tattoo

I have, over the last couple of years, developed a disturbing interest in tattoos.

I’m not sure where it began, with my surprising affection for Biker Mike’s single original tattoo, the meaning of which I’ve forgotten, on his left bicep; with the realization of my hapless addiction to ACDC, though their lyric material seems limited entirely to sex; or with the evolution of my alter ego as a rocker bike chick. Heretofore, I cringed whenever I heard the word ‘chick’ used in reference to female persons; and I still refuse to use that title unless it is connected to biker.

Meanwhile, I’ve become a tattoo groupie. I'm that girl who asks about and studies a tattoo when I see it; I want to know what it is, what it means, and why it’s there. I’m intrigued by my friend Beto’s forearm pinups. The ladies smile at me from a history of gang membership and rockabilly style. Beto quit the gang a while back, but not the rockabilly; now he works at a local restaurant, always ready for me with a bear hug.

“I found out people like you better when you’re nice to them,” he says smiling and bussing tables with the same fifties pompadour he’s had for over twenty years.

-----------------------------------

I watch the entire first season of LA Ink. The show features both newbies who've never seen a needle and old timers trying to find a patch of un-marked skin to cover. I’m intrigued by the stories, a strange sampling of superficiality and life-altering benchmarks. And then there was the guy who wanted R.I.P over a slice of cheese tattooed on his arm, marking his diagnosis of lactose intolerance and the beginning of a cheese-less future.

But my interest started moving into obsession when I read Skin Deep: Tattoos, The Disappearing West, Very Bad Men, And My Deep Love For Them All by Karol Griffin. Griffin writes about her own life in Wyoming, learning to tattoo, and dating the clientele. An eager student, I devour the book like a manual of tattoo culture, unencumbered by the obvious side effects of dating ex-cons and drug addicts. And I'm won over by the specific skill of tattooing: an artist's trade. Griffin argues that the true canvass for tattoos wants more than a memory made permanent, but for the tattoos to exist for their own sake. Art for art’s sake.

-----------------------------------

“When did you get your first tattoo,” I ask Ryan while I wait for him to scan my groceries. He appears to be working on sleeves on both arms. He says he's getting another tattoo after work.

“Do you have any art,” he asks.

“Uh, no.”

“Do you want to get a tattoo?”

“Probably not...I think, I just like skin too much.”

“That's different. I’ve never heard that before. So you probably hate these,” he indicates his own ink.

“No, I mean, I like them on you,” I stammer pathetically before he turns to the next customer.

But I do. I’m attracted to the bad ass image of a well-placed tattoo, particularly on a shapely bicep. And I think Kat Von D is gorgeous in all her ink. But me?

My new obsession is disturbing considering my revulsion to the mere idea of my cousin Derek getting a tattoo when we were teenagers. To my adolescent mind, this was nothing less than an insult to his character and an affront to our family values.

As I got older, there were other reasons. I knew my friend Rebecca and I were soul sisters when we confessed to one another over coffee one morning, that we didn’t want tattoos because they were too mainstream. In fact, we were prone to specifically avoiding anything if everyone was doing it. Apparently the cliff-jumping hypothetical was never necessary in our rearing. But I’m sure when the uprising of skin purists begins, we’ll be at the forefront.

And so I am red-faced to admit that I actually considered getting a tattoo on my own body this year...embarrassingly past the age of running off to the tattoo parlor on spring break to get the initials of your best friends in some medieval font on your lower back. But then, I never partook in that sort of revelry, so I never really had the opportunity.

But I’ve had some time to mull it over, and one afternoon, I have a vision. I tell Ryan the next time I see him. “So, I decided what I would get if I got a tattoo....a big gnarly tree, on my back, with the twisted trunk curved with my spine.” It would symbolize peace-making with deformity, and a newfound pride, drawing attention to that part of my body that I’d always wanted to hide. Plus I have a thing for trees. If anything could be, it was perfect. Or maybe a warrior princess atop a unicorn fighting a dragon. I know one five-year-old who would be impressed.

