Color: Peach

Here’s the thing. I don’t like peaches. I mean as a fresh fruit. Slippery PEELED canned peaches in the middle of winter: I can do those. And my mouth waters just as much as the next fatty for a peach pie. But as a fresh fruit, not so much. Biting into a fresh peach is like French kissing a cat. At least I think that’s what it would be like. For the record, I am not much of a cat person either. For some reason peach skin makes me think of cat fur balls and before you know it I imagine French kissing a cat, a CRANKY cat, when I think of biting into a peach. On the contrary, I LOVE nectarines. And I like apricots. In fact, a peach is more the color of (the inside of) an apricot, than what is more oftenly referred to as the color “peach.”

The color peach falls in the pastel category. I’m already on record as not preferring pastel colors. I like the color of slippery PEELED canned peaches. But not the color peach. Does that make sense? But the challenge is to write something that the color peach evokes. So here goes:

I do not like the fruit the peach
I would not eat one on a beach
I would not eat one on a plate
A peach’s a fruit I love to hate

A nectarine a better choice
It does not choke away my voice
Another choice the apricot
I would devour, a peach I’d not

Stubborn too, it holds the pit
Not letting go, it will not quit
As if it knows it will be tossed
And hope of future generations lost

The color even turns me away
Too pale to notice anyway
Not bright or brilliant, won’t turn an eye
Flesh-like and pale, it will not fly

And so, you see, the peach I loathe
Because it sports a furry clothe
I’d rather Frenchly kiss a cat
Than bite into a fruit like that

Color: Plum

I haven't forgotten the colors task. Here's a new installmant.

There is a poem by William Carlos Williams that often crops up on collections of "Best Poems." It's simple and provokes some sense of feeling in the reader. Like any good poem, the reader's response is unique, borne of their own experiences and memories. This is the poem:

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast.

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold.
-- William Carlos Williams

So this poem is what I thought about when trying to type something for the color Plum. Have you ever looked really closely at a plum? The color is hard to capture. At first glance it is a maroony, purplish brown color. But it's got this neat finish that changes the color by the reflection of light off the skin. The secondary colors are a green and sometimes, on an unpolished plum, a blue. Plums change color through polishing as well. Unpolished, they have a fuzzy white overcoating that mutes those secondary colors. Very strange. I'd like to be able to paint a plum.

In addition to the color, another thing I like about plums is how well the flesh pulls away from the seed. Not like a (non clingfree) peach. Like an apricot. Not like a nectarine. Everything pulls away from the seed. Except a tiny bit of a fleshy beard that clings to the seed seam. A wick of sorts (wink, wink).

Just like the color of the skin, the flavor can change. Tangy patches and sweet patches. Brilliant! Sort of like wading through cool lake water and coming across warm patches on the bottom: chewing through a sour plum and hitting a sweet spot.

We had a plum tree at the home I grew up in. As I recall, it was an abundant provider, giving soft ripe fruit up the ying yang, but just for a short season. Later, when I lived in Enatai with Mark, Mrs Lew, our neighbor, would set a brown paper grocery bag full of plums on our door step in August. She had found out that I was fond of them and was dealing with her own abundance. My good fortune. Mark couldn't have cared less. Last time I drove down my old street, Mrs. Lew's plum tree was gone. As was her house. Replaced by a megahouse with a lawn too small to accommodate a lowly plum tree. Lots of houses that were on the street when I lived there have met a similar fate. My wasbund is still holding out in his '50s rambler, shadowed by these megahouses. I loved my old neighborhood but I would suspect the things I liked most about it: the Mrs. Lews with abundant plum offerings; Kelley across the street to share divided perennials with; Andrea and Craig around the corner to share a glass of wine with on a Friday evening; those kind neighbors that I used to enjoy are all gone now.

So here's my attempt at a poem for plums in the style of William Carlos Williams

This Is Just To Say

I have taken
the plums
that were in
the bag
on the doorstep

and which
you were probably
going
to throw away.

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so special.
So unappreciated.

Color: Macaroni & Cheese

The only reason I write about this as color is because it was the name from the crayon box. It’s the orangey-yellow KRAFT M&C in a box. And by my book, the only kind of Macaroni and Cheese worth spending calories on. I’m not sure when it achieved that color but it’s been on the market since KRAFT introduced it in 1937, and became very popular during World War II when women went into the workforce.

