I just returned from attending my mom’s memorial service.
Mom didn’t like my tattoos. She hit the stratosphere when I got my first one (at the advanced age of 46) and refused to even look at my ink even when invited to do so. I should say, though, that she didn’t single me out–she didn’t like tattoos, period. Which was understandable, given that she grew up in Canadian Church of England boarding schools and tattoos would have been associated with various lowlife types in her school’s philosophy. An upbringing like that is hard to shake.
However, there is a story to tell about me, my mom, and tattoos, one that never fails to make me smile. I’ve been interested in family history for quite a while. Not too long after I got my first tattoo, I found a site that would let me send in for a copy of my great-grandfather’s enlistment papers in the Canadian Army circa Boer War. From that, I learned that my grandmother had always misspelled his middle name, that his handwriting and my grandmother’s were darn near identical, and… he had three tattoos.
Just like me.
So, I called up my mother and told her all about this, and then I said “It’s genetic, Mom. And it’s all your fault.” 🙂
I don’t think my mom agreed with me on that.
photo credit: mgjefferies