if you call it art.
The boys and I are sitting at a picnic table, feasting on french fries and apple cider shakes. I tell myself I’ll just have a sip because dairy tends to upset my stomach, but eight sips later I’ve decided this milkshake is worth the risk. Carson and I are both eating hot dogs, while Everett—my vegetarian-by-way-of-picky-eating—eats a grilled cheese.
All of us quietly take in the much-needed change of scenery. From where we sit, we can see everything from the pond to the forest trees to a number of white tents hosting craft vendors.
“What are in those tents?” Everett asks, taking another sip of his shake.
I glance down and tell him the tents are full of art, that artists come here every day and set up tables where they sell their work.
“What kind of art?” he asks.
I squint at two of the tents I can see, trying to make out exactly what they’re selling.
“Well,” I tell him, “Do you see those tables down there? It looks like some jewelry, some pottery, some sculptures, and I think that last table is soap?”
He squints with me.
“And all that stuff is .... art?” he asks skeptically.
His question lingers in the air for a moment. Sensing his doubt, I fight the urge to tell him what to think, to launch a full defense of the vendors who have undoubtedly been sweating outside in 90 degree weather for literal hours after schlepping their tables and stuff hoping someone—anyone—from today’s limited visitors would find worth in their creations.
“What do you think?” I ask him. “Do you think that stuff is art?”
He gets quiet, squinting again, studying the tents and tables.
“I think … if you make something and call it art, it’s art.”
He grabs a french fry and dips it in his milkshake, as if the statement he just dropped on the table is not enlightened beyond his years. I am so taken back by his response, I grab my phone and start typing it into a note.
“Wow, Ev,” I tell him. “That was really … profound. I’m going to write down what you just said so I don’t forget.”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
I explain that sometimes I type notes into my phone, in case I want to write them into a story later. I tell him that part of being a writer is learning to pay attention.
“I think what you just said is really important,” I tell him, “And I might want to write a story about it someday. In fact, I might even write that quote on a post-it and hang it above my desk.”
He smiles cautiously as I take a swig of my Diet Coke.
“Well,” he says, “I didn’t make that up. It’s from a Big Nate book.”
*this post was inspired by Callie’s 30 Days of Grateful Writing Challenge—
Day 1: something that was said