The three most prevalent “prepared food” dinners that we had as children were fishsticks, Swanson chicken pot pies and KRAFT macaroni and cheese. My mother worked half to full time at the University and still we always managed to have a sit down dinner with all the food groups every night. And this was before microwaves. As a working mother I remember asking her how she did it. She asked if I remembered that we had a lot of casseroles. I think we had a lot of different combinations of ground beef (half a side of beef in the freezer always had lots of ground beef to use up) and Campbells cream of mushroom soup.

We didn’t have those prepared food dinners often, mostly we had them when my parents went out. They had a busy social life, including book clubs (individually, not as a couple), dad had some fly-tying or fly-fishing groups, and they had the bridge club.

Bridge Club
My sister Julie and I share different memories of our parents’ bridge group. They met quite frequently – about three tables worth (six couples) and would rotate hosting homes. We loved the regularly occurring evenings when we (the Harwood children) would be left to the house on our own – where we could fight uncorrected, and fend for ourselves – with the dinner possibility of getting Swanson’s Chicken Pot Pies (the best option), KRAFT macaroni and cheese from a box, or fish sticks (the worst option). And while those evenings were fun (getting to stay up late) and educational (I remember my brother instructing us on the proper procedure to light farts) my fonder memories are from the evenings when the bridge club met at our house.

The bridge group was comprised of local businessmen (including the town’s two optometrists and the undertaker) and university connections (the head of financial aid – a Mrs. – and the director of the physical plant). A wife of one of the optometrists was the personal assistant to the university President. This was a nice mix – not just university related (where both my parents worked) as so much of the rest of our life was.

My sister remembers that hosting bridge night meant we got the rare treat of having pop in the house. And she remembers the special treat of licking up the crumbs from the bottom of the bowl of the dry roasted peanuts.

I know the liquor flowed freely: people were happy, but I don’t remember any of it getting out of hand.

There were those beautiful pastel and black layered licorice squares that looked like petit fores and came in the “bridge mix.” I wished I had liked licorice because I so wanted to taste the beauty of these elegant treats. But I didn’t like black licorice so could not enjoy, even though I snuck one each time and tried it.

Once, when I was quite small, I snuck out of bed during a bridge group night at our house, flannel nightie clad, sat in the hallway listening to the adults and thought to myself “when I grow up I will use big words too.” Their conversations sounded so intelligent and witty. They were having a good time. Then, a few years later, when I was just starting to read chapter books, there was a bridge club night at our house when I had a fresh batch of chapter books from the library. I so wanted to impress these bridge playing adults. I left the bedroom door just slightly ajar…it was strategically located, as anyone using the bathroom would have to pass it. I read and read into the night, finishing three, then four, then all of my newly checked out chapter books. And not one adult popped their head in to express their admiration of my reading skills and dedication to it. I was disappointed. But I did get a lot of reading done.

I was fascinated by the bridge group meeting on the top floor of the town’s funeral parlor in the quarters of the director and his wife who were bridge group members. When this director passed a major milestone, perhaps his 60th birthday, the other bridge group members dressed in black clothes, clutching a rose and lay out on benches and lawns along the route this man walked every morning. As he got to them they rose up, zombie faced and started shadowing him on his walk. By the time he got through town he had quite a funeral procession following him. I wasn’t living in town anymore when this happened and only heard about it secondhand so it might not be completely accurate but it’s a good story none the less.

The ladies of the bridge group circulated a large football jersey with the following message in big words: “I’d rather be 50 than pregnant.” They each got a turn with the shirt when they turned 50. My mother was living out of the country when she turned 50 but the bridge group threw her a party anyway. They found an inflatable doll, a wig like my mother’s hair, and one of the optomotrists provided glasses just like Mom’s, put the jersey and these other things on the inflated doll and had a party, sending pictures to my mom to make sure she knew she wasn’t forgotten.

The bridge group holds a special place in my memory from a very young age. It reminds me of a simpler time when adults seemed so mysterious and I couldn’t wait to grow up to be like them. I don’t play bridge now, though that seems like that might be a fun thing to take up with the right group of people. And I am sure that I really am not as mature and clever as they seemed at the time. The words I use don’t seem big to me now. I still enjoy reading chapter books but I don’t imagine that that could impress anyone. I know for sure I don’t like black licorice so I don’t try those bridge mix treats. In fact I’m not sure if they still make them. I find it hard to believe that the bridge group members at the time I first remember those get-togethers were even younger than I am now when I think about how old, I’ll say “mature,” they seemed at the time.

