The color of one of my memories from the ninth grade was watching the door to our classroom to see what color Gemma’s hair would be this time. She was a natural blonde with beautiful long, wavy hair. I couldn’t imagine anyone having prettier, more desirable hair—but apparently—Gemma could.

Gemma’s first change was to brown, which amazed me. Brown? Plain brown? My hair was plain brown. Why would anyone who was born with gorgeous blonde hair want to change it to plain brown? Gemma’s next change was to red. I approved of red. I had always dreamed of having red hair myself. Then it was black. With her fair coloring and light blue eyes—black hair looked terrible on her. The next change was powder-puff blue. That was a lovely color on Gemma. It nearly matched her eyes and it was stunning. This was back in the 1960s, before changing hair color constantly and adding tattoos, etc. was commonplace. I envied Gemma at the time, but looking back, I wonder what insecurity in her life caused her to run from one color and hairstyle to another so desperately.

Another colorful memory was watching our classroom door for Latrelle’s entrance to see what she was wearing. She never wore the same outfit twice. All her skirts, dresses, and matching jackets were lovely and expensive. At the time, I envied Latrelle and her endless closet. I had a mere three outfits to wear all week. Looking back, I wonder if her parents showered her with money rather than love.

I was born in Texas, but I grew up in the rolling hills and piney woods of Georgia. Most people in our rural area were desperately poor. One old lady I used to visit on my bicycle was thrilled to have a sweet potato for her Christmas dinner. One sweet potato.

An old man at the end of our road ate a tin of sardines every day. One tin.

A family I used to sneak through the woods to visit because I had been forbidden to befriend them ate cakes of flour and water cooked on an open fire at every meal. The children were thrilled when their father made enough money to purchase a small bag of sugar to add to the flour and water mixture.

A girl about my age met me one day when I was riding my bicycle. She crossed the road in front of me holding a double handful of powdered laundry detergent. She was thrilled that she had enough soap to wash her clothes and her hair.

A girl in my class named Kathy lived in a chicken coop with her family. Kids made fun of her because she smelled bad. Her parents couldn’t afford to buy a bra for her. That was before the bra-burning craze hit. Kids made fun of Kathy for not wearing a bra.

The colors of memory. They find their way into the pages of my books. How could they not?

God engraves us on the palms of His hands and carries us with Him. My childhood memories are carried in my heart and spill out into my books, one memory at a time, one character at a time.

Fiction is seldom all fiction.

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