purse to remind me of this selfless act on the part of an adult in my life.