happy weekend

The forecast says snow/rain.*
Come rain or shine, spring is just around the corner. Have a happy weekend!

{images from a merry mishap}

* speaking of weather, have you seen feather?

thursday

routine |rou-tine| (noun): a sequence of events regularly followed.

Thursday |Thurs-day| (noun): the day of the week before Friday and following Wednesday.

sunshine. window. teeth. face. book. knees. pear. yogurt. laptop. email. let's go sailing. water. hair. clip. elastic. sweater. orange. buttons. boots. color box. lily allen. a falling through. car. pump. quarters. wash. clean. white. natalie. smile. baby. sounds. macadamia nut. store. paint. red. green. yellow. blue. house beautiful. car. phone call. roommate. plans. office. store. zoey deschanel. office. cut. samples. paper. pen. envelope. car. ingrid. mom. grey house. stephanie. red sweater. orange sweater. curb. colors. paint. stripes. mudroom. spring. sunglasses. boy. house. sale. sign. music. car. katie. nook. maren. hulu. andy. justin. sloth. laugh. brother. cafe rio. table. yellow. fork. knife. city park. joggers. jetta. nook. steph. bowling?. toast. table. visitor. james. papers. mission. kasi. guesses. white board. croatia. virginia. japan. puerto rico. thailand. iowa. text message. dark. lamp. plan. curtains. laugh. peek. ann frank. quote. car. ice cream. almond. hot. milk. boy. smile. sit. talk. laugh. text message. world record. broken. rich. park. car. corner. red chair. idol. norman. seinfeld. olympics. swimmer. laugh. steph. floor. oat bag. phone call. anne. baby. car. leigh. house. anne. elizabeth. grandpa. cinnamon bears. binky. little legs. blue shoe. pearls. pictures. envelope. home. stairs. boots. orange sweater. pjs. slippers. drink. faucet. face. teeth. email. elizabeth. felicity. noel. knees. book. nephi. journey. journal. doodle. list. switch. pillow. covers. sleep.

challenge |chal-lenge| (noun): a task or situation that tests someone's abilities.
Taking m.writes to heart.

booked

I booked my ticket today for Seattle. Al and I arrive within 30 minutes of each other and Les and I are on the same flight home. Can't wait for ferry boat rides, downtown Edmonds, the market, a Team 23 reunion, and the big celebration for Suz!
{Took this photo the last time I was there with Suz & Kellie}

locals take california

It's been fun to turn on OLN in the office and watch some cycling the past little while. Leipheimer (a native of California) and Zabriskie (a Utah biker-boy) took first and second at the Amgen ToC. See full story here. Can't wait for July! Astana looks strong, but I'll be honest, I sure miss Big George.

in an effort to save the unsavable

For Christmas my brother asked for a new cell phone. Since he'd been a good not-so-little-anymore boy, he got one. One of this techno-dude's requirements: space for more than 30 text messages. I felt his pain and when I was playing Santa's little helper, I made sure he got his wish. He now has a phone that holds up to 100 text messages in his in box. Mine, however, still holds a measly 30. Being the sentimental type, I have a hard time parting with some of the techy messages that come my way, like the lyrics to "Last Christmas I Gave You My Heart" which Mern sent several times this past Christmas season (the result of which was the incessant playing of those annoying lyrics in my head), or when K sends me messages about what Grace has said. I've taken to writing some of them down. Oh, and sometimes I text myself when I'm out and about and don't have a pen -- an address, a phone number, titles of books I want to read, etc. While this is well and good and resourceful, the direness of it all boots another saved fave out into cyber space. Alas, it must be so. Here are some favorites as of late.

To any of you who don't find your sentimental, sweet or silly message here, believe me, if it brought a smile to my face, odds are, it's been recorded, in pen, in my journal. Never fear. I heart you.

"I spy with my little eye man in kilt and chacos. Scary." (Steph)

"I'd rather live in his world than without him in mine." (Bibbers. Sometimes we send lyrics back and forth to each other. It's a fun game. This, if you don't already know, is from Midnight Train to Georgia.)

"I love Ben. Whenever he comes on the screen it's like...my future." (Liv)

"T dash dash dash Mulcahy." (Me, to send later to E, which I haven't. So E, that's for you. Love me.)
"Happy Love Day! I love you! xoxo." (Anonymous, to you. Not me. Ha!)

