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I was born in the ‘40s, remember fondly the ‘50s, succeeded as a teenager in the ‘60s, and attended college in the ’70s. Well, you get my drift.
My life has spanned the best and the brightest and the weirdest, if I say so myself, and I see that I actually just did.
As an author, I view my time spent so far on this Earth as a series of chapters – some funny, some sad, and some love-filled. Another layer exists as well, though, a layer that defines each decade and adds its own definition – a layer of color.
Violet and turquoise form the combination that for me denotes the ‘50s. These two even invaded my tiny bedroom, where a beige spread sprinkled with violet petals graced a spool bed that jutted from a turquoise wall. When I was five, I contracted pneumonia and spent several weeks confined to this antique bed.
One day, completely bored, I noticed a small pimple in the turquoise painted plaster that ran behind the spool headboard. Coincidentally, my father had given me a compass the evening before in an ill-fated attempt to develop in me mathematical tendencies. Now the pimple afforded an opportunity for his gift to be used. Sticking the point of the compass into the tiny protrusion, I proceeded to carve out a small white circle in the wall.
To say that my long-suffering parents, who had spent weeks steaming off wallpaper and painting the room, were displeased would be one of the world’s greatest understatements. To this day, I find it hard to harbor an affinity for turquoise.
The ‘60s were gold and avocado and orange. This was the decade in which I learned that colors could be psychedelic.
Equally, my memories from that time are bright and airy, flitting across my mind filled with promise – such things as first going steady, leaving for college, and getting married. I turned my back on a nice boy, so as to take the senior ring of another, then left them both behind when I went to Emory in Atlanta. Finally, things went full circle, when I gave my hand in marriage to the nice boy – now a man.
The ‘70s were blue and green, the colors of sky and sea until leisure suits turned everything powder blue and mint green. This was the decade in which my children were born, small packages arriving under a cloak of darkness bent on stealing my heart away. Need I say more?
The ‘80s wrapped themselves in earth tones – brown, beige, and rust, and our tiny family seemed bent on moving about as my husband’s career took us hither and yon. Having moved from Georgia to Mississippi and back again, we finished things off by living in Dothan and Montgomery and Birmingham all in one year. Finally, we sprung roots in the latter and bought a home.
The ‘90s for me were black and white. My young husband’s death here stands front and center – a good man taken too soon. My children, now grown, starting life on their own, and then, after a time, a fresh start for me as well.
The first decade of the new millennium appeared as a flash of fireworks – Y2K and selling my house. Then the world filled with the pink of cherry blossoms when I moved to D.C. to be nearer to elderly family members and meet their needs.
Finding myself in my sixties, I now live in the present. The spring and summer of my life are long past. Is it any wonder then that it’s fall colors that mark my favorite season of the year?
Also available for Nook!