I’ve faced a lot of fear in my lifetime. Bitten by a water moccasin snake; accidentally found a bear’s den in Florida; unknowingly ran over a fallen tree in Georgia—with a black bear under it; attacked by a400-pound “pet” lion; kicked in the face by my horse when I fell off while he was bucking; spent a lot of years working two and three jobs to support a child as a single parent, never knowing if there would be a next meal; back surgery, knee surgery, hip surgery, 2 ½ month stay in the hospital with an infection—and yet—out of all these—the color orange scares me to death.

I love orange as a color. The favorite place where I ever lived was a mobile home in the desert of Lovelock, Nevada. The kitchen was frosted orange and touches of orange were repeated in every room. It was a clean, refreshing color and I inhaled a deep breath of satisfaction every time I walked into my home. Even now, I remember it as a place of dreams—both the desert and the trailer with the orange decor.

Orange flowered dresses and clothes; orange cars and vans; orange handled kitchen appliances; orange fruits and veggies; orange doggie toys; orange towels. No problem. It’s when the orange creeps outside that I panic—orange flowers on the wild lilies; orange leaves on the trees. The end of summer.

I hate winter. I hate cold. No matter how adequate my clothes or how many layers I don—I hate winter weather. Yet, every year—the wild orange lily blooms and the trees release their beautiful verdant leaves and go orange…and I go scared.

It’s that time of the year again, the flowers turn orange, my heart turns sad—and I wish I could bring back the childhood fears of facing bears and lions instead of facing another winter.

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