Colorful
When my son Patrick was a wee sprat, he had a thing about the color red. Not sure how or why it stimulated his young motherboard, but it did. One time in a food court at the local shopping mall, he spotted a woman all fancied up wearing a bright red dress. He responded by singing to her at the top of his lungs from his high chair. I seem to remember that she smiled—and then promptly left.
Another time, Carla took Patrick with her to the local Y. In the women’s locker room, he spotted a pair of red panties on a bench and took off with them, prompting the owner to cry out “little boy, come back!”
Patrick eventually grew out of his fixation with the color red. But it makes me think about how strongly we can react to certain colors, and how powerful symbolism and meaning in color can be. With that, here are three colors that had special meaning for me in the past. And there’s no better color to start with than red.
El lobo es rojo
I played in marching band throughout high school and the first two years of college. The experience was a combination of indentured servitude with a tradition dating to ancient military campaigns. Back then, the legions marching into battle would have a lucky group of individuals out front banging on drums and blaring away on cow horns to supposedly scare the opposition. In truth, those guys were the first ones taken out by the enemy. Talk about a beat gig.
Marching band practice in high school started at 7:00 AM sharp. Mind you football season went late into the fall and didn’t finish up until Thanksgiving weekend. By that time, Mr. Frosty was in residence and early mornings were frigid. Although I didn’t have the wherewithal then, I would go on to buy an expensive plastic-rimmed mouthpiece for college marching band. That’s because a regular mouthpiece could get so cold it would stick to your face.
The Del Norte High Knights marching band uniforms were of the traditional ilk. Bullet-proof shiny black outfits with the requisite turquoise and silver knight’s head on the chest. Also, a tall faux-furry grand Poohbah hat that one had to strap tight under the chin to prevent it from sliding or falling off. At least the outfit was in the typical somber black favored by most marching bands of the time. But when I went to the University of New Mexico (U.N.M.), the marching band uniforms were something else entirely.
At UNM, the indentured servitude concept came to the fore. Sure, we were paid $250 for the semester. But I think someone did the math one time and it came out to $0.75 an hour. Otherwise, the uniforms were the essence of early 70s fashion, meaning they were tacky beyond all reason. Think Pat Boone on a bender. I say that because most of the uniform for the UNM marching Lobos was white: white shirt, white pants, white socks, and white shoes (the Pat Boone factor). But the pièce de résistance was that the blazer was red. Not only that—and hold on to your britches—the hat was a red bowler.
I’m not sure who was responsible for this reprehensible fashion statement. Had we been seen as a group in certain war-torn locales, we would have been shot on sight. Whatever the case, I donned the red and white Lobo marching band outfit for all the home games in 1973 and 1974. The football team those years didn’t do us any favors, as they were the doormat of what was then the Western Athletic Conference. In fact, we lost a home game the second year to one of the Arizona schools 75-14. The halftime score when we went down to the field to get ready for our routine was already 59-0.
One final note is that I’ve never been able to locate any color photos of me wearing the appalling red and white UNM marching band uniform. Maybe that’s for the best. After all, if you’re going to be a human peacock, maybe there shouldn’t be a public record. And some things are best kept in the darkness of the past.
Baskin Robbins Daiquiri Ice
When I was a kid, any trip to get some kind of treat was a big deal. We had no money then, and my mom did all she could to feed the troops on a limited budget. Rare was the time we had sweets at home. If we did have ice cream, it was ice milk, which is about as lame as frozen desserts get. But there were times when my dad Martin must have been flush. Then we loaded up the VW van and headed to a Baskin Robbins.
The store was always a chaotic scene with parents and their kids all trying to make up their minds about which of the 31 flavors to order. Initially, I went for some form of chocolate, it being the holy grail of the food world. Then one time my inquisitive young mind spotted the bright other-worldly color of Daiquiri Ice. Even then, my tastes drifted towards the quasi-exotic. And what more exotic than to order sorbet that was named after an adult cocktail, and a cocktail from exotic climes to boot. What with palm trees, sunny beaches (a joke there), and tanned girls frolicking in skimpy bathing attire. Yes, even as a young lad, the force was strong.
