“When we retire,” AdventureMan begins as we are driving down the street, “I want a tree like that in our front yard.”
This isn’t the first time he has said such a thing.
You know, where you live there are rules, and sometimes those rules aren’t written down. If you violate the rules, people say mean things like “they must not be from around here.”
Like in my neighborhood, most of the houses have some grey in their color. It’s the Pacific Northwest. The sky is grey. Sometimes the sea is grey. People get used to grey, and they paint their houses grey, like blue-grey or brown-grey or green-grey, but always some kind of grey in the color. It’s just the way things are done.
Here, sometimes a house is painted very brightly, like egg yolk yellow, not a hint of grey. Bright bright orange, not a hint of grey. At first, it is shocking to the eye, but in six months, the color mellows with the bright sunlight, and fades to a soothing sand-yellow, or sand-orange.
This is what AdventureMan thinks would look great in our front yard:
Or maybe he is just yanking on my chain?