Ode to Orange

He loved orange. Halloween orange and black, Houston Astros orange and blue, and his very own design of his auto parts store’s brand: Hazel & Alley orange with black-and-white accents.

I hated orange, thought it was tacky and garish. But I loved him with all my heart and soul. He was my anchor, my Yoda, the center of my world. And then suddenly he was gone, far too soon, without enough warning or planning or understanding, and in a way that still feels wrong and unfair and almost cruel. That’s the wound that never heals, so I park that piece away and try to act like it doesn’t matter. But it does.

Here’s the stark reality of living with grief: Time does not heal. The passage of time and the experience of growing older crowd many new things into our lives. It gets a bit easier to focus on life while we carry this burden of loss, but it never goes away. Even after more than two decades.

After my father died, a handwritten message in a sympathy card helped more than anything else. It said, “As long as you honor your father by keeping him in your heart and living your life the way he did, he will never truly be gone.”

My father was all these things—abundant generosity, kindness and patience, a deeply loving and joyful spirit, and immensely courageous and resilient. He triumphed over cancer and successfully emerged from the most difficult period our family ever experienced—the bankruptcy of our foundation, our family business. He fiercely believed in me and relished in my accomplishments as he did for his two granddaughters. He was a strong supporter of women as leaders long before it was fashionable.

He loved to fish, cook Sunday-morning breakfast for the entire extended family, and hit the road in his white Suburban with my mother and his little miniature schnauzer, Fritz, along for the ride, to places often visited or those never seen. He loved people, all people—he was the endless extrovert to my extreme introvert. He loved my mother more than any of us could ever have known, and he tried desperately to take good care of her to the bitter end of his own life.

I miss him. I miss him. I miss him, still.

How well have I done after all these years in living my life as he did? I am nowhere near as generous. I can be kind in my own way but of course not as vigorously as he was. I like some people, but my introvert self will not allow me to love all people as boisterously as he did. I have, however, tried to embrace the joy in everyday, simple things.

A short time ago a very observant neighbor was admiring my recent updates in décor and made a startling comment. “Someone in this house must love the color orange.” I had, apparently somewhat unconsciously, incorporated this vibrant color in hand towels and rugs and even the color of my powder room walls. I had been outed.

I love orange. It decorates my life and makes me smile, bright and happy and full of promise. It is symbolic of the very essence of my father’s spirit—loving life, grateful and hopeful, always looking forward.

Thank you, Daddy, for so many things, but most of all… for the joy.