Grandpa is now 90 and lives in Northern California. They left with $7 and the hope that their lives might be better out West. At 3 years old, my grandfather hitchhiked with his sister and mother from Oklahoma-where the Dust Bowl disaster was obliterating farmland, displacing people and devastating communities-to California. The pre-color-photography eras are all bland to me, except for the 1930s, which are the color of dust: murky brown, like the inside of a warped crystal ball.įrom time to time I start thinking in ’30s brown. The 1990s are black and charcoal and denim-blue. For me, the 1970s are usually filtered through earthy hues: avocado greens and harvest golds and burnt oranges. We assign color to the past in interesting ways, guided by collective memory and individual perception.
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