Jackie Lou

A dear friend of mine's grandfather once gave me an unsolicited bit of advice: "Don't ever get a woman's name tattooed on your body." I'll never forget the sincere regret in his voice as he uttered those words and pointed to the antique kitchen tat on his arm with the name "Rose" scrawled in what appeared to be but certainly wasn't a child's handwriting on his upper arm. It was also quickly pointed out that his wife of many years was not named Rose. In typical fashion, I did not heed my elders' advice. I now have several tattoos and my first, as a matter of fact, was a woman's name. Years later, I find myself in a similar predicament: I have a wife and I also have another woman's name tattooed on my body. When I was 11, my parents decided to move me and my baby brother from the swamps of Jersey (I often wonder what might've happened if we never left, gold chains and hair gel?) for the Sunshine State. To say we were excited would be an understatement. First of all, we were moving to the land of Mickey Mouse. Secondly, we could go to a beach that didn't resemble the overcrowded brown waters of the Jersey shore. Most importantly, my paternal grandparents were moving in with us. To review, all three of these assumptions did not pan out the way we had imagined: Number one, we went to Disney World at least once a year on a school trip. After a few round of this, even Mickey Mouse loses his luster. Number two, the beach is awesome and all, but once it's 10 minutes away, one quickly realizes there are only so many sand castles to be made. Besides, it's also super weird when the seasons NEVER change. Number three, we (or at least I) thought that living with our grandparents meant we no longer had to travel anywhere to be spoiled rotten by our grandparents. While the last one may come off sounding like a killjoy at best and a harsh review of my beloved grandparents at worst, our relationship with both of them ascended far above the typical grandparent-grandkid relationship. More specifically, my grandmother certainly assumed more of a parental role, despite her physical limitations. A few years prior to our collective move to Florida, she was diagnosed with a lung disease (though she was a smoker for years, she quit long before the diagnosis), put on oxygen, and given months to live. In retrospect, one of the most amazing things about her was this: she was one of the classiest ladies I've ever known but she could whoop your ass and curse you out if she needed to. With this in mind, she beat the shit outta her ailment for nearly ten years before finally succumbing to her sickness. I believe she would have been 78 today, and she's been gone from this Earth over 15 years. She led a full life, however unjustifiably shortened it may have been and I'm not here to recount that life in an awkward and belated eulogy. That being said, time grants us all many things and I think perspective is one of the most important gifts it gives us. To say that she lives on in the lives of her family would be spot-on but grotesquely cliche, besides harping on what is lost is horribly depressing. For some reason, on this unseasonably cold Georgia day, I find myself needing to recognize the only woman's name that is forever scrawled on my body: my beloved grandmother, the one and only Jackie Lou.