Salami Arms -by Bill Withers Tayler Lynn “It’s all a bunch of bullshit!” This is my Grandma Georgina’s reaction to most any mention of newly discovered carcinogens. “One day they tell you drink wine, the next they tell you you’re going to die. I say you’re going to die eventually anyway, do what you want.” So she does. She smokes, drinks, and lives off a diet of primarily coffee, buttermilk, and animal fat. She also pays no mind to sunscreen and worships the sun on a religious routine. As a result, she is always a gorgeous shade of deep brown that seems to glow underneath her pearly white hair. Her presence has always fascinated me; so strong and prominent with such stalwart grace. I’ve spent hours just staring at her. I used to sit on her lap and poke and prod at her face, perhaps in search of the secrets that make her such an unyielding force of a woman. It was during one of these examinations that I came across her ‘salami arms.’ It was mid-summer, mid 1990’s in muggy Michigan and she was at the peak of suntan status. Her arms were taught, muscled, and slightly marooned. We would lay on her couch on Friday nights after sunburned days at the lake; windows open and crickets chirping through endless marathons of  ‘The Twilight Zone.’ I pulled at the skin atop her forearm as I cuddled against her. “It looks like something,” I said through pigtails and crooked teeth “Something I like.” “What does? My arms?” she asked. “Yeah. They look like salami. Genoa salami. No! The kind with the peppercorns in it!” My vast knowledge of salami types was entirely her fault. She kept back stock of our favorite varieties in her refrigerator along with Ruby Red, cottage cheese, and Yoo-Hoo. I had quickly become a connoisseur of cold cuts and chocolate milk. Ah, the refined palate of a chubby 9-year-old girl. “They do not!” she remarked, slightly self-conscious though I did not take note. “Do so!” I insisted. “Look!” I pointed out the darkest freckles. “Peppercorns” The liver spots. “The meat.” And little white age-spots she could never quite tan. “That’s the fat! It’s salami, Grandma! Just look at them!” I was so proud of my analogy, unaware that an aging woman might not want her skin compared to the likes of dry cultured meats. She took it graciously though, for there was no denying, her arms really did look like salamis. “I love it!” I screamed, “I want salami arms!” This was the truth. I genuinely did want salami arms. They were marks of honor. Marks of living. Freckles of joy, heartache, poverty, and riches. Age spots of struggle, self-employment and non-conformity. Proud melanomas of sons and daughters, grandchildren, and massive holiday meals. Not to mention they looked delicious. Even at my young age, despite the absurdity of my naïve indiscretion, I knew her arms were enviable. A few days ago I was lying in Delores Park in San Francisco among children, tourists, and hip young picnickers. I was alone reading my new copy of The Believer and sipping lemonade. I grew bored and as I lay looking at the sky I started to examine my forearms. They were fair with a smattering of random freckles here and there, pretty run of the mill. It wasn’t until I started to look closer that I saw the beginnings of sun damage, scars left from kittens and serving hot plates, and ever so slightly, those little white spots that couldn’t quite tan. Early onset salami arms! Eureka! Could it be that I am paving the way for my own adventures full of joy, heartache, poverty, and riches?! Struggle, self-employment and non-conformity. Sons! Daughters! Grandchildren! Massive holiday meals! And though I’ve often felt like I’ve been bumbling through life thinking “Where did the past five years go?,” I can take comfort in knowing that just like Grandma Georgina, my struggles and achievements will physically manifest themselves like badges of honor directly onto the most visible part of my body. I’m hoping this trip may bring out a few more “peppercorns” of my own. And if I don’t always make the healthiest, most well-informed decisions, it’s all going to be ok. I might as well go for broke. I mean, after all, “you’re gonna die eventually anyway.” Right, Grandma?

Salami Arms

-by Bill Withers Tayler Lynn

“It’s all a bunch of bullshit!”

This is my Grandma Georgina’s reaction to most any mention of newly discovered carcinogens.

“One day they tell you drink wine, the next they tell you you’re going to die. I say you’re going to die eventually anyway, do what you want.”

So she does. She smokes, drinks, and lives off a diet of primarily coffee, buttermilk, and animal fat.

She also pays no mind to sunscreen and worships the sun on a religious routine. As a result, she is always a gorgeous shade of deep brown that seems to glow underneath her pearly white hair.

Her presence has always fascinated me; so strong and prominent with such stalwart grace. I’ve spent hours just staring at her. I used to sit on her lap and poke and prod at her face, perhaps in search of the secrets that make her such an unyielding force of a woman. It was during one of these examinations that I came across her ‘salami arms.’

It was mid-summer, mid 1990’s in muggy Michigan and she was at the peak of suntan status. Her arms were taught, muscled, and slightly marooned. We would lay on her couch on Friday nights after sunburned days at the lake; windows open and crickets chirping through endless marathons of  ‘The Twilight Zone.’ I pulled at the skin atop her forearm as I cuddled against her.

“It looks like something,” I said through pigtails and crooked teeth “Something I like.”

“What does? My arms?” she asked.

“Yeah. They look like salami. Genoa salami. No! The kind with the peppercorns in it!”

My vast knowledge of salami types was entirely her fault. She kept back stock of our favorite varieties in her refrigerator along with Ruby Red, cottage cheese, and Yoo-Hoo. I had quickly become a connoisseur of cold cuts and chocolate milk. Ah, the refined palate of a chubby 9-year-old girl.

“They do not!” she remarked, slightly self-conscious though I did not take note.

“Do so!” I insisted. “Look!”

I pointed out the darkest freckles.

“Peppercorns”

The liver spots.

“The meat.”

And little white age-spots she could never quite tan.

“That’s the fat! It’s salami, Grandma! Just look at them!”

I was so proud of my analogy, unaware that an aging woman might not want her skin compared to the likes of dry cultured meats. She took it graciously though, for there was no denying, her arms really did look like salamis.

“I love it!” I screamed, “I want salami arms!”

This was the truth. I genuinely did want salami arms. They were marks of honor. Marks of living. Freckles of joy, heartache, poverty, and riches. Age spots of struggle, self-employment and non-conformity. Proud melanomas of sons and daughters, grandchildren, and massive holiday meals. Not to mention they looked delicious. Even at my young age, despite the absurdity of my naïve indiscretion, I knew her arms were enviable.

A few days ago I was lying in Delores Park in San Francisco among children, tourists, and hip young picnickers. I was alone reading my new copy of The Believer and sipping lemonade. I grew bored and as I lay looking at the sky I started to examine my forearms. They were fair with a smattering of random freckles here and there, pretty run of the mill. It wasn’t until I started to look closer that I saw the beginnings of sun damage, scars left from kittens and serving hot plates, and ever so slightly, those little white spots that couldn’t quite tan.

Early onset salami arms! Eureka! Could it be that I am paving the way for my own adventures full of joy, heartache, poverty, and riches?! Struggle, self-employment and non-conformity. Sons! Daughters! Grandchildren! Massive holiday meals! And though I’ve often felt like I’ve been bumbling through life thinking “Where did the past five years go?,” I can take comfort in knowing that just like Grandma Georgina, my struggles and achievements will physically manifest themselves like badges of honor directly onto the most visible part of my body. I’m hoping this trip may bring out a few more “peppercorns” of my own. And if I don’t always make the healthiest, most well-informed decisions, it’s all going to be ok. I might as well go for broke.

I mean, after all, “you’re gonna die eventually anyway.” Right, Grandma?

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