Dresses, many ill-fitting and old, hide in depths of my closet, appearing as briefly as butterflies in Spring cleaning, and then carefully return to their hooks and hangers because loss of their colors would somehow diminish my being. Like my relationships, they stay safely in shadows, each waiting for vibrant moment to emerge from its Plastic bag chrysalis when light changes seasons. My mother's coral wool dressing gown, my father's tasteful maroon ties, my daughter's first velvet gown, an unmistakable Evening-In-Paris blue, a length of bright Marimekko left from my son's window curtain -- each has a spot in my Technicolor memory. Bred on still enticing black and white films, a secret part of me breathes a quick sigh of relief when movie is in color!

Like my mother, I find myself chasing Tiffany windows in obscure towns and places, their brilliant tones enveloping me in awed silence as they did on Sunday mornings long ago. Unable, to rationalize a splurge on real thing, I have carefully arranged a pauper's ransom of colored glasses and bottles on eastern sill to greet early morning light. Drawers burgeon with sheets of wrapping paper too beautiful to be sacrificed yet to packages; silk scarves spanning generations lie in neatly folded piles looking for a more swan-like neck than mine.

Yes, it is I, screeching to a stop in front of summer's roadside stands—surely there is a friend who will delight in medley of marigold yellows and cosmos magentas as much as I. Only a woman committed to keeping all 64 colors in a single, dog-eared yellow box would buy flowers instead of cucumbers for dinner, would count Provencal sunflowers instead of sheep on a sleepless night. There is not a jelly glass (see how that one looks blue in afternoon light!) too dusty for optimistic crimson of last November rosebud, nor a moment too full to wonder at purpling miracle of sunset, where, at last, one might search between gilded folds of cloud and finally capture elusive sky-blue pink.

"Color", continued this morning's speaker, "frolicked like child at edge of sand" in chosen artist's works. In color lies kaleidoscope of my life, fire opal of my imagination, and palette of my memories and dreams. It is prism of my soul, illuminating depths and dark.

They visited this couple every summer. To this very day, although husband is gone, and wife lives in a nursing home, Jean Manuel or his wife, or sometimes his daughter will take responsibility to visit and be with this woman. They never forgot and they've always been good to people that were good to them. Perhaps other major way that I know that this man had made his life story into a meaningful life adventure is way I feel when I am with him. He is a pleasant, reassuring person who makes me feel comfortable, safe, and as if there is a good time lurking around every corner.

I think he is a lovely example of someone living an enchanted life... a life that has had to be reinterpreted, I'm sure, more than once... a life that is not a life of fame but of private meaning and consistency.