I remember when…

Forget Paris, forget Milan – my runway was a living room in the middle of the desert, green shag carpet underfoot, 1980s brown striped velour sofa looming like paparazzi flashes. That year, for Christmas, I unwrapped what can only be described as the pinnacle of fashion: a baby blue cloud-print sweatshirt with a neckline wide enough to slide off one shoulder (Flashdance chic), sweatpants to match, and white LA Gear hightops with purple trim and sheer ribbon laces that squeaked like they were announcing my every step. If our local dress shop had booked child models, I would’ve headlined.

I remember...

drinking from the hose, the rainbow curve of cold water that arced through the air, hot metal burning our fingers as we held it, 

riding our bikes down the long paved road until the desert sun sank behind the mountains, 

brushing Charlie and Cupcake (my ponies), slipping them apples, checking the salt lick, riding them into the sunset 

I remember playing under the willow tree, its draped green branches a roof above us, shading hot desert afternoons, 

swimming until my lips were blue and my hair turned chlorine-green, 

making up choreographies and performing them with my sister and bestie for our parents as if we were Madonna’s actual backup dancers, 

I remember telling ghost stories in the desert where the rule was simple – whoever ran home first lost, 

sand tacos with a leaf for a tortilla, sand as beans, rocks as meat, 

our little red playhouse with scalloped trim and a gingerbread railing – a fairytale cottage where we played “house”, 

I remember the big striped velour sofa turned into forts we disappeared inside, 

“let’s go play in the grass” meant the tall green shag carpet in the living room, 

long bus rides to school that felt like whole lifetimes, 

camping trips with smoky air and sticky marshmallows, 

I remember fishing with my dad, the silence broken by a fish caught on the hook, Dad always putting the worm on the hook on my pole, 

going to the dam to swim, the water wide and still like a lake, 

summer days that seemed to stretch forever, endless and golden, 

freedom from bills, freedom from jobs, just magic in every holiday—Halloween costumes, Christmas mornings, Easter baskets, Thanksgiving spreads, 

I remember birthday slumber parties in our motorhome parked outside, 

swing sets creaking like music as we swung as high as we could, 

pineapple upside-down cake with sticky cherries on top, 

Shakey’s Pizza Parlor birthdays with a handful of quarters to play Miss Pac-Man.

All of it stitched together – sunburned shoulders, laughter echoing in the desert night, a childhood both endless and fleeting.

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From memory to making ✨

What I love most is how these fragments – purple ribbon laces, a willow’s shade, a slice of pineapple cake – still color the way I see the world. They remind me that art isn’t just about skill or technique. It’s about memory, about joy, about letting yourself play. At The Yellow Studio, we build on that same spirit – transforming scraps of nostalgia and flashes of imagination into something tangible, something shareable, something that can bring joy to someone else.

💛 Which memory from childhood would you turn into art?