Crimson Morning

It was not the best time of my life ... those teenage years. I was a good kid, mostly because I did not want to awaken my father's anger. He was kind too ... I now understand he was hardest on himself and we, my mother, my sister and I, were to him a reflection of who he was.

There was fire between him and my mother. I watched the mystery growing up of that shared love. The look that passed between them often, how he touched her in the small of the back and she turned her clear blue eyes to look into his dark brown eyes.

But daddy expected perfection of himself and her. She was a beauty and young to be my mother ... only 17 1/2 when I arrived. My mother with her curvy figure and curly Blondie hair was beautiful in any color but she loved crimson red. Daddy was okay with that most of the time, but once, when mother, my sister and I were dressed and ready to walk out the door for church, he insisted mother change her dress because "good women did not wear red to church".

I was angry with him - "Not a nice thing to say to my mother" - my mother was always a good woman. So what if she favored bold red lipstick -- so did most of her friends.
They were good women. It was just silly of him to be so angry over a color.

With tears, mother dutifully changed her dress and dried her eyes. My sister and I waited quietly, my daddy fidgeted with his new paper, never looking up. Mother, wearing a soft blue number, walked gracefully pass us to the kitchen, checked her Sunday roast, telling Carlene and I to gather our Sunday school books for church. Daddy sat in his easy chair with his paper. Daddy had "enough" of church growing up but he wanted "his girls to be ladies and go to church."

I knew my life was good but I guess it was clear that I was upset. As we walked to my mother's car, (Mother never missed much) ..."You know Allison, your daddy loves us and wants what is best for us always. Look what he just gave you. How many girls have their own car"?

As I climbed into the front seat of mother's car, I felt a little guilty for being angry at him. I thought of my cardinal-red Volkswagen he had just given me for my sixtheenth birthday. "The car is red", was all I could think. I was still pissed at him for talking to my mother like that ... and so was she.

All three of us "ladies" were silent, gloom filled Mother's sedan. Driving to church, Mother said softly but distinctly to Carlene and I, as she tightly gripped the stirring wheel looking straight ahead, "Never let a man tell you how to dress or wear your hair". Carlene and I were quiet, listening, filing her words in our hearts.

The church building grew into site. I looked at my beautiful mother, her dress matched her blues eyes, no more tears but they were sad. She breathed deeply and a soft smile crossed her face as she prepared to meet her church friends. She was strong. I was proud of her and I would remember her words.