The feather on my arm
While playing pickleball at the public town court the other day, I began noticing something beyond volleys, dings and serves. More visiting players arrived as the weather warmed, bringing with them not only different playing styles but also colorful tattoos. They seemed to belong mostly to a younger generation than mine. One woman especially caught my attention. An advanced pickleball player, she wore an intricate ivy design peeking across her back just above her waist. It was surprisingly graceful, more like a botanical illustration than what I had once imagined a tattoo to be. I found myself wondering what story it told. My earliest memory of tattoos was quite different. I associated them with sailors. A tattoo of Popeye flexing on a muscular forearm — or a faded image of a scantily clad woman —seemed to belong to a rough world far removed from my own. That image stayed with me for years since childhood. Today, tattoos are seen everywhere. Our town's Main Street even has a business devoted to tattoo removal. I often pass the shop and wonder if there are enough tattooed people to s