"Did he say it's supposed to feel like a bag of worms?" (Mern)

"And to you peace, goodwill and men. Sweet dreams." (O and E)

"Why must you do all the fun things while I'm gone? Grr face! What did u talk about? How old are they? Were their gfs there? Huh huh huh?" (Mern)

"You are my hero! Or 409 is. Die mother bleepers die!" (The Mernenator. This was in response to my "VICTORY!" text about another spidee who had begun the ascent up our stairs. At our house we kill spiders with 409. It's mean. But spiders are meaner. The meanest, actually. And, it makes the house smell clean, which can sometimes be a pleasant false sense of accomplishment.)

"Your just so dumb your just so dumb your just so dumb dumb dumb." (The Chard. I deserved it and he deserved the grammar lesson I sent back, via text.)

"Well, stick it back to the man. West side! Weirdo." (The Sistah)

Happy Weekend

{image from here}

Of Midas and Men

There are people in Life who make the world better just by being in it. Those who beautify their surroundings by breathing; a Midas touch via an exhale. They blow their bits of gold about, leaving a veritable sheen on everyone they've come in contact with, leaving all feeling better about themselves and the setting they find themselves in. Hope in humanity hovers about the air. You know it when you meet them: It's as if light seeps through their multifaceted layers of authenticity. Suddenly they're the most interesting person you've ever met. (The fact that they are wearing a pin-striped suit only intensifies the intrigue). You want to know everything about them. Where they've been and where they're going and where did they get such a great looking suit? You want to sit and talk until sun-up and then go get breakfast. And, if you had your choice, breakfast would be followed by an early lunch, and, heck why not dinner while you're at it. You'd end the day exploring the shelves of an independent bookstore or local art gallery*.

So this outstandingly authentic person has entered the scene of your Life; a bonafide character in the plot. With their golden shoes they've waltzed in and stolen the show. And, in all their waltzing, they've left flecks of glitter on the black stage floor. This sheen, this residual residue makes you feel inadequate in a good way; an inspired way. You're unboxing art history books and brushing up on your Botticelli. You want to reach inside the files of your head at those history facts from college, the ones long-lost between invoices and weekend plans and the name of that fashion blog your roommate told you about. You want to explore. To study. To learn and re-learn. To start at the Genesis of the world and study the succession of the human ages. To know your Greek Mythology so in case he asks, you could reply that Midas is the son of Gordias and, if you're talking alchemy, (which you might) the process of turning something into gold is called chrysopoeia.

What of these potential heroes who sing Homeric Hymns, hum Copeland, and know the birthplace of Ben Harper?** These perfect partners for Trivial Pursuit. What to do with the good-as-gold guys in navy pinstripes and great ties? Truthfully, motivation should come from within. You shouldn't reach for your history of architecture notes just for a guy. Do it because you've forgotten the architect of Hardwick Hall and the story behind Christopher Wren and Inigo Jones. Study up. Read. Write. Challenge yourself, and, hopefully, between the lines of it all, you'll inspire someone else to do the same.


*(So maybe that's my perfect day with someone I find ridiculously and endlessly interesting. Yours may be hiking to the beloved Living Room in the foothills, driving to fish on the Provo River and making your own fire using flint and steel to roast those Rainbows. (Not the sandals.) Let's just say up-front, while I'm not totally against that, I've spent a lot more time with piles of books as high as my thighs than I have thigh-high in water, waiting for a bite.)

**L, that's a shout out to you and yours.

avventura

Words fail at parting moments; when a habitual see-you-soon cannot be uttered. For soon it won't be; it can't be. We lie to ourselves and let it escape our lips anyway, stammering I-love-you's, good-lucks and those see-you-soon's. Emotions stir. Happiness and sadness merge, and our hearts traverse untraveled territory for a time. Tears slide down cheeks, leaving tracks which sting. A story is brought back into memory's view by tellers around the table and smiles curl across faces. Excitement dances amid sentiment when final hugs are given (again) and envelopes are passed from one hand to another. Then, the door shuts and the night is still.

There cannot be progress without change and sometimes change means parting ways and uttering false see-you-soon's, fingers crossed it goes faster than anticipated.

