(no subject)
It can absolutely be said that the color of that house on Klockner Road was symbolic of the events that surrounded our living there. The steel blue siding looked intimidating but was easily manipulated, much like our father's punishments he would dole out. "You threw a baseball into the side of the house, OF COURSE I have to punish you! ...Go, uh, rake up the leaves." The gray-blue color was so close to neutral that it easily represented the various changes of pace that came along with a house full of two children and a dog: it was the slightly-defeated feeling from the accumulation of the feet of snow that blanketed the area during the Blizzard of '96 and the numerous failed attempts at building a snow fort with a kiddy pool that our neighbors swore they knew how to complete. It was the uncomfortable freezing-damp feeling of staying out in that snow for too long, until every inch of your dozens of layers couldn't fight the melting of snow near a warm body.
On the other hand, that gray blue could seem so heavy that it felt like the heat and humidity of the scorching summers that shrouded itself upon the suburban New Jersey town, and the color of the sky from the thunderstorms would result of it. Those nights we would sit on the porch at dusk and watch the field across the street as the storm moved in. It was the color of fresh bruises children inflict on themselves accidentally: the blue that results right before it changes to the healing, but nauseating, green. It was that color of a Crayola watercolor set when the blue melds with the black; even as a child, I was frustrated that those two colors were next to each other. That color always managed to result regardless as to how careful you were at seven years old, sitting at the kitchen table, making a work of art.
Despite all of its connotations, the color was nicer than I've been making it sound. It's simply reminiscent of a different time. In fact, the color can be seen as quite dusty: flaking after the decades of wear and tear, from weather to baseball mishaps in the backyard. It could be easily considered a blue or gray depending on its surroundings, but still has charm, still has a history.
On the other hand, that gray blue could seem so heavy that it felt like the heat and humidity of the scorching summers that shrouded itself upon the suburban New Jersey town, and the color of the sky from the thunderstorms would result of it. Those nights we would sit on the porch at dusk and watch the field across the street as the storm moved in. It was the color of fresh bruises children inflict on themselves accidentally: the blue that results right before it changes to the healing, but nauseating, green. It was that color of a Crayola watercolor set when the blue melds with the black; even as a child, I was frustrated that those two colors were next to each other. That color always managed to result regardless as to how careful you were at seven years old, sitting at the kitchen table, making a work of art.
Despite all of its connotations, the color was nicer than I've been making it sound. It's simply reminiscent of a different time. In fact, the color can be seen as quite dusty: flaking after the decades of wear and tear, from weather to baseball mishaps in the backyard. It could be easily considered a blue or gray depending on its surroundings, but still has charm, still has a history.