Red is Best

Red is Best, Red is Bad  

 

1966

I watch Mother

from the shadows.

Wait for her to begin.

 

Wind moans outside.

Thrashes against the porch screen

wanting in.

Slithers through cracks in the door.

Slinks low across the linoleum.

Bites at my ankles.

 

Dinner dishes done.

Kitchen table cleared.

Mother unfolds red fabric.

Lays it like a table cloth

across the table.

It hangs limp over the edge.

 

Rain smacks the window.

Spills off the roof.

Blurs the apple tree

like water spilled

on my painting.

Rain. Weeps.

 

Red fabric.

Flat like a giant pancake

covered in strawberry jam.

Makes my heart sing. My face bright.

I like my red fabric.

 

Mother lifts her sewing basket.

Opens the lid.

Wooden spools

piled high like walnuts in a bowl.

One falls

onto the floor

with a crack. Rolls. Unravels

a thin trail of red.

Hits the fridge.

Stops dead.

 

Mother snaps her scissors open

like a hungry mouth eager to devour.

I watch

Mother’s hand

freeze.

“Someone always dies,” she says.

 

Mother’s eyes stretch wide.

Flash fear

like an animal

stunned by headlights.

 

Mother shakes her head.

Scissors slice. Up and down.

Scissors snap. Open and closed

across the red landscape.

 

One piece. Two piece. Three

giant puzzle pieces

drop

onto the chair. Limp.

 

A screech

of

brakes.

 

Mother lifts her head.

Scissors halt.

 

A knock

at

the front door.

 

“Who would that be

at this time of night?” Mother says.

Scissors drop. Heavy. Onto the table.

Mother strides down the hallway

to the front door.

I pad through the living room.

See Mother flip open the brass viewer.

A young man’s voice, “Sorry to bother you.

I hit a cat and I….”

 

Mother slaps the viewer. Closed.

Swings the door open. Wide.

A river of water pours onto the porch.

The wind groans. Writhes.

Sprays Mother with wetness.

 

“Oh my God. Sim,” Mother screams.

A man holds Mother’s cat.

The man places Sim

into Mother’s arms. Limp. Dripping.

 

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t see your cat.

It was dark. Raining,” the man says.

 

Mother talks to Sim. Not to the man.

“I’m so sorry.”

Mother strokes Sim’s head. Sobs.

The man turns. Walks away.

“I should never have cut red cloth,” Mother says.

“You would still be alive.”

 

I step back

into the shadows.

My eyes stretch wide.

My chest pounds.

Like a scraped knee.

Burning. Pressed with pebbles.

 

Sim

is

Dead.

 

Red. The colour

of

my

Christmas Concert

costume.

 

Red. The colour

of

cut

red cloth.

 

Red.

The colour

of

a

dead

cat.

 

Red.

 

Cut.

Red.

Danger.

 

Cut.

Red.

 

Death.

********

1980

I stand over

my fabric

spread wide

like a red sea.

 

Terror

threatens

to explode.

Splatter blood

and death

all over my sewing project.

 

Scissors poised to cut.

Hands shake.

Throat tightens. Airway constricts.

Scissors stand

at the edge. Like a swimmer

ready to leap from a cliff.

Slice

through

water.

 

I flick

both hands.

“Stupid superstition,” I say.

 

“It’s crimson.

Not red,” I say.

Scissors slide

across.

Slice through

fabric.

Cut a swatch

of cotton

dyed

blood red.

 

Cutting pure red

screams

“danger”.

Cutting pure red

threatens

death

to someone dear.

 

I stare at the hole

in the red fabric.

Scissors poised to cut. Again.

I inhale. Deep. To calm.

“It’s reddish ORANGE”.

I shake my head. Breathe in more air.

“No. It’s BURGUNDY”.

My breath calms.

 

I snip. Praying that God keeps

me safe.

That no one dear to me

dies

because I dare

to cut

red cloth.

********

1976

Mother steps back.

A bouquet

of

cut

red

flowers.

Spells danger.

Spells death

to someone she knows.

