Tattoos
I heard on TV news that the Houston, Texas police dept has issued an edict prohibiting the showing of tattoos. All personnel with tattoos must keep them covered in order to present a professional, unified appearance to the public.

As an adult, I never gave much thought to tattoos except when I saw one on a movie character, or on a woman’s shoulder or back waistline on Judge Judy’s or Judge Joe Brown’s TV court program when a complaint was being made about it for some reason.

As children though, my brothers and sisters and I were intrigued with Dad’s. He had a flag tattooed on the inside of his left forearm just below the elbow crease. It was red, white and blue with a simulated wave. One could imagine it blowing in the wind.

Sometimes when we had run out of play ideas, someone would ask Dad to show us his tattoo. We loved to hear the story about how he got it. When he was quite a young boy, he decided to secretly get one, but his younger brother, Ernest, discovered his plan, and insisted on tagging along. When they got to the tattoo parlor, they had to chose the design and after some thought, they both decided to have the same flag pattern done on their arms so that shirt sleeves would hide it from their parents.

Of course we asked how it was done and as Dad went into detail, we shuddered at the thought of needles pricking the skin. We commented on their bravery to have such a procedure done and we would take turns touching the flag to feel the smoothness.

Dad and Ernest were able to keep the secret until Grandma and Grandpa discovered that Earnest’s arm was infected. They had a fit! Dad said they were very angry with him for not only getting the tattoo on his own arm, but for letting his younger brother get one too!

As we grew up and remembered to ask Dad to show us his tattoo, he always obliged. Amazingly, the colors were bright as new. When WWII happened, we were very proud that Dad had a flag on his arm. We thought it very patriotic! As the years passed we nearly forgot about the tattoo it had become such a part of his being. We rarely gave it a thought, even when we saw him wearing only an undershirt.

As Dad’s age reached 101, I began to take notice of his tattoo again. The flag was still there, faded, but enough color remained to identify it as the flag of the United States. And it was still smooth to the touch. We revived the old stories about the tattoo and we both enjoyed the reminiscing of his escapade.

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