It was fifth grade, maybe sixth, I’m not sure. Definitely elementary school. The school was having a history fair. I was paired with Tzippy Skolnik* and another classmate. I guess we had to do something on slavery, because we decided to create a display of a slave auction. (Yes, this was the 90s.)

Scribbles was a local craft store near my school, and I recall wandering through the aisles in wonder. My house was a crayon, maybe marker house (save for my father’s art supplies — he’s insanely artistic, my mother is pragmatic.) Here were rows and rows of wonder and wood and whimsy waiting to happen. I don’t know who picked up clothespins with round heads and realized they were practically people, but I do remember buying them.

We spent an afternoon at Tzippy’s house building the display. There was a line of “slaves” on a platform, dressed in scraps Mrs. Skolnik had; there was an auctioneer; and there were men and women buying the slaves, dressed in better scraps that Mrs. Skolnik had.

The Skolnik house also had a glue gun, Popsicle sticks, and little googly eyes. It was a craft house, but I didn’t realize or understand that back then. We all worked hard on the project — we all chipped in, not like most group projects, and I was so proud of what we made. It was cool. I think I’d still think so today.

Fair Day came, and Tzippy brought our project in to school. I was eager to see it. I was proud of my creation — our creation.

“Who did that?” I demanded when I saw the display. Someone had added to it: ribbons, veils, historically accurate hats on the people. Someone had tufted the grass and stained the wood.

“Oh, my mother just added stuff to make it better.”

It was better, and way worse.

I’d been so proud to show off my work to everyone who would pass by; but now, I couldn’t care less. It wasn’t mine anymore. Mine hadn’t been good enough.

I wonder about this memory. Why do I remember, why do I care, why do I assign so much meaning to it?

These days I love and loathe crafts. My home is craft-ish, more than basic, but nothing fancy or expensive. I don’t do ideation, but tell me what you want, and I’ll figure out a creative (and economical) way to do it.

My son’s succah fair project is a succah carved out of a haystack. For the shape, I have a deli container wrapped in brown paper with a door cutout. For the haystack look, I take a roll of jute cord, cut it into small pieces, and paste it vertically in layers on the brown backing. The “haystack” is pinned to a corkboard covered in green. It looks homemade. I wonder what Mrs. Skolnik would add to it.

But my husband keeps saying, “Look how cool it is,” and, “How did you think to put it together?” He’s marveling at me while I’m rolling my eyes at myself.

And my son? He’s sitting next to me, cutting jute cord, while I paste the strands. “It’s like an art project,” he says, smiling. He loves art. He loves spending time with his mother.

Maybe it is my time to shine.

*Name changed

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 923)