Color: Robin's Egg Blue

This weekend, taking a break from gardening, I took Satchmo and Mia out on a walk to do their business. On the side of the road was the broken shell of a Robin's egg. It was dry, probably cleaned out by a crow or something. I picked it up to bring home. It just amazes me that an egg can be such a pretty color. But the dogs got in a tangle and I got the egg shell caught between my palm and a leash and it smashed to smithereens. All I had left was some small fragments stuck to the sweat in my hand. Robin's Egg Blue seems a fragile color to me.

For this I was reminded of some older things I wrote when Andy was a Jr. or Sr. in High School, not long after we moved out on our own. (I think I may have posted on of these a loooong time ago but I am too lazy to go back and look) (and thanks Nikki and Amy for the encouragement. It means a lot)

Bird is Hurt

Bird is hurt. Devastated.
I want to mend him
But I am shut out.
Mother bird instincts kick in
Regurgitating my own sustenance
To force into his screaming beak
You will fly again
But come into the nest
Where we can practice singing
And flying
Baby hops,
One baby bird hop at a time
Mending you is mending me
My Bird, it hurts. I know.

Nest Leaving

You push but pull me back to close
Afraid of fully flight to free
Desiring approval yet fighting advice
As seeds I plant to turning ears

Defiantly resisting what you sense as stricture
I want to let go but only so much
As on your legs you yearn to run
And in your wheels you leave my clutch

One of us will leave before the other
I hope it is me as I the mother
Could not endure a life without
My bird who flies away now

Yet otherwise if it were me
Who lost my bird
It would save my one the pain of loss
Which I would never want for you
As I could no longer fight to protect
My baby bird from felines and weather
And pain from loss

In Awe of Mother Bird
How did you push your little one out of the nest? I realize it was a necessity, for survival, for your baby. But if feels like it’s a necessity for MY survival to keep him here with me. He was my reason for setting out each morning to find and bring home nourishment to help him grow. Each day as I returned he proudly showed me what progress he had made while I was off in the world providing for us. His downy soft features slowly leave as sleek and, unbelievably, more beautiful he becomes each day. His warm fuzzy coat is replacing itself with sharp and prickly pin feathers as he evolves into the form that will assure his survival outside our nest. I am proud and frightened at once. I want to spare him the harsh realities of survival. He is the only one that survived my egg laying season. He is my hope. My pain. My love. Mother bird, how do we give our children wings and survive? I hear your beautiful song. I want my song to be beautiful too. Clearly sounds of pain and pride, of laughter. Of love. That is our song.

Color: Lilac

On Sunday I took my first harvest of the year from my yard for a bouquet. Front and center are the lilacs. Lilacs remind me of my grandmother. She died when I was still in high school. The last of my living grandparents. My memory is a little fuzzy as to why they remind me of her. I think she often had a vase of them on her table. Lilacs remind me of the home that I grew up in where we had a lovely hedge by the driveway. And of my other life where we had a huge tree and I would bend the boughs over, take as many as I could carry to give to friends and co-workers after putting a few large bouquets in my own home.

When I had my yard redone last year, first and foremost on the planting plan was to have a scented garden. Jasmine (my home already had a large, well established bush on the front fence), gardenias, honeysuckle, sarcacocha ruscafolia (I don’t know about the spelling but isn’t that a fun one to say?), hyacinths and lilacs. The landscaper put in three lilac bushes. It didn’t dawn on me to specify the color of the lilacs desired. My favorites are the ones with darker reddish purple buds that open to a lighter, um…”lilac” color.

When the yard was all finished, all the little plants snuggled in with hopes of a flourishing future, I happened to ask what color the lilacs were that had been planted. They were pink. A light pink. The landscaper could tell by the way my face fell that that wasn’t what I had wanted. She did her best to convince me that these would be beautiful. And they hadn’t been able to find purple ones at that time. And that these were really healthy, nice looking bushes. I granted her that: they looked like they would be good bushes. But what’s the point of having a lilac bush if the flowers aren’t lilac in color? I told her I’d give it a season and would try to love them.