Ciao. Ti amo, A.

black and white

There is a scene in Sabrina where Julia Ormond is on-site at a photo shoot right in front of the Eiffel Tower. It's raining, and the two models are busy turning their heads this way and that, staring dramatically back at the camera. Sabrina (Ormond) walks into the frame. She loosens her grip on a red scarf, letting it trickle down from her finger tips until it gathers like a pool on the plaza. The scarf stays in the shot, the only color to the backdrop in the actual movie and in the photo shoot, on a dreary Paris day.

This morning I met with S to talk about paint colors. They've been living in this gorgeous house for almost a year. I was dying to go inside the minute I noticed the house from the main road. The woodwork is to die for, the floor plan divine and the master suite?! Let's just say I wish they'd sublet. I'd make myself at home in the half bath just off the kitchen. One of the first things she said to me when I walked in was, "So. Much. White." She's right. The previous owner (and builder) painted the walls a boney white, which is not a far cry from the color of the woodwork throughout the rest of the house. We stood in the space for a long while, both splashing ideas across the white canvas. As time went by, my eyes grew weary.

In design school they cautioned us to not go overboard with either color or pattern; that in all the busyness, the eye needs somewhere to rest. It was interesting though, that today, in the absence of color, my eyes were probing for any semblance of pigment: S's red purse on the black counter top. Her daughter's orange shoes in the hallway. A little boy's green jacket on a hook in the mudroom. (I'm not saying this family lives in a colorless world. That day in and day out they go around dressed in all-white, reenacting the scene from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory when Mike TV shrinks the size of a Wonka Bar. They've got colorful clothes, colorful bedspreads, etc. The bare bones of the house, however, are literally without color and that's what we're working on. That's where the fun begins).

Just off the dining room, opposite two columns, hangs a large oil painting. As we stood between the living room and dining room, each utilizing a pillar as a headrest, we caught up on things other than color and design. As we chatted in the white hallway, my eyes drifted in all the unbusyness. I needed color. Saturation. Tone. I found myself breaking eye-contact to look at the painting which helped me keep my color composure. I left with lots of ideas and S is on the hunt for more than enough paint chips for our house-sized canvas.

When N and I discuss kitchens, we always advise white. White cabinetry. White trim. White marble. It's fresh. It's crisp. It's timeless. And, I suppose it's because white is color's playground. Pattern, texture, and hue can inch furtively up to it and burst out bold and white's no worse for the wear. The future of the P's house looks bright. My paint decks are fanned and the sky's the limit!

200 Years

With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation's wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.
|2nd Inaugural|

I am not bound to win, but I am bound to be true. I am not bound to succeed, but I am bound to live by the light that I have.

Don't worry when you are not recognized, but strive to be worthy of recognition.

Every man is said to have his peculiar ambition. Whether it be true or not, I can say for one that I have no other so great as that of being truly esteemed of my fellow men, by rendering myself worthy of their esteem.

Die when I may, I want it said by those who knew me best that I always plucked a thistle and planted a flower where I thought a flower would grow.

|Abraham Lincoln|

“[Lincoln was] a Christ in miniature, bigger than his country—bigger than all the Presidents together. Why? Because he loved his enemies as himself.” *
|Leo Tolstoy|

*Thank you, Amy, for this quote.

take heart

'Tis the week of love, you know. I saw a boy on a bike today. He was riding with only one hand on his handlebars. He had a green beanie atop his head and, in his left hand he balanced a bouquet of flowers. I wanted to turn and follow him to see whose day he was about to make. It made my day to see him. To know there is love like that out there. The kind of love that makes someone ride one-handed, through snow, to deliver flowers wrapped in newsprint in the middle of the day. Take time to notice love in the everyday; the ordinary. In the small things like boys on bikes and girls skipping off to school in heart-covered socks. In the candy heart luv ya babes and the call me's. Spread the love.

apples

There is a painting at a local gallery that I dream about. It's of apples on a branch against a blue sky. I've never seen colors like that. Red fades to pink which melts into white which turns into yellow, all against the backdrop of the bluest day any orchard has ever seen. I'd plan a whole room around those colors. Every so often I drop by to see if it has sold. The gallery owner rotates its spot, making space for new paintings by shuffling the old. A few days ago I stopped in. The apples had moved up high on the wall, like the ceiling is the tip top of the tree and the painting is hanging from one of the branches. Maybe no one will notice it there. Maybe I'll win the lottery. Maybe one day I'll walk through those doors and say I'd like to purchase that painting, please. The owner will know exactly which one I mean. The one you come to visit? You mean, you actually want to take it home? Yes, I'll say. He'll wrap the apples in brown paper, covering the colors for a short time, until, like the skin of an apple, I can peel off the paper and hang it on my wall.

