that I have in my brain and draw it on the paper, remembering all the chipped red paint parts. It may not be the same as having the toolbox in my hands, but at least now I know I won’t forget about it.
Mister Leonardo da Vinci would surely approve.
I show the picture to Grandpa Felix and explain about selling my dad’s toolbox. Before the toolbox was my dad’s, though, it belonged to Grandpa Felix, and I worry that he’s going to miss it as much as me. But all he says is “humph” and nothing else. Then he gets up from the table, pulls another album from his bookshelf, and drops it in my lap.
I turn to the first page, but it’s blank. No pictures.
“For you,” he says, tapping the album with his knuckles. “Your own museum.”
I throw my arms around his neck. His whiskers scrape my cheek. I whisper in his ear, “Thank you, Grandpa.”
He pats me on the back and clears his throat. “Now you can go ahead and put your toolbox drawing in there. And anything else you want to remember, I guess.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out the picture of my dad that was taped inside my toolbox. I slide it into the album and say, “Here’s a nice new home for you, Daddy.”
My brain wrinkles are busy thinking about what pictures and drawings I can put in my new museum. So I’ll always remember and never forget. And one brain wrinkle must shout out, “Patsy Cline,” because right away I think of her and how she took herself out of my museum.
And then I get another piece of paper from Grandpa and start a new drawing. So I can put her back.
Why Museums Are Important to Me
By Penelope Crumb
Museums are important to me because they help you remember about people, places, and things that happened. And they are full of wonder. The Portwaller History Museum made me wonder about the people who used to live in our town and what they were like, what toys they played with, and that the first mayor had a tiny nose but a really big body. And also he wore glasses. Which were right there in the museum for everybody to see. (Which is okay if the family says it’s allowed.)
Some museums are full of things that belonged to dead people. But other museums are full of things from people who aren’t dead yet (but will be one day) but who should be remembered because they are great.
I know lots of people who should be remembered even though their stuff isn’t in any museum. But I don’t think a museum has to be a building or even a closet. It can be anything, like a photo album even. Because drawings and pictures can help you remember. And that way you’ll never forget.
The End
acknowledgments
I have a good memory.
I can remember all kinds of things from when I was a kid. Like how I used to gnaw on a stick of butter at the dinner table. And how I caught my finger in a door during a camping trip when I was seven and my whole fingernail fell off. And chopping down the tree in our front yard during a blizzard. And changing my shoes and cardigan sweater when I got home from school so that Mister Rogers would one day let me live in his neighborhood. And making a basket for my mom for Mother’s Day, where I glued on a picture of myself, as well as some of my hair and a bloody tooth from my collection. (She still has this basket.) And how my sister took me to the mall to jump in one of those inflatable moon bounce things, and then left me there.
My sister says I make things up.
I think probably we’re both right. But what I will never forget are the people who have loved and supported me, and provided inspiration (and much-needed childcare) during the writing of this book. In particular, my mom, Heidi Potterfield, Jerry and Shirley Stout, MaryAnn Mundey, Carol Dowling, Lori Thibault, Amy Cabrera, and Charlotte Hartley. Thanks also to my writerly friends and second family at Vermont College of Fine Arts, especially Jess Leader, Annemarie O’Brien, Micol Ostow, Gene Brenek, Mary Quattlebaum, Tami Lewis Brown, Sarah
Mister Leonardo da Vinci would surely approve.
I show the picture to Grandpa Felix and explain about selling my dad’s toolbox. Before the toolbox was my dad’s, though, it belonged to Grandpa Felix, and I worry that he’s going to miss it as much as me. But all he says is “humph” and nothing else. Then he gets up from the table, pulls another album from his bookshelf, and drops it in my lap.
I turn to the first page, but it’s blank. No pictures.
“For you,” he says, tapping the album with his knuckles. “Your own museum.”
I throw my arms around his neck. His whiskers scrape my cheek. I whisper in his ear, “Thank you, Grandpa.”
He pats me on the back and clears his throat. “Now you can go ahead and put your toolbox drawing in there. And anything else you want to remember, I guess.”
I reach into my pocket and pull out the picture of my dad that was taped inside my toolbox. I slide it into the album and say, “Here’s a nice new home for you, Daddy.”
My brain wrinkles are busy thinking about what pictures and drawings I can put in my new museum. So I’ll always remember and never forget. And one brain wrinkle must shout out, “Patsy Cline,” because right away I think of her and how she took herself out of my museum.
And then I get another piece of paper from Grandpa and start a new drawing. So I can put her back.
Why Museums Are Important to Me
By Penelope Crumb
Museums are important to me because they help you remember about people, places, and things that happened. And they are full of wonder. The Portwaller History Museum made me wonder about the people who used to live in our town and what they were like, what toys they played with, and that the first mayor had a tiny nose but a really big body. And also he wore glasses. Which were right there in the museum for everybody to see. (Which is okay if the family says it’s allowed.)
Some museums are full of things that belonged to dead people. But other museums are full of things from people who aren’t dead yet (but will be one day) but who should be remembered because they are great.
I know lots of people who should be remembered even though their stuff isn’t in any museum. But I don’t think a museum has to be a building or even a closet. It can be anything, like a photo album even. Because drawings and pictures can help you remember. And that way you’ll never forget.
The End
acknowledgments
I have a good memory.
I can remember all kinds of things from when I was a kid. Like how I used to gnaw on a stick of butter at the dinner table. And how I caught my finger in a door during a camping trip when I was seven and my whole fingernail fell off. And chopping down the tree in our front yard during a blizzard. And changing my shoes and cardigan sweater when I got home from school so that Mister Rogers would one day let me live in his neighborhood. And making a basket for my mom for Mother’s Day, where I glued on a picture of myself, as well as some of my hair and a bloody tooth from my collection. (She still has this basket.) And how my sister took me to the mall to jump in one of those inflatable moon bounce things, and then left me there.
My sister says I make things up.
I think probably we’re both right. But what I will never forget are the people who have loved and supported me, and provided inspiration (and much-needed childcare) during the writing of this book. In particular, my mom, Heidi Potterfield, Jerry and Shirley Stout, MaryAnn Mundey, Carol Dowling, Lori Thibault, Amy Cabrera, and Charlotte Hartley. Thanks also to my writerly friends and second family at Vermont College of Fine Arts, especially Jess Leader, Annemarie O’Brien, Micol Ostow, Gene Brenek, Mary Quattlebaum, Tami Lewis Brown, Sarah
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