It didn’t work. The flowers didn’t look like lilacs to me. And (perhaps it was my imagination) they didn’t have the sweet smell of lilacs. So at the end of the summer I called the landscaper and told her that I really wanted lilac colored lilacs. I plan to have years with my garden. Each year it will get more and more shaped into the garden I always wanted. I put my sweat and soul into it. So I express what I want (this is a new skill I am learning). I want lilacs: the ones that smell sweet, remind me of my grandmother and delight me. I asked her to keep her eyes open. No rush (it was fall at the time after all). But please find some good replacements.

The replacement lilacs were put in within a few months. The new bushes were good looking. And this last week they provided me with my first bounty. Not yet full enough to cut armloads to share with friends, but for the first year they are showing good potential. When I harvest I like to leave a bounty on the bush as well. But I got enough for a lovely bouquet, supplemented with a variety of greens (and plums and yellows) from other garden bushes, some blue coral bells and a few white narcissuses. When I came home from work last night the lilac bouquet greeted me first with its scent, and second with its beauty. That’s what I’m talking about. I am content.

And now my color box piece on lilac. Enjoy!

Lilacs
You brought them to me
A fist full of promises
Grandmother smiled from heaven

and
Scent me a message

Color: Black

This one has just come to me. I got the call. The one I knew was coming, just wasn’t sure when. Dear sweet Patty, my black lab from my former life was put down yesterday. Andy had to call to tell me. He told me with tears in his throat. I answered with tears in mine. Patty was well over 14 years old and from what I had heard through Andy, had, over the years since I’ve been gone, slowly slowed down. Mark had to put her to sleep yesterday. Andy said his Dad is pretty shaken up about it. I can only imagine.

Patty, like Satchmo, came to us under shady circumstances. Her predecessor, also a lab, named Maggie we had brought into our life, as fairly new newly weds, very soon after we had moved into our own house. She was a pure bred baby, daughter of a show quality yellow lab (her father had actually posed in Nordstrom ads!) and a black mama, also a prize winner. When we went to see the puppies this was the first I knew that a pure black dog can come from a mix of black and yellow labs. As can yellow pups. She was in a mixed litter, both yellow and black. All precious. She lived a good long life for a lab and with tears we had put her cancer ridden body to rest in the fall.

We told ourselves we needed to recover. That no little puppy could possibly take her place so soon so we would use the winter and spring to get the yard in shape, replace part of the fence, etc. We were without for two weeks. The house was too quiet. The walks too sad. A friend of a friend was looking for some type of small dog and in her search talked to a breeder who had a black lab pup that was nine weeks old and so was not as marketable and was looking for a good home for the pup. Offering a good price. We reluctantly (but not really) went up to look at the dog. The directions led us to a trailer park. We pulled up to a trailer, no view through the window: laundry was stacked over the height of the window. At the door Mama, exactly like Mama in “Throw Mama from the Train” movie met us at the door. She looked at us and cussed and shuffled back saying “the dog ain’t even been bathed yet” (and she said bath-ed, as in rhyming with laughed, not rhyming with behaved). It was like a freaky movie. She hollered “Pa, you do this” and disappeared into the trailer. Then this old, double wide sized guy shuffles out and motions for us to sit on the trailer steps. We all look at each other: Mark, Andy and me, with startled looks, muffling nervous giggles. He wanders around the corner where we hear much whimpering and yipping…obviously little dogs. Turns out they were Shiatsus. But when he comes back he has an adorable smelly little black lab puppy. Beautiful, though not in show condition. This little puppy leaps into our arms and licks our faces and there was no more discussion. We arrange to take her home. He wants to find the “papers” showing her breed purity so asks me to follow him into the trailer. He’s muttering something about needing to get rid of her because he just had back surgery and she’s getting too big to handle. Says she’s nine weeks old but I am guessing she’s closer to twelve, another reason he’s having trouble getting a home for her. As he tells me about his back surgery he lifts up the back of his grey and holy T-shirt and offers to show me his scar. His pants are slung so low that all I can see is this huge butt crack smiling at me. I look behind my shoulder, hoping at least Andy or Mark can witness this spectacle but no such luck. He rifles through a huge pile of papers on a counter and can’t find her papers but promises to send them to me. I know they will not be coming but I don’t care. We are not breeding this baby. We are rescuing her.

