I was never really very good at art class. I'd try really hard, but my lumpy bits of clay never looked as good as the cups made by the girls who loved calico, Holly Hobbie, and making book covers with construction paper (rather than my brown bag ones). I'd think I was making something amazing, then I'd see one of theirs and realize mine just looked bad.

But, of course, my parents loved mine anyway.

I grew up in Arkansas and our schools were too poor to have any kind of Art classes in grade school. I mean, come on, Art? We were lucky to have a roof on our school. But by the time I got to high school I had the extreme pleasure of having my mother as my art teacher. On the one hand, it was an easy A and believe me I was a C student. On the other hand I had to endure countless embarrassing moments at school. My mother often knew when I got a bad grade on a test well before I did because all her best friends were my English and Biology teachers.