About what makes a man a man…”
-- From “Tattoo” by The Who
This is the story of something I never thought I’d do.
There was a time when getting a tattoo held a strange fascination for me. Two Vietnam veterans in my bagpipe band had old, faded designs on their forearms: hearts impaled on daggers, leering skulls, screaming eagles and the like. I wondered about the stories behind them, and what it felt like to carry something on your body forever.
The idea lost its weird appeal when tattoos became trendy. Now it seems that half the population under the age of 30 has a tribal armband or, for the ladies, a floral design on the lower back. I had no need to make such a display to the world as an attention-getting device. So I discarded my tattoo fantasy.
But the idea returned with a vengeance in the fall of 2004. My mother was dying a slow death from Alzheimers Syndrome. She lost most of her memory long before her body died. Eventually she was unable to remember my name. On many occasions, I wasn’t sure she knew who I was. I watched the progression of her disease, and the complete disappearance of the personality I knew as my mother. It seemed that a part of my life was fading away as well.
Now the desire to get a tattoo seized me. I wanted to do something to honor her -- something that would be permanent, unlike her life which was slipping away.
My design decision was easy. For reasons I won’t go into here, my mother used to ask me when I was a young boy: “Will you put red roses on my grave?” Eager to please, like a good son I promised her that I would. Now, with her death approaching, I knew I probably wouldn’t be able to meet that commitment. So I decided to put a red rose on my body instead.
Spanky, the tattoo artist, came highly recommended by one of my wife’s patients. Spanky did several custom sketches for me. It took him several weeks to deliver the sketches, so I had plenty of time to be sure I really wanted to do this.
Now I have my tattoo. I showed it to my mother before she died. It’s a red rose with a thorny stalk and my nickname “Sonny.” Spanky drilled it onto my right shoulder one afternoon, with the music of his favorite heavy metal bands pounding away in the background.
I’ve never told anybody about my tattoo, except for a few close family members (and now you, my readers). It’s high up on my arm, where nobody will see it unless I’m shirtless or in a tank top. And with Ozzfest approaching, I think I’m ready to buy that tank top.
The song Tattoo originally appeared on The Who Sell Out, but I prefer the live version on the CD edition of The Who Live at Leeds. The lyrics include:
"Our old man didn't like our appearance
He said that only women wear long hair...."