My Grandmother's Elbows

Last night, my husband and I were complaining about the state of our skin. He’s almost 56 and I’m not yet in my fifties, but that train is a-comin’ around the bend. I can almost hear the whistle blowin’.

 

If you’re not there yet, you have no idea what I’m talking about. But, see—and I’m not trying to scare you—your skin does this sort of shape-changing thing that’s actually gradual but seems to appear overnight. It’s as if an alien has invaded your largest organ and decided to play evil-minded extraterrestrial games to amuse itself before destroying the Earth.

OK, that’s just me doing free association. Sorry.

I don’t drink to excess, smoke cigarettes or tan (anymore; in Ye Olden Days of Teenagerhood, I Kentucky-fried myself with baby oil). I'm always the pastiest person in the room. People often think I am a few years younger than I am. I take care of my skin. Moisturizers and all that. But no matter what I do, I see the future and it is wrinkly.

My grandmother warned me early on that I had to be diligent about slathering on the lotion. She used a product called Rose Milk. It’s still on the market.

She had the softest elbows. She loved the color lime green. And Fig Newtons. She taught me how to play cards and to carry a tune. She always smiled. I don’t remember her ever getting angry or upset; at least, never with me. One time, she got carsick and threw up in her purse instead of having my mom—who was driving—pull the car over, because she didn’t want to be a bother. Even though she didn’t have much, she’d give me money that she’d hidden in a hankie, pinned to the inside of her bra. She would bring me plastic rain hats and change purses from the dimestore. She told me never to ask God for anything except my health and the health of my family. She was a terrible cook. She was a stunningly beautiful woman. She was kind. She never talked politics. She liked corned beef with a little extra fat.

I gotta get me some Rose Milk.