This story has been told so many times it hardly seems necessary to include it, yet it was a life altering event and made an impact on me.

I was probably in about the third grade at Roosevelt Grammar School in San Gabriel, Calif. when this obsession occurred.  I say “obsession” because I have always loved color and have been intrigued by the many different hues in a crayon box.  Coloring was my creative outlet.  There was only one problem.  My box of crayons only had the basic 8 colors and Carl’s box had at least 24 beautiful crayons.

Carl sat in the next row, a couple of seats behind me.  I can remember walking down the aisle on my way out to recess and seeing all of his crayons carelessly strewn across his desk.  I thought if I had all those colors, I would certainly keep them neatly inside the box.  Day after day, I looked at the crayons and wished they were mine.

And then it happened. One day I noticed the most beautiful shade of pink I had ever seen in a crayon. It was right on the edge of his desk. Suddenly a plan quickly developed in my mind. Carl had already left the room to go to recess, as well as the other children and the teacher.  Oh how I wanted that crayon.  It was so easy, I just let my fingers graze his desk and suddenly the pink crayon was inside the palm of my hand.  I walked quickly out the door checking again to see if anyone had seen me.  The crayon went safely into my pocket.

I knew I couldn’t use it at school, but I fantasized about all the beautiful drawings I could make at home using the pink crayon.  I rationalized that Carl would never miss it.  Boys don’t use pink anyway.

All the way home on the bus I kept fingering the crayon in my pocket.  But the guilt started to creep into my heart.  My mother trusted me and I knew how wrong it was to take something that belonged to someone else.  I began to feel very dirty and the pink crayon wasn’t as important as it once was.       At home when I was alone, I took out the crayon and wanted to try it out, but I felt so ashamed, I couldn’t even make a mark with it.  I carefully wrapped the pink crayon in my hankie and took it back the next day.

Carl had never missed it.  I could hardly wait until recess so I could undo my terrible deed.  I never got caught but I learned without a doubt, that thievery would never be a part of my life.  I knew it was more important to be able to live with yourself and hold your head up high.