Rebecca was confused, but supportive, offering to take me on a field trip to a local parlor. And the inspiration stayed strong for nearly a week. Then I started thinking about what a big step that is, how I have plenty of time to think it over...asking myself if I’m really that into it. I fully endorse rebellion against social norms for the sake of promoting free-thinking; but I’ve never really liked rebellion worn on the sleeve myself. Maybe I’m more of a tattoo voyeur; appreciating but not partaking, a wannabe who doesn’t really.

The last time I went through Ryan’s line, I asked if he’s gotten that tattoo. He hasn’t. “I don’t know,” he says, “I’m not sure I’m really that guy any more." I wonder when you're that far in, if you really have a choice; but that’s kind of how I feel, like I might not be that girl. A tattoo girl.

-----------------------------------

This morning I received an email from friend and film color artist (not his official title), Mikey Man. It contained this:

And this...

I’d call that disability gets revenge. I’m thrilled by the idea...in theory. I'm all for comedic coping, but do I really want a shark arm?

OneArmGirl

horsenastics

There are things one might ask a one-armed girl how she does....like tie her shoe, or peel an orange, or put on underwear. And then there are things that no one thinks to ask, like how do you stand up on a trotting horse.

I’d certainly never thought to ask before a summer day, six years ago, when I met Rick Hawthorne. As I recall, the first thing Rick said when he saw me was “Oh, yeah!” when he recognized my one arm situation. Rick's left arm had been amputated at the shoulder when he was ten, after he punched a kid in the playground, breaking his arm in several places. The doctors found cancer and that’s when Rick began his life as a one-armed boy.

In his early twenties, Rick found vaulting, a sport that combines riding and dance on the back of a horse. It was the beginning of a life-long love story for Rick, who went on to compete with one arm at the national level. Today, he and his wife Virginia have been coaching vaulting for over thirty years.

But in all that time, Rick had never met someone like me, with almost exactly the same handicap. The excitement was mutual. I hadn’t known him five minutes before I was up on a horse, learning the basic exercises. Buoyed by Rick’s belief in me, I would have tried nearly anything he asked. I went home sore and hooked.

-----------------------------------

On Saturday, I hurried Little Gen out of her warm bed to go to vaulting practice with me. The jury's out on whether my blueberry pancakes were extortion on her part, or bribery on mine. Either way, we were out the door by 9:30am.

I. Warm-up

Here is a series of me 'vaulting up' on the practice barrel.


And the outtakes....

---------------------------------

You do what on a horse?, is generally the look on a person's face when I try to explain vaulting. Most people immediately assume I'm talking about gymnastics or pole vaulting; or they combine the two with a mental picture of me running up to a horse and jumping over the top of it. Ridiculous. But then, I'm not in much of a position to talk.

Vaulting has been around as long as most anything, varying from artistic expression to military training, depending on the demands of the time. But it's modern form was developed in post-war Germany to improve general riding skill.

Much later, Joey coined 'horse ballet' when I started coming into work sore from head to toe, barely able to walk. Even later, my friend Ariel dubbed 'horsenastics.' Both accurate and clever, I say; though a bit hard to pronounce without spitting on someone. And horsenastics leads to the obvious conclusion that an athlete in said sport is a 'horsenast,' which sounds like a bad head cold, but gives me endless giggles.

II. On the horse

Eventually, I get on the actual horse. The person in the middle of the circle, directing the movement of the horse, is the longeur. She keeps the horse going while I do my acrobatics...or just sit there out of breath, trying to remember the next exercise.

The 'flag,' with one leg and one arm extended, is one of the compulsory exercises in vaulting; but it's always been my strongest move. Here, the horse is going to the right on the circle, which makes it even more challenging because I have to raise a leg on the same side where I don't have an arm. No big deal.

