Legs - I Married my MotherMonday, February 20, 2017
I married my mother.
Let me explain. In the days when airplanes landed and on the tarmac they brought a staircase so that passengers could descend, sometime the staircase was on the other side of the plane. As I looked through the airport window I would watch for my mother’s legs. I knew instantly when I saw her legs.
My mother had beautiful legs and feet. She wasn’t especially lovely of face but I can assert here that I did inherit her face, her crooked smile, her legs and her feet. My feet, even though I am 74 have no bunions. They are smooth and you would suspect if you saw them that they belong to a man in his early 30s.
Sometime in the mid90s a Vancouver travel magazine sent me to Destin, Florida. I stayed in a luxurious community and hotel managed and owned by the folks who used to run Whistler.
I was offered a free massage. Now I am a bit shy and when I pointed this out to the publicity woman she told me I could have a pedicure instead.
The room where I walked into had a row of 10 women all with their feet in large plastic basins. Some of them had those beauty parlour hairdryers on their head. I sat down and removed my shoes and socks (I had made sure to thoroughly wash my feet before I even walked into the place.
The women were gossiping about their men and of the men of their friends. Some of the stuff they were talking about made me blush. As soon as the pedicurist said something like, “Wow what wonderful feet!” There was silence. The women asked me what my secret was. I told them that even as a little boy I could always find a shoe size that fit just right. I told them about my mother and about her swimmer’s feet and how I had inherited them without her talent for swimming. She had learned to swim in Manila Bay.
When I spotted this pictures that I took many moons ago at the Drake Hotel I knew I would have to write this. At the time that I took these two photographs there was a beautiful ecdysiast called Legs Diamond. She had legs to kill for and the special peculiarity that she (she was not the only one, there was another) had a third but very small nipple.
In 1968 my first glimpse of my future wife, Rosemary Healey, was from behind. She was wearing a very short shirt-waist dress. She had long blonde hair down to her waist. Her legs were superb. The rest is my personal history.