Coldplay: "Substitute Teaching" for Bono

{image via Heather Armstrong}

"Whatever you do, do it enthusiastically..."

In case you missed Chris Martin's interview on 60 Minutes Sunday night, see it here. (There is a short ad before the video starts. Be patient. It's well worth it). I love him. Chris Martin, that is.

*Can I just give my roommates another shout-out? How great are they for surprising me with Coldplay tickets for my birthday?! Best. Roommates. Ever.

T-squares and X-Acto knives

I used the wander the basement of the BYU bookstore. I deemed it "The Happiest Place on Earth," and no, that had nothing to do with the fact that it was in Provo. You see, the basement is filled with floor-to-ceiling cabinets full of foam core and mat board, sheets of vellum, and slots of ZIG rolling writer felt tip pens; an artist's heaven. I reveled in the fact that I rarely had to wait in long bookstore lines the first few days of school and that instead of buying books, I got to buy colored pencils and architects scales.

Carrying a drawing board to my first drafting class proved to be quite cumbersome, as I lived in the furthest possible apartment from the design building. However, it did come in handy one evening around sundown when the National Anthem began to play. Just as the campus quieted, hands were placed over hearts, and all was still. I wasn't. I couldn't be. I was late and so was my assignment. As walking is frowned upon (anything except standing in place facing the flag pole in Brigham's Square is considered unpatriotic) I used my drawing board to shield my face from the embarrassment of scuttling off to class while the other coeds watched ramparts gallantly streaming.

When I worked for Paul the summer before design school, he pulled out his Prismas and said, "At school they're going to want you to do this on the computer. Everybody uses a computer. Handwork is a lost art." I looked at his immaculate rendering. I thought of Grandpa and his perfect drafting lettering on display at the School of Architecture at the University of Utah. Then and there I was determined not to succumb. Sure, it took longer, but to this day, I love rolling tracing paper down onto my drafting desk. I am creating something. There is a piece of me on the paper, when pen hits the page, rather than with the click of a mouse. Nothing beats an actual drawing board and the smell of a fresh felt tip pen ready for vellum and a straightedge.

Here's an excerpt of an article from The NY Times about the lost art of the T-square, for those of you who, like me, miss the drawing board.

The technology we have at our disposal is dazzling, and our efficiency is such that clients expect fast solutions and nearly instantaneous updates. We are proud to deliver them. Still, I wonder if we haven’t lost something in the process: the deliberation that comes with a slower pace, the attention to detail required when mistakes can’t be undone with the click of a mouse. Younger designers hearing me talk this way react as if I’m getting sentimental about the days when we all used to churn our own butter. Not wanting to be dismissed as a Luddite, I keep quiet about these things. Still, I keep one old tool at my desk: my T square. I use it to scratch my back.

From: Drawing Board to the Desktop: A Designer's Path, by Michael Bierut

Universe in a Red Bag

I stepped out onto 25th Street, between 5th and 6th Avenue, and in a very Martha Takes on Manhattan attitude, my morning stride matched those of the other native New Yorkers. I was determined to blend in; to seem as if I knew exactly where I was going. I was surrounded by people getting their morning groove on, ipod earbuds shoved in their ears to drown out the sounds of the city. I could have joined them. But this trip I knew I'd spend a lot more time on foot than the last, and I wanted to hear and see it all. I had everything I needed in my bag (ipod included). K helped me plot out a path the night before. I was to head straight down 5th until I reached Union Square.

* * *
In my visits to the City, I've noticed that everyone carries large bags. Why? Because they have to be prepared for anything. A last-minute dinner date, an unexpected downpour, sore feet after a long day on Wall Street, an extra bone for their little dog (who fits in their bag) a coat in case the wind changes, an ipod, a laptop, clothes for the gym, a good book for the subway...New Yorkers, for the most part, are prepared for anything. I've seen ladies pull full wardrobe changes out of their bags. By the time the Subway stops on Broadway and 42nd Street, they're all dolled up and ready for a night out on the town.

There is a scene in a less than stellar chick flick where the two main characters (guy and girl) are sitting on a bench. Guy has just gotten himself into a bit of a situation and girl comes to his rescue. Girl pulls one thing after another out of her bag, all of which aid in the rescuing of said guy. In what could be considered one of the cheesiest exchanges in the whole movie, (if not in all of Chick Flickdom) guy asks girl, "What else do you have in there?" The response, which inevitably makes me want to throw up each time I hear it, "My universe."

