If you’ve noticed or not I have a connection with the color blue. People ask “what’ your favorite color” and of course I say blue but it’s more than that. Having a “favorite” denotes that one would likely have gone through a series of choices and come to the reasonable conclusion that this is the one you like. For me, there’s really not much of a choice.
I have come to accept this fact and have lived my life accordingly. Just about everything I own has a hint of blue or I have a blue version of it.
One of my bikes:
Another one of my bikes: (Yes…that says Blue. There is indeed a bike company named Blue that, ironically, makes bikes of other colors)
One of my favorite albums:
I work by the water:
I’m usually not the person to ask many questions. I’m pretty accepting of things. When you feel something you feel it. The color resonates with me. It puts me in a mood. Grabs my attention. It really is a chemical reaction or some type of neurological response in my synapses. Clearly by the previous statement I am not a doctor but I know there is something going on up there.
This door always grabs my attention when I walk by. Most days I just stop and stare (oh man… Maybe I should stop. The people that live there may be freaked out).
Big things. Small things. All things.
My apparent on Walnut Street in Philly, Circa 2000:
At this stage in my life I decided to ask myself why. Why is my favorite color blue?
As far back as I can remember my first memory of the color blue was the blue frame on one of those spring suspended rocking horses.
I’m glad I still have my limbs
Nah I don’t think that thing really solidified my connection. Primarily because when I think about those things I don’t feel anything. Nothing remotely close to that feeling that resonates with me.
Using this, most likely incorrect and rudimentary methodology, points me to something that does resonate. Something that does evoke a similar feeling and connection to the memories and experiences associated to it.
Yup… The Blue Angels.
Recently the family went to the National Air and Space Museum.
Like any red blooded Americans we stopped at the gift shop. After much debate and many tears my youngest walked out with this:
A small blue angel pullback jet. And then it hit me. My grandfather used to take me to see the blue angels. He also used to take me to a small airstrip in Pennsylvania on Saturday afternoons in the summer. We would just sit there in the grass, look at the sky and watch the planes land. His dream was for me to be a pilot.
I remember laying on my back just staring up at the sky for hours and hours on end. I was young, probably about five or six but I’m pretty sure it had this impact on me. As soon as I took a few minutes and stared at my boy playing with his airplane at home it hit me. One of the first toys I can remember was a blowup Blue Angels airplane that my grandfather got me from an airshow at the Willow Grove Naval Air Force Base. It was cheap plastic tethered to an even cheaper wooden stick. At some point my grandfather tied it to my ceiling.
I had it for years. Many years. In some ways, it left such an imprint that it never left.
You know what… I could be wrong. It could be something in my DNA or maybe I was socialized into the boy/masculine norm we all know so well. Maybe. But that Blue Angels explanation feels right so I’ll stick with it.