Brown is one of my favorite colors. It’s the color of my hair, my eyes, my husband’s hair, his eyes, our younger son’s hair and his eyes. Our older son has brown hair, too, but his eyes have been described as hazel- the definition of which is brownish-red, but his eyes are dark blue when he wears his dress uniform, green when he’s in his fatigues. He always keeps a bright blue dress shirt, because girls love it when his eyes are that shade of bright blue.
Oh, wait- I was talking about brown. Brown is the color of garden earth, rich woods, our good dog Suni. It was my great-grandmother’s favorite color. Grandpa Crockett hated it when she wore brown, he liked to see her in brighter colors, or as bright as women’s dresses were, in the ‘20’s and ‘30’s. He went to a pastors’ conference in Chicago, a red letter event for the pastor of a small country church who had “too many children” and was often paid in produce and pickles if he was paid at all. He proudly carried back home a neat white package embossed with the name of a fancy store in script, containing the most beautiful dress Grandma had ever seen, in the warmest shade of brown.
Brown is the color of the eyes of two of my brothers, and also the color of the hair on two of my brothers’ heads, but not the same two. Candy is brown. Like that red heart shaped Whitman’s box I got for my fifteenth birthday two days after Valentine’s day. I lifted the lid and inhaled the chocolate aroma, studied the ovals, circles and squares, choosing just one a day until sometime in June when I got Salmonella and was hospitalized.
My first real on-the-road car was light brown, a tan Valiant my grandmother signed over to me after my grandfather died. I’ve had two brown cats, Buffy who was, simply, buff-colored, and Molly, a super-soft calico patched with orange, black, white and brown silk like a velvet quilt. My little collection of mice figurines were mostly brown and grey. I like grey, and red, and so many other colors, too. But brown has always been one of my favorite colors.