 

Last year

Some one forgot.

Gave Mother

cut

red

flowers.

 

That week

Mother wept.

Because

her mother

died.

********

1986

It is Valentine’s Day.

My date

smiles.

I grin. Curious.

His hands

hold a surprise

behind his back.

He brings his hand

out of hiding.

Leans forward.

“For you,” he says

clutching one

red

rose.

Severed

from the earth.

Sliced

to a sharp point.

 

I jump back.

Eyes pop open.

“What’s wrong?” he says.

 

Mother’s words

bleed into the now.

Scream danger.

Hammer out a warning.

 

Held hostage

by the old. Potent lies.

If only he had chosen

pink.

 

********

Rationale

Kathy Stinson’s picture book, Red is Best, agitated me when I first eyed it on a bookstore shelf. I flipped the pages wishing the author had chosen yellow or orange or pink. Any other colour; just not red. My trepidation stemmed from childhood where my mother not only expressed her own fears surrounding this hue but also warned of the inevitable consequence of engaging with it. I brushed aside myriad superstitions she thrust my way. All but this one because, throughout my childhood, death seemed to occur shortly after my mother or someone in close proximity cut red fabric or flowers.

The terror surrounding my mother’s superstition lodged in me — a mindset I carried into adulthood. Panic awoke when a boyfriend handed me cut red roses or when a girlfriend carried a bouquet of cut red Gerbera at her wedding. With a love for sewing, Mother’s belief also impacted my ability to make fabric choices; I steered clear of pure red fabric. I did not want my mother’s irrational thinking to distort my own or to wreck havoc on another generation. However, every attempt to silence this superstition and sweep it from my thinking was unsuccessful — until I spied Stinson’s picture book.

After reading and rereading Red is Best aloud to my daughter, a shift in my attitude toward red began to take place. The tenacious grip of terror slowly yielded as I followed the reasons behind the main character’s love of everything red; red is joy, playfulness, delight, pleasure, happiness, strength, beauty, boldness, courage, creativity, and deliciousness. Stinson’s story worked its magic on my old thought patterns and reactions. Her young protagonist’s love of red was contagious. Eventually, red became safe and good. Never the best, but comfortably good.

Stinson’s text facilitated the first steps out of my destructive view of red. The minimal use of black line, the limited palette of colour, as well as the pale greens and blues juxtaposed alongside daring, bold reds rendered the young child’s message of joy even more powerful. The red shapes jumped off the page accompanied by a plethora of playful positive emotions. Seeing the colour red through the protagonist’s eyes allowed me to replace my negative feelings around this hue with these many constructive emotions.

Reading Red is Best brought balance and healing to my lopsidedness view of red. It helped me rewrite my frightening experiences with a new story that empowered – simply by reading it cover to cover, over and over and over again.

 

QUOTES: 

Red is Best, Story by Kathy Stinson, Art by Robin Baird Lewis

 

‘I like my red stockings the best.

My mom says, “Wear these. Your white

stockings look good with that dress.”

But I can jump higher in my red stockings.

I like my red stockings the best.

 

I like my red jacket the best.

My mom says, “You need to wear your

blue jacket. It’s too cold out for your

red jacket.”

But how can I be Red Riding Hood in my

blue jacket?

I like my red jacket the best.

 

I like my red boots the best.

My mom says, “You can’t

wear your red boots in the snow.

They’re just for rainy weather.”

But my red boots take bigger steps.

I like my red boots the best.

….

My mom says, “Your yellow pajamas will

keep you warm when you kick off your blankets.”

But my red pajamas keep the monsters

away when I’m sleeping. I like my red

pajamas the best.

….

I like my red barrettes the best.

My mom says, “You wear pink barrettes

with a pink dress.”

But my red barrettes make my hair laugh.

I like my red barrettes best.

….

I like red paint the best.

My mom says, “But, Kelly, there is

hardly any red paint left. Maybe you

could use orange instead.”

But red paint puts singing in my head.

I like red paint the best.

I like red, because red is best.’

 

 

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