I nearly drove past my own house when I returned from a two-week conference in Boston.
For eleven years, my home had been unmistakable.
It was a 1928 Craftsman bungalow sitting proudly on a corner lot on Clement Street, with a wide porch, old woodwork, and bright yellow siding that seemed to glow whenever the afternoon sun hit it.
It had always been yellow.
Bright, cheerful yellow.
And I loved it.
Then, one afternoon, I turned onto my street and almost failed to recognize it.
My house was gray.
Not partly gray.
Not a different shade of yellow.
Completely gray, from the porch to the roofline.
For several seconds, I simply sat behind the steering wheel, staring through the windshield and trying to understand what I was seeing.
Someone had repainted my house while I was away.
And I had never given anyone permission to do it.
My name is Daniel Marsh, and the yellow color of that house meant more to me than most people would have understood.
I had chosen it with my mother shortly after buying the property.
We stood outside with color samples in our hands, trying to decide what would bring the old house back to life without taking away its character.
