With no sleeve to bear its enormous weight Mom very conveniently wore her heart on her actual forearms or biceps. Oh she knew about commitment, make no mistake.
Above all else we could always count on Mother's clever je ne sais quoi (a quality no one could quite put their finger on but since it got her out of jail on more than one occasion we didn’t really question it) and her genius capacity for putting people at ease like the PTA for example. After all it was this "quoi" that helped Mom to reel in a catch like Dear ol'Dad.
She didn't cook but if the way to her mans heart was through his stomach then to his stomach she would go. Only instead of brandishing a spatula Mom brought her tattoo-grip to the party and the rest as they say is history, or in this case an actual history book. Indelibly written over the once sinewy folds and unforeseen crannies of Dads epidermis. This was a match made in Heaven.
Subsequent posts will offer a more revealing glimpse into my personal gene pool or as Mom & Dad liked to call it, the family inkwell. I'll share graphic accounts of growing up carnival and talk about permanent labels that come with that territory.
Plus a lesson in painting life with broad strokes, how to needle your way into a mans heart and advice from Dad himself on the ins and outs of doing life in the slammer. Until then, friends.