I woke up early today, and after a quiet cup of coffee put on my grubby clothes and began clearing a path for the delivery men who would deliver a new stove by 8 a.m. My rioting hair was quelled by a thick green watch cap, but since I hadn’t donned it specifically for St. Patrick’s Day it didn’t count.
As the old stove was carted away down the driveway it looked very old (it was), tawdry even, and foreign—that wasn’t the sturdy appliance that had lovingly broiled Sunday pot roasts and baked Christmas cookies for over twenty-five years. But I got over my sadness momentarily—the crock pot was filled with corned beef and cabbage, and I had no idea where to find some appropriate green.
The ten-dollar allowance my wife gave me yesterday was easy, but the color of money doesn’t seem so much a color as a shade—and a rather boring one at that.
I thought about a green shirt I used to own, a very comfortable pull-over, but when I couldn’t remember whether I still have it I didn’t bother searching the dresser. I know there’s a pair of mismatched socks in there, but only one is green.
As the day wore on and dinner finally neared I went outside—surely I’d find my green in the great outdoors. But the garden hoses were wound up and uncooperative, the garden itself multiple browns, and I was going back into the house when I realized (somewhat dully, I’ll admit) I’m surrounded by trees. After that it was all downhill—literally. Walking through the woods, waving the camera around with the shutter open while I talked to it, I captured a nice slice of green in less than twenty minutes, and came away with an arty impression of our lower woods.
I only wish finding that other sock were as easy.