I make a concession mid-October through Thanksgiving, a compromise for a man who wishes he could bring back the seventies and the orange and plaid love seat he had when we met, who mourns every dry Summer that leads to brown Autumn.
I was in Marching Band in high school with a flute. Okay, piccolo, and me like the calf born with a fifth leg who couldn’t march to a 4/4 beat. The colors – orange and black, perpetual Halloween, mutant bee. I started ditching practice and football games. The trauma reignited when I moved to a college town that lives for football, its colors – orange and black.
I will celebrate orange six weeks of the year. Rust counts as orange. No? Alright, so, I put up black cats and black owls, the latter looking at least somewhat stately, in orange football sweaters, crows in orange hats, witches. Also in orange. And yes, there are pumpkins.