When I was 26, I went to college.

That's not the age that people usually go.  But it's the age I went.  I was divorced, and had three children, ages 3 months, 3 years, and 6 years.

I took Art 101, Drawing.  I had always drawn well, and when I was younger, I made little sculptures.  I won art contests in grade school.  I won a prize in an art contest at the state fair,

When I talked to friends about taking the college class, I was warned that this particular teacher was a real asshole, really rigid, rarely gave out anything higher than a B.  Actually, I found him to be stern but quite reasonable, although I had to argue with him to be able to stand up to draw, instead of sitting down.  But when I was done with the class, he gave me an A, asked if he could put my drawings on display, and told me I should take more classes in the art department. I called my mom, Linda, a professional artist, and excitedly told her the news.

Mom took a deep breath.  "Misty.  I've seen the kind of men you date and marry.  You can be an artist, or you can eat.  Pick something you can make a living at."  So I did.  I became a math teacher. I also stopped drawing, somewhere around 1993.

And then I became a psychiatric social worker.  I still wasn't drawing.

Time went by.  The kids grew up.  My mother died. I still didn't draw.

Then, just past my 51st birthday this year, I felt like drawing one day, and then I couldn't stop. So here it is, my journey to become artsy.

Linda, my mom, is gone.  And now I have a lot of questions, but I guess I'll have to figure it out like she did.

So far, I've figured out...don't ever,  ever,  spray fixative in the house.