more randomnity

Our local crayon population is housed in a washed-out hot chocolate canister. When we close that plastic lid, they self-reproduce. It’s a little eerie.

So from time to time, when the crayons outgrow their space, I find myself sorting through them yet again. Discarding scraps of wrapper. Throwing out colors worn down to a nub too small to grip.

Today was a sorting day. And as I placed the keepers back in the canister, I found myself reflecting (with a smidge of nostalgia, I kid you not) on how my crayon preferences have changed over the years.

In grade school, I coveted the 128 pack of crayons with a built-in sharpener in the back. The boy who sat beside me in sixth grade had a box of those beautiful things, with tiers of crayons placed in ascending height, like a stadium. Once, when we had made divided circles with arrow spinners for some kind of math game, we quietly played “Wheel of Fortune” instead. Black Sajak was the host, with his sidekick Vanna White.

I am not making this up.

Black would call down a contestant, “Cadmium Blue, come on down!” and the stands of crayon crowd would go wild while Cadmium spun the wheel. Did I mention we were gifted and talented students? Explains a lot, really.

In college, when I should have been long past crayons, my favored bunch was the scented kind from Crayola. Think chocolate and cherry, but also clean cotton and blue sky. Which brings me to say: no mortal should attempt to capture the smell of sky. It’s just not going to happen.

Now that I’m a mom, I prefer the washable to the scented, since heaven knows Elle doesn’t need another incentive to stick those babies up her nose. Although really, if money were not an object (and pigs flew and bunions sang etc.), I’d go for these beeswax crayons, made in Germany by Stockmar. Gorgeous.