I have moley skin, of which I have been acutely aware these past months, well,…years. Moles are a real cancer hazard and since I have had the big C word once, I am diligently doing what I can to not have it again. Like, going to the dermatologist and cutting moles out of my skin. Good golly, YUCK!
This is the story of my skin. My white, moley skin. My mousey, blonde hair, (that I highlight twice a year). My green eyes, (which are my unique-sake’s claim in a genetic sea baby blues). And my Dutch thighs. This is how I became a middle class, white girl living in Denver, CO, wearing a hat on my daily walks to manage risk factors.
Dad is from Montgomery, Alabama. When he was a teenager he worked at a trailer weighing station off the highway where his creamy skinned tanned to low-milk latte and he burnt his lower lip to a crisp. His pouter still is very vulnerable to blisters.
Mom is from Arizona. Dry, hot heat is her love language. She combined baby oil and a tar roof to help any lost UV sink in. All the boys loved her.
They met at a Southern Baptist church in Phoenix that Mom’s parents attended. Oma being from Arkansas and Sir, (my granddad’s ironically surly title), being from Dutch-reformed Iowa, they found their faith’s home in the Wild West. So did Dad’s brother, who introduced the star-crossed lovers in Sunday School.
Two weeks and several tennis matches later, they were secretly engaged. One full ocean’s distance and a year later, they were married. Several military, trans-Atlantic moves, and one, two, three, and four kids later, they were parents to a brood that had a patent on their nose.
And when the second child grew up she left Virginia, to the call of the west, Colorado skies. Wearing SPF 50 chapstick, for having re-created Dad’s teenage woe. But this time it was on a ski slope.