* * *

I made it down to Union Square on my own, and, in one of my dumber moments, purchased books for my family at the beginning of what I knew was going to be a long walking day. I figured I'd lug the books around until we braked for lunch, at which point I could switch my satchels at K's place before the afternoon adventures commenced. The rally spot was Whole Foods. The only thing on our list: organic marshmallows. Both practical and delicious. They wouldn't add any heft to my hauling. K would meet me there after her morning of work. I'd tell her all the things I'd seen; all my favorite spots.

I forgot to mention that in a moment of utter ignorance, I brought THE most impractical bag ever known to (wo)Man. It was big, therefore, I thought it was the perfect candidate for the job of towing things to and fro as K and I traipsed up and down Manhattan. When I saw it in a store at home, it had a certain je ne sais quoi about it, and, with a New York state in mind, I thought I'd bring it along and try my hat at the whole avant garde thing. So, I bit the bullet and bought the bag. Darling, yes. Practical, no. The straps slid off my shoulders, the cute flower on the outside kept catching on my sleeve. By the time I lugged my books seven blocks, I was through.

At the bottom of Union Square, near Whole Foods, I spotted it: Filene's Basement. Therein lied my salvation. I walked in, perused their purses and grabbed a big black one off the hook. Behind the black bag was a red bag. Red. I quickly switched the two, and bought the bargain bag (Thank you Filene, your Basement -- which really isn't a basement at all. I took two escalators to get there, and your bottom-line prices). I told the lady, no, I didn't want a bag for my bag and hurried out to the lobby where I spilled all contents of my bag(s) onto the tile floor between Filene's Basement and DSW. The Red Bag was a smash hit from the beginning, fitting all the contents of my old bag, a new pair of shoes from DSW (turns out my sensible shoes weren't so sensible) an umbrella, my books (still a dumb idea, even if I found a Central Park Running Guide Dad just had to have for his next trip to the City) and all other necessary contents for a City Girl on the go. The shiny redness of it all helped, too. And the patent-leather (Fake. We're talking Filene's Basement, folks) would be practical for those on-the-spot New York down pours, rain pelts sliding off the patent.

The bag traveled with me for the next nine days. It's contents grew by the day, as did the grooves in my shoulders. But, the straps stayed in place, and everywhere I went the people did shout, "Where oh where did you get that bag?!" New York people. The very Avant Garde themselves! I wanted to say I found it on sale at Barney's to send a mad dash of female shoppers in a frenzy, but instead I said proudly, a little shop at Union Square called Filene's. Back here at home, even a year and a half later, I say, "Filene's Basement in New York." "You're kidding?!" is the typical reaction. "Forty bucks," I say. Oohs and aahs follow.

So, in what was a moment of utter frustration and unpreparedness, I bought what I thought was a bag to fit the bill. Really, what I bought was a sense of self. That red bag has become my signature. I take it where ever I go and when I arrive, I put whatever I find inside. The straps are fraying, the zipper on the inside is becoming loose, and, when the seasons change (patent ain't so hot for summer, or so I'm told) I nearly cry when as it is laid to hibernate for the summer months. I'm utterly amazed at what I find when I empty it: too many lip glosses to count, receipts, business cards, glucose tablets, tiny notebooks, medium-sized notebooks, graph paper, the latest read, lots of change. Just the other day someone asked if anyone had a pen. I quickly opened my red bag, showed off my collection and asked, "Which kind?" It was a felt tip that did the trick. I guess you could say that bag contains my universe. But, you won't ever hear me admit that out loud, at least not to a guy.

we built this city

For those who heart NY. Full article here.

{Thanks, Miss Taza of rockstar diaries for the referral}

Hoo Ray! It's her Birth Day!

