The Dappled Ones

I have freckles.

They’re not something to be proud of judging from all the freckle-concealing and freckle-removing creams and potions on the market. You rarely see freckled fashion models, but that’s only because someone has covered the freckles with cosmetics or Photoshopped them away.

I’ve never felt embarrassed or ashamed of my freckles (though I’ve had plenty of other body-image issues—don’t get me started!). I suspect this is because my father made a big deal about how wonderful it was to have freckles. They were special, he said, and he liked them. (Hmm. This may have been the genesis of my own fondness for all spotted animals.)

I bring up this odd topic because photographer Reto Caduff has a new book out called Freckles. Caduff thought it a shame that the lovely women he worked with for fashion shoots were expected to hide a part of themselves. So he aimed to show them in a new light. Freckles is a collection of freckled fashion models’ headshots with freckles illuminated front and center.

Years ago I noticed some large freckles on the back of my grandmother’s hand. They fascinated me. If freckles were special, as my father had declared, then these supersized spots must be extraordinary.

“What ARE those?” I asked my grandmother.

She drew her hands away from my obsessive stare. “Yelch. They’re nothing.” And she tried to change the subject.

“But what are they CALLED? Are they freckles?”

“No, they’re age spots.”

“Oh. They’re beautiful!”

“No, they’re not. They’re AGE spots!”

It was a revelation for me and an uncomfortable moment for my grandmother: the recognition of passing youth.

Glory be to God for dappled things…
—opening line of “Pied Beauty” by Gerard Manley Hopkins

I’m now of an age where my freckles have been joined by larger spots, probably about the same age my grandmother was when hers first appeared, and I thoroughly understand her revulsion to these odd blemishes. She was right: They’re NOT freckles. But I feel strangely compelled to uphold my fidelity to the little girl I used to be—the one who LIKED age spots. So you’ll not hear me complain about them. Nope, not one word. I’m dappled and I’m proud.

I Dream of…

Scattered about this blog are references to one of my grandmothers. She’s pictured here in a photograph I’m pretty sure she never wanted to share with anyone. She NEVER let anyone see her unless she’d styled her hair and makeup for the day. She didn’t mind you seeing her in her robe, but she had to “have her face on.”

I like this pic largely for its naturalness. My grandmother isn’t posing for the photographer.

I also like it because it’s my grandmother at an age of dreams instead of memories. Everything’s possible in this moment. She hasn’t yet created all the stories of her life.

Today would have been her 100th birthday, an age she vehemently opposed reaching.

Happy Birthday, Gammy! I hope you’re rediscovering your glamour and your dreams.

The Waiting Game

An older friend of mine (older in that she’s closer to being 100 than I am) recently received celebratory news: Her granddaughter was coming to town.

She could hardly wait for the arrival of the young woman she hadn’t seen for years. There’d been a family rift between other generations and communications had been uneasy. However, now the younger generation was crossing the divide. She would be staying with her aunt’s family in town, which left my friend on the outside.

I’m sure this was a benign decision made for the same well-intentioned reasons we’ve all used at one time or another: Shouldn’t stay with Grandma—too much chaos for her; don’t include Grandma in all we do—too much activity for her; don’t invite her shopping—it’s too much walking for her; she won’t want to go to the movie with us—her hearing, you know; yada yada yada.

For my friend, this decision (made with her best interests at heart) meant that her eagerness quickly turned into anxiousness. It raised a million questions in her mind, among them: Is she here yet? Have you heard from her? How was her trip? How does she look? Are we having dinner together tonight? When will she come to my house? Do you want me to come over there? What can I bring? What are the plans for tomorrow? Until my friend received a phone call, these questions would rule her thoughts.

You know those moments in movies when two characters brush against each other and something incredible and momentous happens? One sees into the future of the other, or the accountant becomes a superhero, or the entire past of one is revealed to the other, or the frog becomes a teenage idol. I had one of those moments with my friend. In a single flash, I FELT all of her anxiety, hurt, joy, pain, relief, frustration, and excitement. It made me want to call her family and say, “Please don’t forget to call her regularly. She awaits your news every moment. It’s all she thinks about. She’s afraid to stray too far from the phone for fear of missing your call. She won’t make plans with her friends because you’re her first priority and she plans to be available to you for anything you choose to do. She’s put her life on hold for you. Please keep her informed with a quick call.”

In my own family, whenever one of the grandchildren was returning home for a visit, my mother would get irritated by the repeated phone calls she received from my grandmothers: “Is he there yet?” Have you heard from her?” I understood their calls at the time, but I never FELT their anxiousness and desperation until now.

As much as I felt my friend’s pain, I more deeply feel the pain of my grandmothers—and regret all the occasions on which I may have been the cause of it.

As for my friend, I hope she comes out on the other side of this reunion with no memory of the downside it initially caused. I hope she remembers only the comfort and delight of having her granddaughter once more within hugging distance.

[Art by Edouard Vuillard.]