Birthmarks

DISCLAIMER: This blog is not meant to offend. I am talking about the way people used to believe and behave. It's just the way it WAS, not the way it IS. 

Mother and I have been looking at some old photographs that I had somehow become the keeper of. I won't say owner, 'cause, heck, if she wants 'em back, I ain't gonna tell her no.

Anyway, She doesn't know who two-thirds of these people are, and I surely do not. All she knows is they came out of her mother's stuff, so they must be Mulky's.

There was one picture of an older man who was dressed up like a cowboy. By the nature of the photo, it was easy to see this was taken at a carnival of some sort.

Mother said yes, and she named the man. I barely remember  him, and the reason I do is because  he was "different".

I always remember him sitting on his sister's front porch. Now, obviously the man didn't stay there all the time, but in childhood I think our memories are sometimes like photos themselves, and this is the image I always have of him.

He had a pretty severe speech impediment, he was probably  moderately mentally retarded, and he walked with a terrible stagger, usually with assistance.

I now know he was born with Cerebral Palsy, but when I was a child, I just knew something was wrong.

Mother began to tell about how her father was always very good to this man, and brought him treats. He was the one who took him to the fair and had his picture made of which I speak in the above paragraph.

But get this: My mother explains his plight in this way, "They say he was born the way he was and walked like a drunk man because his daddy was drunk when his mama got pregnant."

Now, this gave me pause.

I did not smart off like I so badly wanted to ("How did "they" know exactly the moment of conception?" I mean, I know this is a small town, but, geez!), but  instead said, "He had Cerebral Palsy."

Mother shrugged it off and went to the next picture.

But it reminded me of other things I've heard all my life regarding being marked before or at birth.

One of my best friends has always had a silver dollar sized white circle in his hair. It shone when we were little because he had fairly dark hair. It's not so noticeable now, because like the rest of us, there's lots of white hair present when you are pushing sixty. At any rate, I was told all my life that he was marked as an unborn child when his daddy slumped over and died on his mama during her pregnancy with my friend. I don't know if he was told this all his life, and I'm pretty sure he reads my blogs, so I hope this isn't a surprise. Let me say this: as a child I was in awe that  his daddy could leave him a gift to carry with him the rest of his life, even though he wouldn't be present to watch him grow up. And he has grown up into a fine man his father would be very proud of.

I have a distant cousin who has a port wine stain that looks exactly like a strawberry on her forehead. I've been told her mama craved strawberries during the whole pregnancy and, so of course, she was born with the mark of a strawberry.

Come to think of it, her  hair is strawberry blonde, too.

There was a freak show (as they called them) in town, which I think amounted to a bunch of gypsy type people coming through and camping at the river. They charged people to look at this poor creature they had chained to a peg which they drove in the ground. My daddy said he looked half human, half animal and that you couldn't get near him. Of course my mother wanted to go see this (I mean, like, who wouldn't, right?) EWWW.

Daddy wouldn't let her because she was pregnant with me and he was afraid the sight would mark the baby.

Let me repeat: Mother did NOT see this pitiful sight, no matter how marked you think I am.

I bet you all could add weird stories to this right now.

People were obviously  more superstitious fifty years ago than they are now - at least in Appalachia.

I'm thankful my port wine stain is on the back of my neck. I'm thankful my parents weren't more superstitious than they were, given other stories I've heard.

The only thing I can figure my mother craved was a salt lick. Because, man, I have cow licks all over my head!