The fact that color thrills me comes as a surprise, because I have the genetic flaw of color blindness. I did not know until I flunked the dot discrimination test in college physical and later in a teaching of science class. It can be embarrassing being such an outlier, joining only .5% of women with the condition. At first I found it hard to believe—after all, I named colors correctly, could match thread to fabric and enjoyed bright colors. Recently my nephew unearthed an old picture of me wearing an outrageously bold green and red plaid coat I made in 4-H, in high school. For my condition, contrast is good—like the black and white clothing that now beckons me because I can hardly make a mistake. But it is those shades of green and blue that always mess me up. And my husband’s brown, black and navy blue socks—forget matching them by color—I go by texture.
I have no idea of what color others see when they say, “look at that orange flower,” but what I see is wonderful. And maybe that is the reason I fell in love with the prairie in June with all manner of brilliant wildflowers nestled against a backdrop of green.