Color - Again

Tonight’s essay, though, is not about America’s  ‘people of color’ problem.

Simply for fun, I’m sharing information found in an old marketing brochure.  It’s about the color of your vehicle and what that color selection says about your personality.  

Red – You crave excitement and dynamic situations.

Blue – You are calm, sedate and maybe shy and introverted.

Gray – You’re traditional, conservative and reliable.

Green – You’re an environmentalist – or an entrepreneur.

Yellow/Orange – You’re warm, friendly, happy and outgoing.

Black – You’re sophisticated, self-confident, power oriented.

Brown – You’re down-to-earth and you drive a hard bargain.

White – You’re noncommittal.  To the color experts, white/beige is a non-choice (an “I don’t care choice, hmmmm?).  I'm thinking I do not agree with this.  

I think every color connected personality trait is neat.  Maybe that’s because I’ve called a car or SUV of each color my own and loved being behind the wheel!  Now I'm having fun driving this apple green vehicle!

Color and Santa

Christmastime and the black/white color thing is an issue.

Color makes a difference?  Color makes a difference. 

Yes, on this planet, both the query and the statement are valid considerations.  But why must color adversely affect our concept of others as it does?  Why do we let the media, the television networks ignite us; get away with programming to produce conflict? 

Recently I read news personality, Megyn Kelly, dumped the color controversy into Christmas, reporting Santa Claus was white.  My first thoughts were, “of course he is.  What’s the issue?”  

Santa was white throughout my childhood.  He’s a white fellow now.  No one can change that perception for me.

Hold it!  When I was a child, many Christmases the jolly and generous bearded fat man didn’t come to our house.  I never thought it was because we were black and he was white. Did I miss something?  Would he have stopped by our house every Christmas, had he been black?  Nope.  He didn’t come to us because, as my father told us, “Santa Claus doesn’t always go to every single home.”  I believed my dad.

For sure though, when my own children were young, Christmas morning, without fail, they found something from Santa Claus under our Christmas tree.  He was white; they were black and color did not make a difference to him.  I like that.

Merry Christmas.    

50 Years Ago on That Day

We Were Here

        November 22, 1963, I remember what I was doing - beginning to sew the dress I would wear to Earline and Tom's wedding.

        Working at the dining room table, picking out patterns and determining the fabric needed, the TV was on.  Abruptly, a news bulletin interrupted programming.

        Shocked disbelief/miserable belief intertwined, jumbling my emotions. Acceptance of the completeness of the tragedy was almost immediate for me, considering even the earliest details.

        My two toddlers, Farah and John Darin played nearby. Looking at them, tears welled up in my eyes, grieving for the loss to those other toddlers, Caroline and John-John.  And, with every beat of my heart, my sadness for “Jackie” grew until I let prayer and common sense take over.         

        However, serious concern for the security of our Nation just wouldn’t leave my mind.  “What’s next?”  “What was the total plan for carrying out this unfathomable action?”  President John Fitzgerald Kennedy had been mortally wounded while riding in a motorcade in Dallas, Texas. Why? I was scared.

         Such a terrible, terrible tragedy but surely God has blessed America.  May He continue to do so.

A Mother's Poem

 

          Remembering with Gratitude 
    Our War Veterans and Their Families.

This yellowed newspaper* clipping is in the shoebox of family pictures and memorabilia my Mother treasured.  She loved poetry.  (Read the award winning memoir Black Star Girl.)

                                           -Title Unknown
                                   -Author Unknown

                                                                          

Today a letter came for me

 From one who’s far away.

 T’was neither long nor newsy

 There wasn’t much to say.

 It failed to tell of battleships

 Or planes high up above,

 It simply started out, “Dear Mom”  
 And ended up “With Love”.

                                       No mention of the weather,

                                       That’s all ruled out, you know;

                                      Descriptions of the scenery there

                                      Might get to Tokyo.

                                      “There isn’t much to write about”

                                      “Remember me to Guv”

                                      “Don’t let the moths get at my 
                                           clothes”

                                      “Be seeing you” and “Love.”

                                       It asks “Can my old bus still run?”

                                      “Does Butch still bark at night?”

                                      “What shows have you been seeing?”

                                      “My, I’ll bet that yard’s a sight.”

                                      “All’s peaceful as a dove”

                                      “Just keep your chin up, I’ll be back”

                                      “That’s all for now” and “Love.”

                                       I read and reread the letter

                                       Vainly seeking a clue

                                       To tell me where he’s stationed

                                       And what he’s going through.

                                       But he’s dreaming of tomorrow

                                       It’s home he’s thinking of

                                       When he pens to me this letter

                                        And seals it with his “Love”.

                                                  

                                                                               The End

                             --------------          ------------------          ------------

·          *Sports page news on the reverse side of this old clipping 

            indicates the poem was published in 1944

Happy Can Be Real

At this point in my life I find it difficult to admit genuine happiness.  Contentment, peace, and satisfaction, thus gratitude, yes!  Happy?   No, unfortunately, no. 

Could it be due to a lifetime of paying attention, critiquing, thinking ahead, and seeking solutions to problems?  Even though I’ve retired, those habits have not. 

Now to blend real world experiences with emotions fed to my senses through programed media is my dilemma. 

There’s the noisy, giddy, silly frivolity, increasingly a pretense for humor on television.   Really no fun there.

I can’t ignore the ‘shock and awe’ of disrespect, mayhem and graphic violence in dramatic storylines, or even the evening news all day long, crammed with injustice that jerks my sensibilities toward, “what can I do”. 

An inability to escape serious thinking, well, it makes me crazy.

Then today I had a moment I don’t want to forget.   

It was cold outside.  Morning was done.  I was inside with a second mug of hot coffee.  Even better, I had no reason to be out in the chill.  Yes, I was physically and emotionally comfortable in a warm cozy space – focused on me, at work, bringing closure to necessaries on my to do list.   Other anxieties had disappeared.  

The early afternoon sun beamed into the room making bright colors more colorful; white and dark finishes rich accents, and shadowed corners softly secluded niches.

Then a never-before-seen episode of “Bones” came on TV. 

Wonderful!                               

I was happy.