Mr. Sketch.

I just had a really odd flashback.

It was the early nineties and I was at church with a bunch of other little kids, in the back hall, probably during children’s church. The teachers gave us coloring sheets and then pulled out the usual tin pyramids of beat-up crayons.

Then someone set down a pack of Mr. Sketch markers.

Mr. Sketch markers were packed side-by-side in a Styrofoam board, each marker with its own little indention in the board like a tiny bed, and then the board was encased in a paper sleeve. When you slid the board out there was a whispery hiss as the paper released the Styrofoam.

I didn’t know at the time that you could buy Mr. Sketch markers anywhere. I had seen these markers before, and only in one place: my dad’s sixth-grade language arts classroom. Instantly I knew where the church had gotten the markers and I was proud (hey, you would be too if you were the marker-bearer’s daughter). So naturally, I informed everyone that these had been my dad’s markers and that he had given them to the church, when of course I didn’t know that he actually had nothing to do with the purchase of the markers. I think the teachers didn’t bother to correct me and none of the other kids really cared. But it was a big deal to me.

Later on, when I was older and wiser (um…sure), I came across Dad’s sets of markers in his classroom and didn’t understand at first. The markers were still in his classroom? How had they gotten to church, then? Wait…oh.

It was a sad realization.