Taste
Growing up, the Pomarico’s house was down the street from ours in a sixties subdivision of customized ranch and split level and colonial homes. My parents had opted for the ranch model, painted maroon, with off-white trim and shutters. The Pomarico’s house, a colonial, was painted a violent aquamarine blue, which I thought was the most beautiful color I had ever laid eyes on. My mother was no snob, but she had definite ideas about the colors houses ought to be painted, and aquamarine wasn’t one of them. It’s garish, I remember her saying, and even though I didn’t know what garish meant, I could easily infer she didn’t approve.
While I no longer trusted my opinion, I still remember driving past the Pomarico’s house, the way that blue drew and delighted my eye, the way my heart raced a little, the way I felt my inclinations couldn’t be trusted.
Anyway, I told you our house was maroon but can’t remember the color of any other family’s house in the neighborhood except for the Pomarico’s, which to this day I still see, guilty, garish, in my mind’s eye. It makes me think about acceptable taste, a passed judgement that throws into question the stupid wild adoration of you, unschooled. I don’t fault my mother in any way for expressing her opinion. But sometimes, I wonder how things would have turned out, if I’d been left to love the Pomarico’s house.