I grew up in a green world. Our house was painted a milky green; our family car, a Galaxy, was green; our interior walls were painted green; our kitchen wallpaper was a green print on a white background, and the floor tiles in our garage converted-to-a-den were dark green. I think this was due to my parents’ embracing my mother’s Irish heritage and her 8 sibling clan of McConnells. My father was not as celebratory about his own Slavic background, and instead spent much time working on my mother’s family tree. Of course, he did get to add his personal touch to the décor. The house was awash with gold eagle electrical switchplates and Revolutionary War Fife & Drum Corps upholstery. No, Better Homes and Gardens was not knocking on our door.
In typical adolescent fashion, I rebelled against the green. I was absolutely entranced by our next door neighbor’s garage, which was painted a hot, electric pink ( I think these were the “mod” color descriptions from the 70’s). I tried to replicate the color in my bedroom. The pink was not quite “hot” enough, so I painted a giant flower shaped starburst on one wall, using leftover paint from previous home improvement projects. I lived with that for a few years, then decided it was too “girly” for me, and after serious contemplation, found my new theme: Jungle Room. I convinced my parents to purchase wall to wall carpeting in a multi colored pile that I thought was perfect for a jungle floor. (My parents could not understand why I wanted to cover up their beautiful hardwood flooring but I was quite stubborn and wanted the opposite of what they wanted – no matter what it was, even if I didn’t really want it.) I ditched my twin beds, convinced my mother I needed a new bed, got a day bed that I covered with a tiger print blanket, dragged an unused loveseat from the garage up the stairs to my room and covered that Fife and Drum print with another tiger print blanket, glued zebra print wrapping paper on my closet doors, tacked up a gorgeous tapestry of lions in the jungle that my sister had given me, and hung a golden spun glass globe light from a chain on the ceiling. The light twirled in the slightest breeze (or at the softest touch) and cast eerie undulating shadows on the walls. Oh, the walls? Green. But not my parents’ green. A deep, dark, forest green. A green that would cause my father much distress years later after I moved out and he had to repaint the room, but maybe not as much stress as trying to unglue the wrapping paper from my closet doors. I thought it was the Coolest. Room. Ever. My room was at the end of the hallway, and if you stood at the bottom of the stairs between the living room and the kitchen, you could see inside. Whenever my parents had company, I would open my door, give my globe light a spin, and wait for “oohs” and “aahs”. My parents were not as besotted with my room as I was, and went out of their way to CLOSE my bedroom door so no one would see what I had done.
And now, over 30 years later, we have moved into a new house. I was quite taken with the interior and the lanai, but didn't give much thought to the exterior color. I mean, I did comprehend enough to realize the house was green, but I didn’t overthink it. Now, every time we pull up to this house, I stop and think to myself, “is this house the same freaking color as 1314 Willow Drive??”
What do you think?
