Orange You Glad?

"Blaze orange, really?" Everyone expresses surprise at my choice of paint. I was ten then, and autumn's palette tantalized my vision. "Pick one" was my parents' requirement; it could not be a collage. Heatless, too, I reasoned this hue would warm my body and soul in winter.

Childhood passed, and college, too. I moved out, married, the room no longer mine. My blaze orange got buried by lolling lavender. On our honeymoon visit, in the middle of the night, we heard the scream of the alarm. Dazed and groggy from deep sleep, dressed hastily, stumbled through thick smoke, down the stairs, out the front door to fill our lungs with fresh spring air, where we waited for help and shivered in dewy dampness.

Dad emerged from the kitchen, fire extinguisher in hand. "Never did get this thing to work," he related calmly, "but it looks like we're not going to have a fire tonight."

"That's good," we say.

"Yes, we were pleased."

The chimney fire burned itself out before the trucks arrived, but the stench and aftertaste in our months remained for days. Only my room escaped smoke, for I had recalled the lesson of my youth: Close the door when leaving a room during a fire to reduce smoke damage. Mack 1, Smoke 0.

They were pleased. Not pleased enough to leave my precious walls blaze orange, but pleased.