A couple of nights ago I decided to ignore the falling snow and grill a kebob for dinner. The grill is on my porch. I needed to change from my slippers to a pair of shoes. I went to my closet. There was a pair of black shoes and a pair of brown shoes, both of which would have been equally up to the snowy task. The brown shoes are more comfortable. But I was wearing grey pants and a black shirt and black socks. As much as I wanted to wear the brown shoes, I couldn’t get the image out of my mind of my sister shaking her head in sad disapproval as I put on brown shoes with a black outfit. And so I put the black shoes on even though they hurt my toes. Because even on a snowy Saturday night in Anchorage, with my sister three thousand miles away, I hesitate to wear brown with black for fear that she will somehow know.