Let's Share Our Color Stories - continued with black
the tiny, plastic (and sticky) black comb Papaw used to slick his black hair back with Pomade inspired a poem (of sorts), and a ghost story (of sorts)
What are color stories and how to participate
If this is the first post you’ve seen about color stories and you’re wondering what it’s all about, I’m so glad you’re here and would love for you to join in! You can join in anytime, and come back to any of these posts later. You haven’t missed anything and you are not late. And if you have read this part before, go ahead and skip on ahead to the next part.
I began exploring color memories and found the process fun, therapeutic, surprising, and an absolute delight, so naturally, I wanted to invite others into the process.
This is a zero-pressure creative writing prompt to explore how color shows up in the depths of our memory banks. You’ll dedicate some time exploring a particular color in your memory. If you feel stuck, you may want to look at old pictures, think about your old favorite toys or games or things around your childhood home, or even the places you spent the most time.
As thoughts come to mind, jot them down stream-of-consciousness style. Once you have this list, determine which ones stand out to you that are holding a story waiting to be told and allow your pen to write or your fingers to type them out. That’s it! It doesn’t have to be edited or post-worthy. This is just a fun, playful creative prompt.
Next, I’d love for you to share your story or stories, or even just your stream-of-consciousness list. Feel free to share them here in the comments (or the comments of the particular color post: red here, purple here, and white here), or post them on your own social accounts and engage with your followers; the more the merrier!
We began with red, then purple, and white and today we are exploring BLACK. If you want to start with black, wonderful. If you’d like to go back and start from the beginning, feel free. You can do this at your own pace, anytime, even if you happen to stumble upon this post a year from now. I know how much this creative writing prompt blessed me and I want that for you, too. I promise you will be surprised at some point if you follow along. Everyone who has joined in so far has said so.
I’ll add that although this has mostly been a delightful experience for me, anytime we dust off the corners of our memories, triggers may be revealed causing emotional responses we were not expecting. I had one surprising memory reveal itself and it came with me to my next therapy appointment. Ultimately, as I processed it with my therapist, it turned from a discomfort to a blessing.
Black is not sad. Bright colors are what depresses me. They’re so… empty. Black is poetic. How do you imagine a poet? In a bright yellow jacket? Probably not.
-Ann Demeulemeester
Black stream-of-consciousness list
the hole in the tree outside of my bedroom window as a child - the blackest of black, blacker than the night; the black eyeliner I wore while I was a teen that my brother criticized and said, “What are you, goth?”; the black combat boots I wore that belonged to my grandfather while he fought in WWII; the black chocolate coating on the peanut butter easter eggs we ate at Easter; the lacy dress I wore to the eighth grade dance with Chris Carroll; mom’s black make up she’d use at Halloween for eyeliner, fake moles, and other black markings; Sally - our black and white English Springer Spaniel; the pupils in the eyes in the family portrait that seemed to follow you anywhere you stood in the room; Papaw’s black socks and how they’d almost always be half pulled off while he was wiggling his toes on his recliner chair; camel crickets hiding in the shadows and my paralyzing fear when they would enclose around me or hop at my head; the tiny black lice on my pillow that I’d poke and try to kill with a sewing needle when our entire softball team got lice from sharing helmets; the black licorice we’d get at Halloween that nobody liked; Grace (pictured below) at Mamaw and Papaw’s house; the black and white photo of my Mamoo where she looks glamourous; the story of the bats in Mama Mary’s basement; Papaw’s slicked back hair, perfectly styled with Pomade and the little tiny, sticky black plastic comb he used; his smart black rimmed glasses; the cloth black mary janes I loved so much as a teen and the patent leather black mary janes I wore as a young girl; black large video recorder of the 80’s; Atari joystick; black cassette tapes with little stickers on them (Pappy’s big band mixed tapes, and the mixed tapes I’d later make for friends and myself); the black portion of a Polaroid photo; spitting black seeds of a watermelon and getting some on Kim’s boyfriend’s shirt; the fuzzy black parts on the black light posters I hung in my bedroom; how bothered I would get from the black torn, plastic seat coverings on the bus seats - exposing the foam and practically scraping my legs; the black and white part of The Wizard of Oz; the black and white old classic movies I watched with Mamoo and Mom (Singing in the Rain); the black pixelated graphics of our first computer game, Oregon Trail; my beeper that I had in high school (ha!); the time Ryan found the lyrics I’d written out to Pearl Jam’s ‘Black’ and thought I was weird because he didn’t know they were lyrics; black and brown leather belt snaps that scared us when we got in trouble; the sound of the crow’s caw - still one of my favorite ‘peaceful’ sounds today; learning to type on the typewriter at Mom’s work and pressing the little clicking black keys
Black is real sensation, even if it is produced by entire absence of light. The sensation of black is distinctly different from the lack of all sensation.
