I could not imagine a prettier color than alpine white in
the majestic Carpathian Mountains set in a wild and rocky terrain ringed with blue-green
spruce.
Our snow at Christmas in grandpa’s yard was stained red with
the splashed blood of the sacrificed pig raised to feed our entire extended
family that otherwise would starve.
My memory brings back the red poppies in the fields of green
and yellow wheat, guarded by a man armed with an axe; he meant business when he
chased kids trampling government wheat in search of the bountiful and beautiful
flowers that had more “useful purposes” to the guard’s communist bosses. The
bright red was inviting us to pick them and take them to our moms to add a
splash of color in the otherwise dreary and utilitarian grey space we called communist
apartment homes. Picking wild flowers in a small bouquet was such an innocent
delight which flooded my eyes with God’s beauty.
A sea of red hammer and sickle communist flags dominated the
landscape when the population was forced out into the streets, rain or shine,
to march in praise and glory to the dear leader and his wife.
Yellow and white were the fields of chamomile flowers we
picked and dried to make tea, a soothing greenish liquid that relaxed us at
night and helped clean infected wounds.
Our uniforms were plain shades of green, grey, brown, and
navy. For a proper contrast, our school shirts were blue, freshened in the wash
by hand with a cube of blue dye when they faded. Hands would look blue for a while as we did
not have latex gloves to shield the skin while doing laundry. Girls as young as five were taught how to properly
wash clothes.
Our hands would turn chocolate brown when it came time to
pick and shell the green casing of walnuts which had not dried completely on
its own. The purple plums we gathered for brandy and the juice we squeezed out
of grapes in the fall to make wine stained our hands magenta.
We cried crocodile tears when the pungent and juicy yellow onions
had to be pulled by hand from the ground. We dug potatoes with a hoe and brown
became embedded under fingernails for the duration no matter how much we washed
our hands. The smell of fresh dirt and the worms we dug up with the potatoes
was overwhelming. When it rains and the first drops fall on dry dirt, the smell
reminds me of digging up potatoes from the soil which we then spread evenly on
the floor of the cellar to dry up.
Grandma’s flower garden blossomed in summer and autumn with
fragrant roses, dahlias, narcissus, tulips, chrysanthemums, lilacs, peonies, and
lavender. She was proud of her garden
located close to the cast iron water pump that brought fresh ground water from
the deep well. I helped by pumping enough water to nourish her precious blooms
twice a week. Grandma and mom looked at the plants as God’s colorful gifts that
filled the soul and eyes with beauty. The colorful and scented blooms were
mom’s treasures.
Grandpa gave me a box of watercolors one year and, without
consulting mom, I painted a small red rose on the wall by the couch where I
slept. Each morning, when I first opened my eyes, I saw the rose.
We did not have any paintings or pictures on the wall except
my parent’s oil portrait from their imaginary wedding. It was a fantasy wedding
portrait as they were too poor to have a proper wedding and a formal dress. I
wish I had that painting today! It had been long confiscated by God knows who.
Nature’s colors amazed me and I often dreamed that someday,
when I could afford to, I would never wear anything else but bright colors, teal,
pink, purple, lavender, grass green, magenta, orange, white, and reds.
I often wander in the woods to capture on camera nature’s
palette. Fall is a symphony of yellows, browns, greens, and maroons that take
my breath away. My husband laughs that I must have photographed the same trees
for the last ten years but to me, each autumn brings another shade of color
that I have not seen before with my naked eye. And the sun adds that little
sparkle, a glint of gold, orange, pink, and cerulean blue streaking from the
soft white clouds.
The fragrant green fir trees at Christmas and the tiny real candles
we lit, the few glass ornaments, brought a warm glow of yellow light, joy and
color to our otherwise drab existence.
One summer mom bought enough material for a new dress. It
was not often that I got a new dress. Everything had to be altered, let out, let
in, and hemmed to last several seasons. The print was small red roses with
green leaves set in a black background. My seamstress aunt‘s masterful fingers
created a work of art without a paper pattern. Every time I wore it, the splash
of color made me feel special and I rode on a cloud of happiness all day,
bathed in the hues of red and green.
My wardrobe today is an eclectic splash of cheerful and sunny
colors. It’s not hard to find me in a crowded airport. To me, black is for
somber occasions and funerals; navy is ceremonial; and brown is best served in dark
chocolate.
The whiteness of snow is still so pristine that no garment
can possibly match it. But I wear white long after Labor Day, a bright spot in
a crowd of winter.
Memory, in color. I can imagine the deep blue-green of the Carpathian spruce, and your red, watercolor rose. Beauty can be found even in harsh utilitarian surroundings-your rainbow of resiliency.
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