Sans Fig Leaf
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"No rhyme for orange"
8 July, 2007
At some point in my childhood I decided that my favorite color was orange. I don't remember when this happened. I don't recall why orange was the color I picked. But once it was said, it became known by countless relatives, and now forty years (give or take) later, I am still given orange things by some of my relatives.
A favorite color is a strange thing. As an adult I have several favorite colors: purples of nearly all kinds, really rich teals, certain shades of red, that sort of thing. Orange isn't generally one of them. Though I will admit that virtually any color can be made interesting in the right shade or with the right accessory.
As I said, I don't remember why I settled on orange, because there's nothing about the color that I find particularly appealing now. I suspect it may have come up when some other kids were around and someone else had already picked purple or something else more interesting. It is possible that someone had said something derogatory about the color orange--I've always had a bit of a contrarian streak. Maybe right that moment I really did like orange. Once it has been declared, one feels obligated to stick with it. At least for a while.
These odd orange gifts can be tricky. I don't want to hurt the feelings of Grandma or Aunt Tillie who has spent countless hours painstakingly making this present for me. But we already have too much stuff in the house already. For example, while cleaning out a closet this week I discovered this crochetted orange and white set of potholders my grandma made me a number of years ago. They are wrong in so many ways.
- The frilly doll-face part that's supposed to hang on a handle in the kitchen
- The garish shade of orange
- No crocheted potholder ever works as a potholder
It would neither look right nor be useful to put it in our kitchen. But my grandma made it for me. My poor, arthritic grandmother made it in colors she believed to be my favorite because she loved me. So I couldn't give it away or toss it with good conscience. So it has joined a number of other odd gifts--many of them orange--packed into a back closet.
Which isn't to say that there aren't any orange things made for me over the years that I don't use. I wore out several pairs of knitted or crocheted orange slippers over the years. One of my favorite "lap blankets" to keep around the house during the cold months is a burnt orange and brown afghan my other grandmother made me some years ago. And I crocheted myself plenty of orange things back in the years when I was first learning how to do it.
Yes, I crochet. I don't knit, can't do needlepoint, have never tried embroidery, but crocheting I can do. And sometimes quite elaborate and intricate stuff. Both my grandmothers and all my great- grandmothers used to do it when I was a kid. I picked it up along the way, discovered that Mom had never learned how to crochet, despite the efforts of grandma and my great-grandmothers to teach her, so I taught her. I don't know why ten-year-old me was able to do in a few weeks what had eluded Grandma for years, but there you have it.
Finding the particular present, barely a month after Grandma died, has brought up a decidedly mixed set of feelings. On the one hand, I can't think of any place to put it in the house where it won't either be in the way or look (let's be frank) hideous. But Grandma made it for me. In my (formerly) favorite color.
So, even though I'm making a big pile of things to take to the thrift store, it will probably go back into the closet. Presents aren't just objects. They are things chosen by someone for a reason. That reason, and its importance to us as the receiver, can transcend the mere object, transforming it into a reminder of someone we loved, and who loved us back.
Even when it's a hideous shade of orange.
--Anthony J. D'Angelo
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