A Saturday morning, early fall, the sun filters gently through the forested slope at the back of my daughter's Atlanta condo. I find it wonderful that a condo in the middle of a very large city, with hundreds of restaurants, stores, offices within a one mile radius, can feel like being located within a deep forest.
There is a Scandinavian festival in town today and all my Scandinavian friends are going to be there as either volunteers or visitors, my daughter is going to be singing at the opening ceremony..... while I'll miss all of that due to a bout with a flu ( I should not have procrastinated taking a flu shot - diabetics, even as well maintained as I, are prone to infections - but I was busy with the move out of my Gainesville apartment).
In normal circumstances I would have ignored feeling unwell until I was dropping, and would have gone to join the fun and excitement and Scandinavian food and folklore with everybody else, but not today. In exactly a week I'll be flying to Puerto Rico and I don't want to risk delaying the start of my new working retirement adventure by being imprudent about my health now.
So here I sit in a comfy leather chair, with my laptop and my blues.... but everywhere I look, I see red. Red, red, red. My daughter, a natural auburn beauty (after her father - he was a very good looking lad, while I was young and naive enough to try to play a Pygmalion in reverse gender roles: he - beauty, me - brains ;-) ... did not work out ... apart from Daughter being both gorgeous and smart) has recently fallen in love with red. Completely, passionately.
So the pajama I borrowed from her (somehow I was not planning too well and packed all my long sleeve, long pants pajamas away, while it is now only 52 degrees F in Atlanta) is red.
The armchair I sit in, as well as a nearby sofa and two ottomans are red, a fireplace is painted red, as are parts of her kitchen cabinets and an accent wall in the dining room. Red, red, red, red.
I know that red is supposed to be a symbol of love and passion, that in some cultures it is a color of brides' dresses. But to me it will always remain a symbol of communism. I grew up surrounded with those hated red banners, oceans of red flags over red lies and red oppression.
I hate red. With a vengeance.
.... But I am happy that my daughter, whom I managed to take out of communist Poland when she was 8, does not have such nightmarish associations and is able to enjoy all her red.