The nice thing about being a one-armed girl is that if you can do anything on the back of a moving horse, you have everyone's attention, and are automatically amazing. And on a good day, you have your photographer sister along to capture this...


The 'stand', somewhat obviously named, was completely out of my comfort zone the first time I tried it. Standing straight up on the back of a large animal, nothing to hold onto, seems counter-intuitive, to say the least. And to be honest, I'm hard pressed to imagine the need for this in a wartime situation, unless you're trying to distract the enemy by giving the impression that you've lost your mind. But then, we're talking about Germans here, for whom over-achievement is the least that's expected. And in feats of athletic prowess, they were just borrowing from the Spartans. Best thing about the stand: no arms required.

---------------------------------

It felt good to get out on Saturday. Vaulting seems one step away from superhero status. As a human, I've had many long hiatuses in the past five years, when I was too weak to leave the house, much less get on a horse. Even now, one practice can put me under the weather for days. That's the part people don't see when I'm the girl with one arm standing on a trotting horse. I have daydreams of performing before huge crowds, doing a one arm hand-stand to the tune of 'Rock Me' by Great White. But I've left practice in tears, realizing the gulf between reality and imagination, which is constantly getting the better of me. And I want to quit. Like when I quit piano lessons because I didn't think I could be better than the best two-handed player.

I wasn't able to vault at all last winter, which gave my head some time to clear. I wasn't meeting my expectations, true. Nationals were out of the question, I can't even get up on the horse by myself. Why was I vaulting at all?, I wondered.

And this is what I got: I've never cared much for competition, ribbons or awards. I vault because I believe in the sport, because it's beautiful and therapeutic and exciting to watch. Rick isn't an amazing vaulter because he's the best; he's extraordinary because he gives other people reason to believe. I want to be extraordinary, too; and that is not beyond possible.

After all, Beethoven was deaf.

OneArmGirl


[*This post made possible by the contributions of Little Gen...and viewers like you.]

hands across the nation

I had two new phone messages on Saturday afternoon.

"Hello. This message is for Finneas. This is Fiona, and I am a short, attractive, well-dressed...little arm; and I am looking to go on a date, and wondered if you would call me back..."

The message continued on with my friend Nichole breaking into uncontrollable laughter which continues, recorded and unremitting for the next four minutes. The next message was mostly just Nichole laughing. I think maybe raising three children under the age of seven is getting the best of her.

I was afraid it would come to this...not that Nichole would lose her mind...but that Finneas would eventually be getting romantic proposals.


And I've got more issues...primary on the list is an inability to return phone calls in a timely manner or at an hour when the recipient of my call might actually be available. Which made it an act of momentous significance that I caught my friend Joy in Pittsburgh at a grocery store buying Redi Whip.

"I wanted to talk to you about something," she says, "You know how your little arm's name is Finneas?"

I nod to the phone receiver.

"Does your big arm have a name?"

I admit that it does not. Joy points out the inconsistency and inequity of the situation. Then we talk about how she is caring for her eight-month-old son, breastfeeding, working full-time, volunteering at church, and currently planning a Thanksgiving dinner for fifteen people at her house.

I'm left wondering how my arms are even on the radar for these moms. They have, arguably, the hardest job on earth, impacting the wellbeing of the next generation, and I'm sitting here writing about my arms. Something is not right.

I guess I should have Finneas fitted for a suit to fit his social life. But I've said it before, naming appendages is not my forté, nor does it come naturally. If the large, big, strong arm is to have a name, it will have to come from you, my readers.

-----------------------------------------

I have a vague memory from childhood in Philadelphia, of one day when people held hands across the city, from city to city, all across the country. I don't remember why they did this; to a child, reason is always secondary. But I was captured by the concept that you could hold a person's hand, who was holding another person's hand, who was holding another person's hand, in some way, literally touching a person on the other side of the country...or was it the world? Simple, but kind of unimaginable.

