by Regis Boff
I am glad I never wanted to be an artist. I very easily could have spent my life honing a mediocre skill.
My mother would spend days working on paintings on our dining room table. The landscapes, portraits, and animals she created would always find a place on our walls. I can see each one distinctly still though I can barely recall much else about our old house itself.
She painted by numbers. I am not at all certain people still do this anymore. I would sit and watch the numbers and colors produce an image. I want to believe her talents discouraged me as is often the case with children of exceptional parents.