I have freckles. Lots of them all over. Maybe that is why I like polka dot anything. We share a bond. I rarely cover them with make-up because they make me original.

My German mother had smooth, clear skin that once  you lather with lotions or oils it would shine like tan silk. I would run my little pointer finger along her shin bone to see if it would feel as it looked resting all shimmery on that chaise lounge in the sunshine. 

I got my dad’s skin. He and I were the fully clothed, hatted beach goers wearing thick layers of sun screen hovering under the umbrella while everyone else “layed out.”  My dad’s feet were so virgin exposed they glowed transparent when he un-socked in the evenings. They looked weird but baby-butt smooth!

Even though, I always have loved my freckles.

“Angel kisses,” my mom would say. “Straight from your Irish relatives…”

My Irish relatives?

I wish to know about them…

There is a craze right now finding out who we are, where we come from, and a connection to our deceased relatives.,, new television shows searching our roots, or sending in DNA samples to help connect us. I have admittedly climbed up my family tree and love the names on the leaves.

St. Patrick’s Day is some of “my” people’s holiday. I imagine them roaming on the Emerald terrain eating hot corn-beef with potatoes and cabbage playing harps, dancing jigs, and telling tales of magic all adorned in freckles. 

I feel “lucky!”


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