This week, I heard about my arms from Maryland to Pittsburgh. Basically the same thing. Right? Interesting bit of trivia...Pittsburgh is the most often misspelled city in the U.S. And I thought Albuquerque was hard...wait, is Albuquerque in the U.S.? Please advise, because I am having the darnedest time convincing people that I don't live in Mexico.

My train of thought, after many unrelated detours, was nicely tied up yesterday with this:

Come, children, let us go
We travel hand-in-hand;
Each in his brother finds his joy
In this wild stranger land.
The strong be quick to raise
The weaker when they fall;
Let love and peace and patience bloom
In ready help for all.

G. Tersteegen

And I've been thinking a lot about how important this is, reaching out to love. I think Jesus said something to that effect; that it is the most important thing.


Literally speaking, this is a challenge for me. I'm shy to offer my small arm to another person, fearing it may not be welcome [refer to numerous baby-scaring incidents]. I'd rather dissolve into the carpet and get trampled by a wedding conga line, than link up. Whenever possible, I choose to be the caboose.

Most dreaded is the invitation to join a circle of hands. Generally I find myself to the right of someone feeling equally awkward, who, after a moment's pause, lays a hand on my shoulder or pulls me into a half hug, leaving the impression that we are more intimately connected than the rest of the circle. Of course, this wasn't a problem when I found myself to the right of my crush in a high school circle.

Perhaps it's a strange psychological twist that holding a hand seems particularly intimate to me. It's different from a hug or even a kiss, either of which can be casual or passionate. Hand-holding indicates a different status, belonging...dare I say, commitment. I've never felt comfortable holding a man's hand, never reached that kind of commitment in love outside my relations. Then again, maybe my hand-holding weirdness comes from a secret fear that I should actually be committed. Sometimes I see the men in white coats coming.

----------------------------------

I'd joined the end of a dance procession at church, when I was surprised by a light tap on my shoulder. An adolescent girl reached out and grasped Finneas, who seemed equally startled and pleased. She was unaware of the boundary of awkwardness; also, most likely unaware that my small arm has a name. But her touch was more than physical, and I didn't mind one bit.


OneArmGirl

ferb goes to the farm

You may remember your introduction to Ferb, so named by popular demand from my Disney Channel sources. I also think the name fits him.

I led you to believe that Ferb was in training as my inseparable sidekick and regular OneArmGirl installment. I am loathe to admit, however, that since his blog debut, my grandma's beloved, if somewhat creepy, hook-armed rabbit has spent much of his time sitting atop my bedroom bookshelf, half concealed by a door.

I admit I've never been much of a stuffed animal girl [that's cuddly toys to some of you]. Oh, I had plenty of them growing up, but when it comes to sleeping, they just seem to crowd the bed, inevitably landing on the floor by morning.

I must shamefully admit my only interaction with Ferb, since I inherited him, has been to remove him from his perch for dusting and room arranging. It should be noted that my room re-arranging mostly involves moving my bookshelf to a different wall, only to decide it doesn't fit there, and moving it back; then returning Ferb to his spot, from which he looks at me with deep disappointment in his button eyes. If he could shake his head, he would, I'm sure.

I was getting into bed every night feeling like a hypocrite, so Monday afternoon, I grabbed Ferb off the shelf, tucked him under my arm, and headed out the door to the farm. I set him on the sink counter in the tack room while I poked around the barn, putting things in order. He didn't seem to mind since he doesn't have legs. I was feeling tired and unmotivated, which only pointed to one thing....Dr. Pepper, a temptation I have little power to resist. Plus, Ferb looked thirsty.

I let Ferb have the first drink; it was the least I could do to make up for my wrongful neglect. [I swear he's cradling that can with an evil smile.]

But enough procrastinating; it was time to groom Sam, whom I fetched from the pasture. Sam has never been a big fan of brushing, especially on his underside. At best, he tolerates it.

