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  23 Color Through indigo eyes she viewed a world of color, moved through its palette: bright aprons over a housedress in shades of red or purple, always a poke bonnet to match. Her razored hoe scratched a rhythm among green beans, fat striped squash, tomatoes of red and yellow. Scarlet hibiscus flamed near the back steps where she threw out dishwater. Petunias, lantanas, begonias, and her prize dahlias basked in a garden of their own, became the templates for quilts that grew from a scrap basket onto her lap. She had a red couch, not sedate wine or burgundy, bold “Good Golly” red with patchwork pillows. Remnants and bolts stacked on a spare bed flashed a rainbow of 60s neon pink and green sewed by pattern from Simplicity and McCall’s for country girls craving American Bandstand fashions. I see her still, a mouthful of pins, her apron pierced by threaded needles, her hands on bright fabric or up to her elbows in cherries or peaches to fill aqua jars. Near dark, blue shadows crept up the mountain as she worked her butter, golden yellow pats marked with holly leaves from weathered oaken molds, foamy milk, warm from the beast, 24   cools in the cellar, cream separated from the milk yields buttermilk marked with flecks of gold. We found her felled among pink peonies, clutching scissors. “Bury me in purple,” she said. The church tongues wagged but we did. She rests in mulberry silk with violets in her hands. The home of Roy and Chlodia Hensley, Greene County, Tennessee, 1958. ...

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