As a child growing up in the 1950s, there was nothing I liked more than drawing. Money was short and so was drawing paper, my Mother improvised, even the inside of a cereal box would work for me. My Uncle, working for a printing company, brought me scraps. As my Mother was still living, I could not have been older than nine years.
Wonders of wonders, on Christmas morning there was a thick, true pad of art paper. I remember the texture and the way a simple sharp pencil could shade differently with your finger's pressure. The paper allowed shading, by smudging the lead. I was in heaven, and probably very quietly busy. As I still do now, I enjoyed drawing people, each face from my memory. For some reason, I didn't want to share my work, I would come to the supper table and sit on my private pad, not showing anyone. Even then the detail of extra weight, or laughing wrinkles had to be in my drawing. The pad started to curl, and become dirty with my over use.
At some point in January, each page was covered with faces or entire head to toe pictures, clothed as my mind imagined down to furniture behind the people. I set it aside, no room left. At this time, we had a lot of visitors. My Mother was ill, and needed help.
My Aunt Alice, staying for the week, found my pad when cleaning. I remember coming home from school, and getting a lot of attention from everyone. I know I was just a child, but somehow, they were able to know the people I had drawn. I was excited from all this attention from visitors, Aunts, Uncles and others. There was just one problem, the face I had drawn on many of the pages, they didn't know. Who was he? I had no answer, it was a face in my memory, each time in my pencil drawing I had colored in yellow, his gold tooth.
I still faintly remember his face, all these many years later, but I cannot tell you who he was. I saw him in the basement, this is all I know.