Ferb was no help with grooming at all, having his arm full with a Dr. Pepper and his prosthetic, as always, full with a carrot. He insists on taking that damn carrot everywhere and never eating it.

So, I set Ferb on Sam's back where he wouldn't be underfoot. Well, actually, I put him on Sam's butt because it was the only surface flat enough. Both he and Sam seemed to tolerate this, though Ferb was looking a little stiff. He seemed nervous.





I explained that plenty of people without arms or legs learn to ride a horse. I'd seen this first hand at the Paralympic equestrian events, I said, he had nothing to be afraid of.










Then Ferb fell off.

And he did not appreciate that I went running for my camera instead of rescuing him off the ground.

He reminded me that those legless paralympians had special saddles and he had been riding bareback. I reminded him that he wasn't riding at all, but standing while I groomed Sam. We didn't speak for some time after that.




But Ferb got back in the saddle later for lesson time. Little did he know, I was using him to get my riders to use their seat for balance instead of their arms. At least he felt a little more secure this time. And I'm happy to report no one fell off.












In all, I think Ferb preferred the love he got on the ground. Just look at the smile on his face. It was certainly more attention than he'd gotten in some time. I'm hoping it tides him over.







Unfortunately I can't end the day on a high note. In a disturbing insult to injury, Ferb has suffered an serious wound to his left arm, which is coming apart at the shoulder, white stuffing pushing out of his over-stuffed insides. He is certain this happened with his fall, but I suspect otherwise. When the injury was discovered, Kristy secreted him away to the house, for which, I'm sure Ferb was eternally grateful. When I went to collect him before heading home, she promised to sew him back together, to which I agreed surprisingly easily and left him in her care.

I think Grandma would be pleased, though I'm now wondering where Kristy's going to get a needle.

OneArmGirl

bike chick

It’s November. This means 95.1 FM is now playing Christmas songs 24/7. I turn the car radio on and, in shock, quickly change the station; only later to return to the Christmas tunes, and continue to listen to them the rest of the day. I don’t know how I feel about this.

But it doesn’t feel at all like Christmas, or maybe it feels like Christmas in Australia, because the sun is still warming us to the mid 60s. There’s just enough bite in the air to be exciting and make me feel guilty for not getting outside. And even though I’ve got piles on my desk, there’s really only one thing I’d like to be doing right now...biking.


I’m not talking spandex; I’m talking leather. I was introduced to my first motorcycle several years ago when I met Mike at the 40 and 8 on blues night. The 40 and 8 was my first real introduction to the blues; no cover charge to a smokey room of grass roots blues, black folk and white folk sitting together at long family style tables, all tucked away in a dark forest.

I was meeting someone who never showed up, but I noticed a lanky dude with long hair and a T-shirt that said ‘PLEASE TELL YOUR BOOBS TO STOP STARING AT MY EYES.’ One person in this room I definitely don’t want to talk to, I thought. By the end of the night, he had my number.

I met up with Mike the next day. He was waiting on his bike, and told me later, he didn’t know I only had one arm till I stepped out of my car. Within five minutes, we were leaving the parking lot on his bike, and ten minutes later, I was in love...with the motorcycle.

It wasn’t long before I was a serious addict. Sitting astride the Honda Shadow, I absorbed the power beneath me and the scenery like a picture book we’d driven into. I thrilled to every turn, when we and the bike leaned like one toward the earth. The smell of cut grass, sun on the pavement, and scents passing too fast to identify woke me; as if driving a car, I’d been dead the whole time. A former zombie, I saw others driving beside us, yawning behind the wheel.

Stopping at a light, Mike’s long legs touched the ground, his hand resting on my leg. I felt safe, which was odd considering, in addition to his poor taste in T-shirts, Mike was deaf in one ear and slowly going blind in both eyes from glaucoma. When I met him, he said he was traveling around the United States, to see as much as he could see before he couldn’t. I think that’s why I returned his call. It was too perfect: the deaf and blind biker hits the road with a one-armed girl.

