One good sunburn story deserves another

It has occurred to me that I have another sunburn story to tell you, about a sunburn that was worse than Sunday's (see photo at right), worse even than the time I went sailing on Lake Superior and burned my eyeballs. (Which I mentioned in the comments of my last post.)

I am speaking of the June when I was 14 years old and flew off to Las Vegas to visit my cousins.

First, you must picture me at 14: awkward and short; fuzzy hair clamped to my head with plastic barrettes; my thighs developing before any other part of me; enormous glasses; extremely pale skin. I had just endured a Minnesota winter and had not seen the sun in eight months; in Duluth, spring usually comes in late June, after weeks of fog and rain.

My skin was tender and pale, like early shoots that sprout under the winter's wet leaves and mulch.

Transport me, now, to hot and sunny Nevada.

On the second day of my visit, Uncle Patty said, "Hop in the pickup, kids; we're going on a picnic!"

We all climbed into the open back of his white pickup--Patti, Timmi, Debbi, Richi, and Kathi. Oh, and me. (Or would that be "mi"?) And Patti's boyfriend, Rick, a lanky, quiet guy.  My uncle started driving. And he drove. And he drove.

Somewhere past Hoover Dam, I realized that this wasn't a little going-to-the-park-a-few-miles-away kind of picnic. No, we were headed to Arizona.

And me in a tanktop and shorts.

And with that white, white skin.

And the desert sun beating down.

The burn I suffered that day was serious. Thank god for Rick, who could tell I was suffering, and who nobly removed his shirt and gave it to me, to offer some protection on the long ride home in the open back of the pickup.

But the damage had been done, and for the next two weeks, I was in agony. I had burned so badly I could barely bend my elbows. I spent the days indoors, waiting for the air conditioning to cycle on so I could hold my deep-fried arms under its breeze and get some relief. In the evening, as the sun went down, I'd go outside and go for a bike ride.

In those days--those halcyon pre-understanding-melanoma days--a sunburn wasn't considered a big deal. Yeah, I hurt. But it'd heal. Right?  

I remember my aunt Jane slathering me with various lotions and ointments, and I remember being annoyed that bright sunshine hurt my burnt skin, but I don't remember any lasting ill effects.  Being of good northern European stock, I did what I always do: I burned, I peeled, and then I reverted to white.

In July, when I finally flew home again, Guv met me at the airport.  I got off the plane wearing my very best gold sleeveless polyester dress and brown sandals with little heels. I felt very grown up, coming back from my first lengthy away-from-home trip.

And Guv looked at me and said, "A month in Las Vegas, and you're not even tan! Didn't you go outside at all?"