The Master's Artist

We Are Paper Snowflakes

Ever make a paper snowflake? Fold a sheet of paper twice, cut an arc to turn it into a circle, and then keep cutting. Cut circles, triangles, rectangles, whatever. Go crazy. When you're all done, unfold it and presto, a paper snowflake.

Much like real snowflakes, no two paper snowflakes are alike. Some people like more circles in their snowflakes. Others prefer triangles. I've even seen hearts in some.

Back in elementary school, we made paper snowflakes every year. It was the only art project that I ever looked forward to doing, mostly because it was the only art project I knew I could do well. I could make a mean paper snowflake.

And as it turns out, I still can.

This Lump of Clay

My daughter and I sit at the dining room table and gawk at the lump of gray in front of us. I’m not sure what to do, so I stick my finger in it. It’s cold to the touch.

 

“What are you supposed to do?” I ask her.

 

She rests her chin in her hand and says, “I don’t know. Whatever I want, I guess.”

 

“And this is homework?”

 

“Yes.” She pauses, and I can see her mind churning. It’s a little mind, a young mind, but a powerful one.

 

“What’cha thinking?”

“What if I kept it like this?” she asks. “I could tell the teacher it’s a cow patty.”

 

She giggles into her hand and I let her, because hearing a child laugh is the closest thing you can get in this world to hearing an angel sing.

Renoir, Rockwell, and Jesse

I took a grand total of one literature course during my brief flirtation with college, and I attended class only once. That was enough time to realize that however much I loved to write, literature wasn’t for me.

 

The deciding factor in that decision came ten minutes after the first class had begun. The professor had taken that long to introduce himself, peppering his resume with words I could not understand. Then he asked that we each confess our favorite storyteller.

 

One by one he went through the class. Names of the immortals echoed off the walls—Fitzgerald. Kipling. Faulkner. Joyce. O’Connor.

 

I had decided beforehand that I was not going to lie, and it would have been lying if I offered up another name that would fit in neatly with the rest. So when the professor nodded in my direction, I answered with the truth.

 

“Jesse,” I said.

 

Finders and Hiders

I’m supposed to say that my favorite part of Easter is the celebration. That it’s about life conquering death and redemption and a promise. And while that’s true, I’ll be honest and say there is competition.

The egg hunt.

The Easter egg hunt is becoming a tradition at our house, right up there with hoisting the tree at Christmas and shooting fireworks on July 4. It’s serious business that involves plenty in the way of preparation.

Each family member has his or her particular job. My wife is in charge of stuffing the eggs with assorted candies. The kids are in charge of finding the eggs and eating the candies. And me, I have the best job of all. I get to hide them.