She is excited to be leaving the trailer park. She wants to be in our lap, not in the crate we have brought along, just in case… And we want her in our laps, not the crate. On this ride we notice lots of scratching and looking closely, little fleas dancing on her body. We swing by the pet store on the way home and pick up flea shampoo and a flea collar and take her directly to the sink for a bath before we settle in to the next many years together. We look at each other and all three speaking simultaneously say “We bathed the dog” (Rhyming with “We laughed the dog.”) And we laugh.

Andy takes to having a puppy like any good young boy. This is new to him: Maggie was already into adulthood by the time Andy came into our lives. Patty makes our family once again complete. She’s a running partner. A walking partner. A safety measure when home alone. A soft heart and a big appetite. She is black and she is beautiful.

Fast forward. The marriage is over. Andy is 15 years old and will be coming with me. I leave Mark and in my guilt I don’t even approach bringing Patty as well. While Andy goes back every other weekend, I do not have the heart to let Patty see me. I would rather she think I was dead, dropped off the face of the earth, than to have her think I abandoned her. So when I drop Andy off or pick him up I do it from in front of the neighbor’s house, out of view from the living room window where Maggie spends much of the day watching the comings and goings in the neighborhood. I compartmentalize any thoughts of Patty, as I have done with other things that I left behind. The pain is too thick to allow. When Andy is old enough to drive himself to his Dad’s and back I no longer have play the hiding game. I do not go to the old house. But it’s not the old house I miss. It’s certainly not the old marriage. It is Patty, my dog, who thinks I am dead, that I miss.

Tonight I have learned that it is she that is dead. Not me. And everything is black. I want to go home. To my old home. To embrace and sob with Mark. To grieve the loss. But I gave up that right when I left. I feel an emptiness in a place that I didn’t know was full. Black is beautiful. But not when it’s gone.

Color: Orange

The story for orange came to me in a dream I had when my box of colors was just a few days new to me. I had been writing the colors and had this dream which wrote itself out of vividness and made me see orange.

Orange: Tiger in My Bed

(a dream)

I am in a bedroom, much like the guestroom at the house on Camino Street. I am sleeping restlessly and look over at the sidewall. A large pet tiger is there. Very big, apparently tame. I am a little shocked I have a pet like this. He puts his big paw out to me and I say some nice words. I get up to get a drink and notice this big tiger moves to my bed. I am too frightened to go back to bed so I close the door and curl up on the floor outside the hall, very cold, thinking how warm it would be to have the tiger in my bed but too dangerous.

Color: Violet (Purple)

The upper story window box in my cottage is perky with little violets. These violets have heartily withstood the winter (a winter so harsh that it killed off some of the “tough” decorative grasses I installed in the lower garden). Dark purple, with a very little yellow in the center. Quite Victorian. Whatever goes in this box must be hearty. It’s a window box and so the depth not too deep to protect sensitive roots. It drains nicely, but that also means it can dry out pretty fast. And it is under the eave so does not get a drink even though the rains may be coming down hard just beyond.

I have now plugged in a few petunias, now that the chance of frost is gone. These petunias will eventually take over the violets and tumble down over the side of the box, as was what was planted in the box when I first saw and fell in love with the cottage. These “winter violets” (related to “winter pansies”) have made it through so wonderfully that I think they may last through the summer too. If they are only to last through a few seasons then they will make that decision. I don’t have the heart to rip them out when they are doing so well.

I was thinking about seasons this morning. I know this line of thought was triggered by the consideration of my pansies as I saw them optimistically perched in the window box outside my bathroom. But this is sort of how it went: God is pretty amazing that he gave us seasons. Being God and all, he could have set the earth perfectly straight in alignment with the sun so that each part of the earth would have a specific climate and people could live in the climate they were best suited for and never have to deal with the highs and lows that come from seasonal extremes. Climates around the equator get less of the seasonal variation, though they do get seasons of drought and seasons of rain. God could have even tempered that out so that those folks would have enough rain to keep things plentiful year round instead of having those folks experience such difficulties in the dry season. And by the same token, spread the rain out so that the difficulties of travel during the rainy season would not exist. But in His plan, He gave us seasons. Which I think He might have been planting as a metaphor for how our lives go.