- Hermann von Helmhoz
The black stories
I. Ghost encounters of the sock kind
Ryan and I spent many summer days at Mamaw and Papaw’s house while Dad slept at home from working the midnight shift and Mom was at work. Their house was our second home and most days, we had gotten into a predictable rhythm centered around shows - Mamaw and Papaw’s TV shows, the ones Ryan and I performed, and the ones from the unlikely performers.
In the mornings, stretched out on his favorite brown Lay-Z-boy recliner, Papaw would watch episodes of The Price is Right, Let’s Make a Deal, Wheel of Fortune, and (the $25,000) Pyramid. Ryan and I would tune in some, but mostly we’d be upstairs choreographing our next wrestling show featuring moves from Ric Flair, Macho Man and the Hulk. We’d later initiate a fake fight and spontaneously erupt into our performance, which almost always included a figure four leg lock that left one of us screaming “in pain”. Our goal was to upset Mamaw, “Ya’ll kids! Stop it,” and as she’d try to break us up (which, of course, we included that part in our choreography, too), we’d fight harder.
Lunch came early because after she fed us we knew our shenanigans wouldn’t get the attention they deserved; Mamaw’s soaps were on. She watched most of her soaps on a tiny, portable TV with a set of large, extended rabbit-ear antennae in the unfinished side of their basement, standing and working at her ironing board set up right in front of the washer and dryer. This area was unhospitable for us - perhaps that was on purpose - as the only light to work by shone from an exposed bulb light with a pull string too high up to reach, in addition to the natural light trickling in from a small, too-high-up-to-clean cobwebbed window, that sat just above ground level from outside of the house. Behind her work station, the shelves under the stairs, where light never reached, contained her many jars of pickled cucumbers in neat rows, beside her spirometer collection. I was always amused by her spirometers and wanted to play with them but never liked this dark part of their house. Every other corner I knew like it was my own.
In the afternoon, I’d sit criss-cross applesauce, or Indian-style as we called it back then, at the coffee table in front of the sofa, which sat a little ways behind Papaw on his Lay-Z-Boy. Out of the corner of my eye, a constant movement from his direction would occasionally steal my attention from my coloring books and crayons. The commotion? Two little black ghosts dancing.
On the foot-recliner part of the sofa, Papaw’s black dress-socked feet, crossed at the ankles, rubbed themselves like a cat massaging incessantly, whether he was awake or asleep, and always - it was never any different - the socks were stretched up about three inches past the top of his toes. With his figure-8-cat-massaging foot movement, this semi-sheered-from-stretching extra sock became a little dancing black ghost, two of them, with the toe imprints being their heads, dancing in their familiar pattern - never changing.
His favorite shows would be on in the background, like Little House on the Prairie, and I wondered how those little ghosts kept dancing while he slept like that, only suddenly stopping when one of his abrupt snores would erupt and he’d jump a little, suddenly aware his mouth was wide open, or to the sound of “Hoss” firing a gunshot on Bonanza.
I’d watch those little black ghosts frolic and tango in the safety of wholesome TV shows and coloring pages on cozy chenille Lay-Z-boys in the house that was my second home and wonder - maybe not all ghosts are scary.
II. Papaw smelled like, a poem
I am taking this next one in a different direction. The memories of Papaw’s slicked-back black hair (and tiny plastic black sticky combs) made me think of the smell of his Pomade, which led me to think of all of the smells associated with my Papaw, so I honored that and wrote this…
// Papaw smelled like //
a mix of menthol and musk,
manly;
minty mouthwash and toothpaste,
aftershave and cologne,
strong deodorant,
baby powder.
mints in his mouth and
shirt pocket,
that, when I hugged him,
had a hint of floral spray starch,
and
even the small slips of paper folded up in his Bible
smelled minty,
like Vicks Vapor rub or Pepto Bismol.
and sometimes, earth;
crisp, green scent of freshly snapped green beans,
dirt from digging potatoes,
and oh the tomato vines,
made his hands smell for an hour.
and leather belts,
leather Bibles,
old peppery, musty book pages
and newspaper
the smell of wood from real wood furniture;
papery pages from giant, yellow-covered phone books
and unfolded maps,
notecards and sermon notes of
strong ink, black and blue, smeared.
the metallic smell of garden tools
and his harmonica,
rusty, maybe.
tangy smell of buttermilk,
sweetness from chocolate cakes -
he loved his Little Debbies.
plaid jackets and
his beloved Lay-Z-boy
smelled like all of these things
combined together.
and then, best of all -
warmth,
love,
safety,
security,
truth,
wisdom,
patience,
joy.
they smell, too;
They smell like Papaw.
Your turn now
Thanks for reading! I hope it has inspired you to spend some time with your color memories. I’d love to read whatever you’d like to share. Please tag me in your socials or post below in comments! Happy treasure hunting!
I looked when He broke the sixth seal, and there was a great earthquake; and the sun became black as sackcloth made of hair, and the whole moon became like blood;
- Revelation 6:12