And I took to the bike like I was born on the seat. The driving motor shot up through my boots and sent shivers down my back; it drowned my mind to a calm; but if I had to say something, I leaned forward and yelled into Mike’s good ear.

He took a job in South Carolina, and after a conference outside of Atlanta, I met him at a Target in Savannah. He introduced me to fellow bikers Bob and Lisa, then took me back to sleep in his small trailer at the junkyard where he worked. We slept side by side on a wooden loft; he never pulled his arm from beneath my neck. Moving suddenly, I knocked his hearing aid out of his ear, popping it in half. “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry!” I said in disbelief. Mike sighed. “I’ll have to buy another one.” Then, the edges of his mouth curling up, he stuck it back together.

In the morning, I drove to a gas station to find a toilet, then moved to Bob and Lisa’s place where I luxuriated in a real bed. In addition to biking, Bob and Lisa once rode their horses to Walmart and tied them to the cart return pen. I couldn’t imagine a better idea. Bikers seem the next best thing to cowboys, and bikes to horses.

On the back of Mike’s bike, I learned to disdain Harleys, though I’m still not sure why, and roll my eyes at crotch rockets, which Mike called “asphalt decoration.”

We hatched colorful plans of biking across the country, stopping in tiny towns, working odd jobs, sleeping under the stars, and staying just as long as we liked. But I knew, somehow, the end of the road was coming. Mike had a wounded heart that I was incapable of fixing.

Back in the north, it got colder. Biking was torturous, and finding common ground was getting difficult. Dropping me off one night, Mike teased, “I think you like my bike more than me.” I shrugged; there was nothing to say.

------------------------------------

“I have a great idea,” I tell Pete, standing outside the barn. “One day, I’m going to have you make me a bike.”

I haven’t heard from Mike in a long time. The last I knew, he was traveling down south in an RV, my picture in his rearview mirror. I still smoke cigars sometimes because he taught me how on a bitterly cold, windy day outside the special collections library; sometimes I think about his broad shoulders and how he would do anything for a friend.

I visit Pete at the shop where he’s working. He and Chris, the owner, discuss what type of bike that would be best for a one-armed girl and what kind of modifications I would require, while I try to understand words like ‘jewelry’ and 'heel shift lever eliminators'. Chris tells me his father came back from the war without legs and wanted a bike made that he could drive, but none of the manufacturers took him seriously. Then good ol‘ Honda built one for him with three wheels. Chris and Pete both agree I’d look great on a trike.


But I’m dubious. I miss biking, especially on warm fall days like today, but the more I think about it, I’m not sure about having my own bike. Maybe I’m not that kind of biker chick.

“Well, I could drive my own bike,” I tell Chris with a smile, “Or, I could just get a boyfriend with a bike.”

I've still got my helmet in the closet.

OneArmGirl

For yesterday's post, which was posted today, but written for Mañana Mama, please click here. Now, I have to go shovel horse poop.



love.
OneArmGirl

post delay

Yes, I am aware that Thursday came and went without a post. And if it makes you feel better, I was nervous and clammy all night; as I'm sure you were too. Well, at the least the 5% of you that were aware; to the 95% that enjoy my blog, but could care less when things get posted, I hope you slept soundly.

It seems that even when you are the only one working, for yourself, you can still miss deadline. As I was writing this week's post, which I actually began on Monday, it occurred that the topic was made to fit on Mañana Mama, one of my favorite blogs, to which I had recently been invited to guest-post. And so, I put things into action, stopped the presses, made some calls, ran some numbers, pulled an all-nighter.....think Michael Keaton in The Paper.

Ok, not quite that bad, but I did have to write while babysitting a five-year-old, an inept multi-tasker's nightmare, especially when writing about material that just keeps coming.

But it was not for naught. Mañana Mama has accepted, and a new post in just around the corner....as soon as we get the press started and the children fed.


OneArmGirl