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.
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