Opus 3, Allegretto

In honor of the upcoming Handy Reunion, Things I learned from my grandparents:

1.  Shopping!  Grandma Handy was a consummate shopper.  Every time we went to stay with her, one day was always spent at the Ogden Mall.  First the department stores, then lunch at the Tiffin Room.  Grandma bought clothes, knickknacks, and visited things she wanted to buy but hadn't convinced Grandpa were worth the cost yet.  I find that now I visit DVDs I haven't found a way to justify purchasing yet.

2.  Love is not always loud and obvious.  Grandpa Handy was quiet, calm, a man of few words -- except when Grandma gave him his insulin shots, which almost always involved swearing.  I remember his quiet jokes (including explaining Fleet to me) and soft hugs.  Grandpa had twinkly eyes, and his fond looks were in the end more powerful than flowery language.  I never doubted for one moment that Grandpa loved me.  I never even thought he was mad at me.

3.  The value of naps.  

4.  The importance of hobbies.   

5.  A deep and abiding love for snacks, candy, chocolate, and cookies.  "Goodie bags" may have been my grandmother's best invention.  We never left her house without a sandwich bag filled with oreos, pecan sandies, lemon drops, licorice, and/or snickers.  All this may be overshadowed by the beginning of the Church of Coca Cola, at which most of my siblings worship.

6.  It is more important to be loved than to be taught.  I'm pretty sure that I could do no wrong in the Handys' eyes.  As far as I knew I was the most brilliant, talented, beautiful girl in the world.  I respect the work and service the Cooleys tried to teach us, but it never reached me like the unconditional love from Grandma and Grandpa Handy.

A very sentimental post!  But I don't think I could talk about the Handys without getting mushy.

Opus 2, Adagio

8/30/10, 12:19 pm

I have vitiligo.  It started about 10 years ago, and I didn't know why little circles of skin on my stomach seemed to be whiter than the rest of me.  I'm pretty white to begin with.  I happened to mention it to a dermatologist, who gave me the name.  I was all for finding out the treatment, which seemed to surprise the doctor.  His attitude was "Why would you bother?"

So I watched the slow march of pigment death on my skin, in little patches and great tracts.  And I realized that I had the same condition as Michael Jackson (this was before he died, when everyone still thought he was creepy and weird), and felt my first sympathy for him since he released "Dirty Diana" when I was about 11.  And I cursed my immune system, which cannot seem find the right thing to attack with a flashlight and both hands.  (Hmm, that metaphor got away from me.  The flashlight is a headlamp!  There, that works.)

Until this summer.  It stopped bugging me.  And I realized, as with other types of loss, that there were five stages to my acceptance of the loss of my ability to tan.  At least in patches.

     1.  It doesn't show.  As long as I keep my stomach covered, who cares?

     2.  Hmm.  It's not really noticeable.  In fact, no one has noticed who I haven't directly shown.  Why do I keep doing that?  As long as I don't get them on my face, no worries.

     3.  Maybe I could make a joke out of it.  The top of my imagined responses to dreaded questions:

            A.  I am one quarter albino.  (Sometimes expressed as "I had one albino grandparent")

            B.  A terrible high school chemistry experiment gone wrong!  Box Elder High School is no longer allowed to have chem labs because of my horrible disfigurement.

In the meantime, copious amounts of sunscreen are the order of the day.  If I stay pasty, no one will know.  Right?

     4.  Razza frickin stupid pasty spots.  It's not fair!  I look like a spotted puppy!  Curse the universe and my immune system and people with only one color of skin!

      5.  Hey, look at all you boring people who only have one color of skin!  I am unique!  I can study my arms and look for patterns like staring at clouds!  I have my own unique pelt, like zebras and giraffes and cheetahs!  Maybe I'll get one in my hair and have a Rogue stripe.  How cool would that be?

And there you have it, my journey from being merely human to being Super Diana, who grows her own camouflage and shares her secret power with the powerful animals of the earth!

Take that, immune system.

The Rules

This is not really a blog, because only a few people get the link.  And they include YOU -- a person who gives me crap about writing.  This page is about me working my way up to writing fiction by first just WRITING.  What I know.  

Feel free to comment with constructive criticism.  Be warned, I plan to do as little censoring of myself as possible, because most of my censoring is just my own self doubt and shame.  And screw that!  

That was the kind of comment I would usually censor.

- Di