It's Steph's birthday today. How lucky am I to have Steph as a roommate? SO lucky. She leaves messages on my phone like, "Hi, it's estephania. I miss your face," and "My heart hurts a little bit cause you're not here." She sings in an opera voice at any given moment just because. She says fantastic and "I am such a big fan of you." She records movies on my camera for me to find days later. (And sometimes in those movies she's wearing other people's pajamas). She goes to the library. She walks to the grocery store. She likes to shop at REI and Patagonia (which she calls the Pataguch) and owns more down coats than anyone else I know. Once, just for fun, she put all of them on at once. And her vests, too. (We took pictures). She taught me that all men look better in Carhartts and has a heart of gold. She kayaks. She skiis. She bikes. She hikes. Her room is decorated with sleeping bags, helmets, camelbacks and rocks from places she's been. It's basically a mini REI. She's positive. If the world was ending, I'd want Steph by my side. I think she'd say something like, "Isn't this fabulous?!" and then we'd go hide in her sleeping bags and put on her helmets until things calmed down. She makes her own jewelry and just about anything else you can think up. Micheal's is her playground. She taught me how to crochet (but I think I forgot). She LOVES Halloween. As in, think of a person you know that LOVES Halloween. Times it by a million. And add 500. That's Steph. She calls me Marf. She helps people - all kinds of people. Strangers. Patients. Friends. She makes hard things easier. She gets the job done. She is good and smart and spiritual and helps me talk through things until they make sense. She adds "The" to every place we like to go. It's The Red Butte. Porc-The-Pine. The Dodes. The Teej. The Blue Plate. She can throw a killer dance party. She likes trucks as much as I do. And men in trucks. Sometimes we borrow her dad's truck (Black Thunder) and drive places in it. She likes orange and green and snowflakes. She is faithful. She is loyal. She does what is right. She makes everything more fun. We laugh a lot. (Sometimes we laugh when we shouldn't. Like at church.) She is a good aunt. She is a good sister. She is a good daughter. She is the best roommate.
Loves! Happy Birthday, Stepholah!

Sunday Sidelines

*Please pardon this location post, but it's more for memory-sake than anything else. Proceed...

S and I were seated at the table the other night. We passed papers back and forth. Post-its. Knots, too. Notes from long ago. It was a quiet Sunday night spent reflecting and talking about Life; something that long table at The Nook seems to render on a regular basis.

And then...out of nowhere...PINK! So unabashed. So bold. And an uproar from where we sat; laughter that couldn't be contained. Through the uproar I said something to S. In effect it was this: "You know those girls you admired when you were younger; the ones in their late twenties; Still single, with great jobs and lots of shoes? The girls living in cute houses who threw dinner parties, had plenty of friends and enough great guys to go around? Sometimes I look at my life and think, So this is what life looks like from here? From the spot I once wished to be? This is what SB and KC were doing all those years?" I looked at the pink which was still barefaced (we were still laughing) and then at S and said, "Do you think we're like them?" Taking the situation at hand into consideration, her reply (in all honesty) was, "Yes. But we're so much cooler." Here's to hoping, huh?

walkabout

Our feet traced familiar pavement, yet we stepped to a new tune. I divvied up the peanut M&Ms. Between red, orange, brown, yellow, and green, we chatted with wintry-pink cheeks and all the hopes of Spring. I was brought up to speed (amidst much oohing and ahhing and whispers of destino!) I love that place. I love that girl.

Confession

I miss the Pie Maker.

Right on Hue

Someone once told me that there is no such thing as color memory. Semester after semester of color theory classes, and my fair share of time with a paint deck lead me to believe otherwise. Once I bet a co-worker I could name the existing paint on the wall at a client's house. We went back the next day. I won. The chip matched, dead on. Just as a scent or song cue the brain to scan memory files and finger through favorite experiences, so color does for me. Every time I hear Yellow by Coldplay, I think of this. I'm pretty sure that memory is there to stay.

It's popping up all over. I've read it on fashion blogs and in newspaper articles. Yellow is the color of 2009. Pantone says so and so it goes. I bought a yellow sweater many months ago without the slightest clue I was in the fashion-know. I donned my yellow sweater at church a few weeks ago. The sunshiney hue made me happy. It makes me think of Aunt B. Of her yellow trellis wallpaper in the kitchen nook, and her yellow gardening clogs just inside the back door. Of yellow Heller plates. Yellow crocuses in Grandpa's garden next to the red brick driveway. I think of the painting of the corn which hangs in Grandma and Grandpa's house, an homage to their years in Iowa. The yellow dress in A Young Girl Reading by Fragonard. Van Gogh's yellow in Bedroom in Arles. I love Van Gogh yellow: Yellow sunflowers. Yellow wheat fields. Yellow swirling stars. Coldplay yellow is different, but noteworthy nonetheless.