I have to admit that I get a little irritated when I am stressing out or whining about something and my therapist comments that it’s the “season” I’m in. At those times I don’t want seasons. I want predictability (though actually, now that I think about it, seasons are predictable. Spring follows winter. Winter always comes after summer. Fall is the nicest.). I don’t want the lows. But I certainly appreciate the highs a lot more, am able to label them highs, because of the comparative lows that have been survived. Kind of like the sweetness of make-up sex, if you know what I mean. So now you’ve been on the journey with my mind this morning. The thoughts of the wonder of God’s seasonal plan, all triggered by those perky, optimistic violets that caught my eye through the bathroom window this morning. And here is the piece on the color violet I wrote a few seasons ago via my box of crayons.

Color: Violet (Purple)

(which is how the crayon label reads..it includes “(Purple)”)
Violet is the widow, somehow finding delight in the evil around her. She laughs at people falling down stairs and missing busses. She finds it amusing that people pity her as she shuffles down the street, humming to herself. Though hunched over, almost apparently from the weight of her oversized hat, she fancies herself tall and erect and strong. The body conceals her inner strength.

Violet, now a widow, has chosen to stay in her youthful frame of mind. She lies to herself, pretending that the tough boys, hanging on the corner, are flirting with her, choosing to hear their jeers and snickers as swoons and swagger.

Violet, dressed in the black of widowhood, is not dressed in black at all. It only looks that way to the lazy eye. She is purple: rich and velvet. She knows it and that is all that matters. To her.

Color: Cornflower Blue

One of my favorites. Appears in nature, but rarely. Crisp. Clear. Slightly lilac. A (very) little white. Back to school dresses. Very rare flowers. Corn flowers. Nothing corn about it. Animated flowers. When paired with yellow, clear crisp yellow it is perfect. Or white.

Though it is the cornflower blue I seek to think of I close my eye and see yellow. A field. Waving in a breeze. Edged by trees that offer shade as needed. She lays on her back, in the sun on the blanket she brought from her trunk. Stretched out as long as she can, daring the sun to kiss her. Her knee length skirt of cornflower blue linen is hiked up a bit to maximize exposure to the sun’s warming rays. Crisp, white cotton cap-sleeved blouse thin enough to let the sun seep through. But the whiteness filters out just a little bit of the warmth. Her hair, that I thought would be brown is blond instead. She is laying there. In peace. Seeing the clouds through her closed eyelids. It is quiet at first. But as she lays there she becomes aware of the other sounds. The hum of the bees moving past on their journey between the scattering of flowers that have come up as weeds through the field. A faint breeze stirring the leaves of the nearby trees and the blades of the grass. The birds calling out to each other amongst the trees on the edge. They are talking of the intruder: blue, white and tan stretched out low in the field over there. At first they were alarmed but it’s been so long since she moved that they have almost forgotten about her. All of her effort is focused on trying to stay in this moment: forced awareness. She will not let her mind wander to the things that want to steal from the peace. This takes all of her effort but she is determined. To do this she floats above, level with the top of the trees. Up near the birds. She becomes the bird that is assigned to watch over her. And she looks down to see herself. Because she is a bird and unfamiliar she doesn’t allow herself any associations to what she sees. Sees only exactly what she is: what the birds see. No judgement, but even to the birds, pleasing to the eye. Naked of feathers but not naked. Blue, but not the sky. White, but crisper than an egg.. Tan, but paler than a worm. The straw of her hair, but silky. Large enough to be scary but inert and so not.

Broken Crayons

Where do crayons go after they are no longer new and whole? When they are broken and used? We had a round, red tin. It was a little hard for little hands to pry open. I think there was a Christmas scene on the top. Something with a sleigh and a horse and snow and over the river and through the woodsy. The tin was big and it was fairly full. Of broken, used crayons. Some with partial labels. Some with no labels. The stubs with no labels were the hardest. Darkest bluest green looked just like black as did dark purple when unwrapped. Thinking you were grabbing black, the dog turned out to be green instead. The drawing was ruined. I am afraid for who ever decides to grab and use me to finish their drawing. I am broken, dull. A stub. The label has been removed. I probably look like something I am not. They will think they are getting one thing but will be getting something else instead. And it will ruin their drawing. And they will be angry at the damage I have caused. And they will throw me across the room and declare the ruin I have brought into their life. And what then? Returned to the tin with the other broken, unlabeled stubs. Or tossed away completely so the user will not make the same mistake again? You cannot make a used crayon new again. Nobody even tries. Nobody likes the broken ones.