I remember trying the Daiquiri Ice for the first time and it tasting weird enough that I wasn’t sure I liked it. But then one of my siblings asked how it was. I responded that it was delicious, of course. I’m sure they were impressed by my eclectic taste. Actually, they probably thought I was a rube.
After that, I took a shine to Daiquiri Ice and ordered it every time we went to Baskin Robbins. Now, looking at the photo above, the color is vaguely alarming and reminiscent of the industrial chemical complex. Also, I’ve never been a fan of actual Daiquiri cocktails. But maybe my first foray into unusual ice cream was an early sign of what would become a lifelong penchant for exotic food and drink ending with Fernet Branca. Now there’s a flavor Baskin Robbins should consider.
Nacho Cheese turtleneck
My first actual job was chopping cotton with my older brother Tom on my Grandma Wade’s farm in South Texas the summer after 8th grade. I’m not sure who came up with the brilliant idea, but it was decided to keep the two of us occupied for the week by having us work with the Mexican crew in the field. We were paid the going wage of $12 a day, or $60 for the week. For the record, no one thought we’d last a day. Can’t say as I blame them as we were two young skinny white pieces of sushi who would just try to keep up with seasonal crew who had mastered the art of working just fast enough in the heat and humidity.
I don’t remember much about the first day of incessant hoeing of weeds in the furrows between rows of cotton plants. Memory serves that both Tom and I got sunburned. No surprise. However, the amazing thing was that we lasted all day. Not only that, we would go on to work the entire week, beating all odds.
The good news of course was that I had $60 cold cash in my pocket when we went home to New Mexico. The bad news was that Mom said a majority of it had to be spent on clothes for the coming school year. So I reluctantly went with her to Sears and bought new jeans, T-shirts, underwear, and socks. But I had just enough cash left over for one frivolous purchase. And it being 1969 and the height of groovy-hippie-free love, I decided on a turtleneck sweater. This after seeing Peter Tork of the Monkees sporting a turtleneck on one of the TV show episodes.
The only thing was a limited choice of turtleneck sweaters at Sears in July. Which makes perfect sense if you think about it. Sweaters in the heat of July vs. swimwear. Regardless, I picked out the boldest color I could find, no doubt in an effort to make some kind of misguided fashion statement. In truth, I looked more like someone who got dressed in the dark. But the color I chose for my fuzzy turtleneck sweater was a shade of yellow-orange, not unlike Nacho Cheese-flavored Doritos.
I remember Mom looking at me and saying, “Really? You want this color?”
I said yes, using the same logic that made me try Daiquiri Ice.
I can’t remember what my siblings thought of my latest fashion acquisition, but I do remember the first time I wore it. It was some kind of special afternoon mass at church. Mom said we all had to go and for us to dress up. And dress up I did, sporting new khaki pants and the Nacho Cheese turtleneck. Not only that, but I somehow found a medallion to wear as a finishing touch. The result must have been one of those “worst of times best of times” things.
Reaction from my siblings ranged from snorts to outright guffaws. All of which made me double down on my choice of attire. But it did introduce doubt, so that by the time we got to church I was beyond conscious of my outfit. Thankfully, seasonality saved the day. Even with the AC on full blast in the sanctuary, my fuzzy turtleneck proved to be too hot to wear. Within 30 minutes, it was on my lap along with the medallion, revealing the old beater T-shirt I’d worn underneath.
Much to her credit, Mom never mentioned the turtleneck. She didn’t have to because I’m reasonably sure I never wore it again. I also can’t remember what happened to it. As before, there are no photos of me wearing it. Which is sad in a way. I think if you’re going to do something questionable/in poor taste/regrettable, you need to do it when you’re young. Otherwise, time and gravity will take their toll, and your fashion choices will land you in the background as intended. But more than anything, you’ll learn that Nacho Cheese is for eating and not wearing. That’s how it should be.
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