Eyebrow raising stories

I was facetiming with my younger sister this week and I noticed that she has our father's hands. Genetics at work. Of course my hands are not too young and smooth anymore either. And yes, my hands are very much like my father's ones once were. My granddaughter, E, was looking at my hands and arms the other day and asked why I had freckles all over them. (She is half Samoan and even her mother, my daughter, has no freckles.) Not wanting to say that some of the freckles were really age spots, I said it was from the skin reacting to the sun. She frowned and said "But my arms aren't freckled and I'm in the sun a lot." Okay, maybe it's not the sun's fault, it's the melatonin inside my skin. But my granddaughter can find out for herself the joys of aging and the body wrinkling and gravity pulling things out of shape. Also, my eyebrows have totally vanished and I did wonder about tattooing permanent eyebrows onto my face. But seriously, am I that brave to allow someone to drill holes in my eyebrows with a sharp needle just to be able to raise my eyebrows in different and interesting ways? Or do I really want to spend the rest of my life looking like Casper the friendly, or not so friendly, ghost. The pros and cons are still being tallied up and decided upon. I have never contemplated having remedial surgery on my face or body just to look better and perhaps boost my self-esteem. But yikes, is tattooing eyebrows really considered plastic surgery? My mother-in-law had what we laughingly called, resting #@itch face. As her face relaxed, her smile turned upside down and she looked angry and scowling. One day I was silly enough to ask if she was cross about something only to be told that she was now angry with me for pinpointing her scowl. When I noticed the same facial feature on my husband's usually kind face, I realised that it was a quirk of genetics and resting #@itch face was a family trait much like my mother's family with their height issues and my father's line with the aforementioned hands. I would like eyebrows again. Not bushy and hairy but simple and refined. A gentle curve to accentuate my sparkling blue eyes. Aah, now there is the self-esteem. I need to take the plunge and book a tattooing appointment. Next week, or maybe never, who knows?

 When I was in my tenth year of age, my parents grew tired of reading my school reports saying things like 'can do better' 'should try harder' etc and made a plan. They would incentivise my scholarly drive. If my average mark was over 80% at the end of the year, they would buy me a watch. Our school didn't allow any sort of jewellry except for watches, so they were a big status symbol. I thought, yeah, I'll give it a go. My older sister was academically brilliant, sewed really well, played all sorts of sports, was a Girl Guide and on the cheerleading squad. And yes, I had tried to be as good as her in many of those things and failed horribly. So, truthfully, I had given up being competitive. My sewing was messy, I didn't fit into Girl Guides or Brownies, I was too short for the cheerleading squad and so it continued. Yes, I know I should have given myself two years to catch up before comparing myself, but I didn't. I pulled out all the stops and controlled my ADHD enough to get 81% average at the end of the year. Success at last, although my sister's average marks were still way above mine and much more impressive. My parents must have saved for that watch because money was always tight in our home and it would have been a sacrifice for them. They were thrilled that I had achieved the goal and expected me to continue on with my rise to greatness in the classroom. Sadly I disappointed them at every turn. My high marks dropped and I cruised through school in the middle of the rankings. But I put the watch on and wore it for a while before thinking, nah, not my thing. Yes, I did feel mean for not appreciating the sacrifice my parents had made, but really, time to an ADHD person is a movable feast of daydreams and singing songs and telling stories in my mind. Clocks were not important. Many years later I was helping an old lady, Auntie Ree. Auntie Ree's son had brain damage and at times became violent. So, when he was on the rampage, Auntie Ree would phone my husband and I to come and solve her problem. My husband took the son off to a care facility and I sat with Auntie Ree in the hospital waiting for her to be seen by medical staff. There we were at 3 am on a Tuesday night and she looked over at me and said "You don't have a watch, how sad not to know the time." And then proceeded to give me a lovely watch as a thank you for my help. Yikes. What to do? I said thank you and put the watch on ... for a while. And then, until Auntie Ree died, I would have to remember to wear it when visiting her. I now have three watches. The one my parents gave me, yes, it is 60 years old, Auntie Ree's watch and the one my grandmother wore all her life. None of them work anymore and have resided in a cigar box my father brought back from World War 11 alongside other stuff I don't use but don't want to lose. My Gran's watch needs work, but the other two just need a clean and then I will hand them on to my two granddaughters to see if they can get some use out of them. 

While sorting through the cigar box I found a Peridot brooch in rose gold. I had inherited it from my parents but I think it was older than them. In fact it doesn't look anything like my parent's style of jewels. There are two possibilities as to its origin. Grandpa Thomas Roberts was a Cockney from London, but his mother was Irish and had a few bits and bobs from when the family had money before the potato famine. He did like to buy jewels and my grandmother's engagement ring was stunning. I remember her telling me that he once came home with a 3 carat diamond ring and she was too afraid to wear it in case she lost it. She sent him back to the jeweller for a refund. Or was it Great Grandma Emma Rogers who came from a rich family but her uncle and the lawyer had systematically robbed the family of land and money, leaving them destitute. Who had kept the Peridot? It doesn't look like much as far as style is concerned, but I have always loved it. I thought it was a tie pin for a while, but have changed my mind. I looked at photos of Emma and not seen the Peridot and Thomas was known for his very stylish dressing. Would he have even been seen dead in the brooch? Could he have worn something so simple and plain?  There are times that I wish the ghosts of ancestors would tap me on the shoulder and say "I have a tale to tell you." Why do I not even consider my mother's family? Well, she has an older sister, Auntie Kay, that got it all. Kay had some of the jewels taken out of their settings and put into something more modern stylistically and I certainly haven't seen any evidence of my mother having got a portion or even a smidgeon. Not even a little Peridot of a gem. And this Peridot is fairly substantial. This gemstone is the result of volcanic activity and the people of Hawaii believe them to be the tears of Pele. Pele is the goddess of the volcano and is known as "She-who-shapes-the-sacred-land".  An entire beach in Hawaii is formed from the crushed remnants of Peridots. You do need to take a 5 km hike through lava fields to reach the beaches (there are three Peridot pebble beaches, the other two are in Guam and the Galapagos). I would love to put the stories with the items I leave for my grandchildren. Grand sagas of heroism and bravery, endurance and perseverance. But alas, my grandchildren will get the watches that I seldom wore and the rings I have collected over the years ... all four of them. I'm not a big jewellry person. The diamonds in my rings are mere chips and of very little value. I do remember my husband wearing a silver puzzle ring when we first started dating. In fact we both had silver puzzle rings because it was the 70's and we were borderline hippy era folk. Surprisingly enough, you can still buy those same puzzle rings from jewellers around the world. Perhaps my heritage to my grandchildren will have to be something different. No fancy jewels, just plain and simple stuff. Returning to the hippy era where we had shoes with everlasting soles. Also known as no soles at all. A piece of raffia twisted into a daisy and looped around your big toe and there we had our shoes. It wasn't fun on those sticky tar days of Summer when the roads were hot enough to fry a toad. But they did look pretty with my tie-dyed kaftan and lacy shawl. Oh yes, those were the days of our youth and are long gone. Now it's orthotic shoes with padded insoles and ankle support. Not an everlasting sole in sight and our souls forget the inconvenience of the hot feet on the tar and remember the laughter and the freedom. Aaaah.