The Color Of Clay

I started my walk just as the dawning light was beginning to descend into the canyon. The crisp, clear air filled my lungs as we ascended through the sagebrush and newly sprouted green grass. The breathtaking views over Kimball Valley, out toward Cuyamaca and the surrounding ridges never cease to inspire me. Even though I was kind of in a hurry I decided to sit down on a rock, just for a minute. I closed my eyes in silent meditation and immediately got a message from my late mother and grandmother. You see, ten years after the Cedar Fire I’m rebuilding Bamoo’s (my grandma’s) house and mulling over appropriate paint colors. I knew I wanted a shade of dirt, but what? They seemed to tell me that the house ought to be the color of the clay in the clay pit. I opened my eyes. Okay. I don’t have much time, but I better go collect a sample now. I climbed over some boulders and bush-whacked up to the clay pit. Luckily, I had a paper towel in my jacket pocket, so I scooped up fistfuls of the dark red clay into the paper and wrapped it. About 50 feet down the rabbit trail, I stopped when they seemed to indicate that the color of the trim might lie at my feet. I pulled out my last napkin and grabbed a handful of the dark brown, almost black dirt mixed with dead lilac leaves. I was excited. Mission accomplished! My dilemma of color decisions was settled.