Sixty Four Crayons

A few years ago, when I was newer to being kind to myself I bought a big old box of crayons. It made me so happy, that later that week I bought nine even bigger boxes, the biggest I could find, and gave them to the gals in the dinner club. We all became eight years old again. We had crayon memories. And we all felt we had added to our life something we could only dream about when little girls: owning the biggest box of crayon colors out there, all new, neat, still sharp, but a sharpener built into the box. The experience elicited joy in them and a need to write about colors for myself. And so I wrote, and my recent piece on colors got me to thinking about when I did this and I went to find some of those color crayon pieces. I will post a few on the blog, randomly, here and there. And maybe I'll write a few more because when it came to the colors, I only got through a half dozen of them. I need to write about each color sooner or later.

Sixty-Four Colors

I am sitting, smiling with my new treasure. I’m not sure from where, but it came to me, I can buy the crayon box with the most colors. It can be mine. I can arrange in any order I want. I don’t ever have to use a one if I don’t want to so the box will remain new and pure and perfect. If I want it to. Back to school shopping the little girl pines after the big box. I swear the biggest was more than sixty-four colors then: as the biggest one that I can find today is sixty-four. Which is a lot. But in my dreams there were boxes of hundreds. Colors that don’t exist for our earth eyes. I want to close my eyes right now and go back to my dream eyes and find those colors again. When I was little I promised myself when I was grown I would save my money and buy a big box of crayons: the biggest box they make. Must be Crayolas. Not some substitute store brand. I had forgotten that promise until today where it came to me from somewhere in my mind. And I realized that I have enough saved now (it was $3.80, lol) to buy the biggest box if I want to. Note to self: at the stores check out crayon boxes and make sure I got the biggest one. I don’t think I was ever allowed the biggest box back then. Not practical. Yes, that was a good decision by my Mom, but at the time it’s what I wanted. I don’t think I got my son the biggest box back when we used to buy crayons for school supplies. If we went shopping today, I would. In this box there are sixty-four poems or sixty-four stories and I am new. I love the smell of the crayons. I pull out Robin’s Egg Blue. With my right hand I grab the tip with my thumb and forefinger, as close to the tip as possible. It is smooth and slick and tacky all at once. With my left hand I pinch the crayon near the tip also, just as close as I can get to where my right hand is holding. Then with my right hand I pull the crayon through my pinched left thumb and forefinger. Slowly. Below my nose. Inhaling deeply I pull. Careful not to pinch too hard so as not to rip or wrinkle the wrapper. I close my eyes. I feel the dull flatness of the paper slide through the hand until just at the end the ever so short end of exposed wax comes through. With my eyes closed I imagine I have special skills that can identify the color, Robin’s Egg Blue, with my eyes shut. Just by the feel, the weight, the sound of it. The smell of it. I know it is not true but I imagine I have these powers anyway. If I were forever imprisoned in an otherwise sensory deprived state with just a box of new crayons and I worked on it with total focus could I train myself to know the crayons by smell, weight, feel, without sight? There has to be something inside them that makes them different and it has to be more than color. Warmth, coolness. Personality.

From the front left, working to the right across the front row, then second from left to right, then third, left to right and last, the fourth, last row, left to right ending with colors most basic:

Tickle Me Pink, Periwinkle, Plum, Robin’s Egg Blue, Silver, Pacific Blue, Turquoise Blue, Wild Strawberry,

Olive Green, Purple Mountains’ Majesty, Raw Sienna, Salmon, Sea Green, Sepia, Spring Green, Tumbleweed,

Asparagus, Bittersweet, Brick Red, Burnt Orange, Forest Green, Gold, Magenta, Orchid,

Burnt Sienna, Cornflower, Goldenrod, Granny Smith Apple, Lavender, Macaroni & Cheese (?!), Mahogany, Mauvelous,

Cadet Blue, Chestnut, Melon, Peach, Sky Blue, Tan, Timberwolf, Wisteria,

Blue Green, Blue Violet, Carnation Pink, Red Orange, Red Violet, White, Yellow Green, Yellow Orange,

Apricot, Cerulean, Dandelion, Gray, Green Yellow, Indigo, Scarlet, Violet Red,

Blue, Green, Red, Yellow, Black, Brown, Orange, Violet (Purple).