Roy Roger’s Boots
You can call me brown, if you must, but I’m not your run-of-the-mill beige. For many months, my temporary home has been this store shelf among the kaleidoscope of Crayola artist chalk, Crayola sidewalk chalk, washable window crayons, and Crayola markers. Here, I nestle inside my box with its familiar wax and cardboard scent, waiting for someone to adopt me.
I am only one of 64 colors in this super-sized traditional Crayola assortment, but I am her favorite. You know how I can tell? As soon as we get to her house, she opens my box and impatiently fingers through the neat rows. When she comes to me, she stops at the top of my cylinder and slowly pulls me from the box. She holds me up to the light to read my label and says “Burnt Sienna” and then, “Eureka.”
I’m a muted red-brown sort of guy. I’m not the color of brick, cherry, or crimson or of buff, tan or chestnut. She tells me I’m a shade of rust with a quick kiss of orange. She then tells me I’ve brought out her childhood memories and they are floating about us, like a Technicolor 3-D movie. And that I was there, too. “You were the color my sister Pat and I would always fight over,” she said.
“You are the perfect shade to define the mesas, dry desert sand, and are the exact color of Roy Rogers’ leather cowboy boots,” she said. “And, you are all mine.”