“Wow, look how bad my hands look. I’ve never looked at them before,” my Grandmother said to herself. Never really looked at them. I hovered next to her, camera ready. I had taken a group picture of just the family hands. I didn’t know what to say. Her hands are gnarled with age and arthritis, but I really like them that way. They don’t hurt. Despite the way they look, she isn’t in pain.
“Pastor shakes my hand like this,” she says as she grabs the fingertips of one hand with the other. Now I know why, is what she was implying. She felt that her hands were too ugly or gnarled for others to want to touch.
“They probably think you’re in pain,” my mother suggests. “You’re not in pain.”
“No,” Grandma agrees. “I’m not in pain.”
The disappointment in her hands came after being compared to all the youthful and not-so-youthful hands of the house. None of them have taken on a gnarled form. Only hers. The base knuckles of each finger are enlarged and rounded. The back of her hand bruised from bumping something. One of her pinkies has a thin metal rod in it to straighten out the tip. The rest of her fingers lie at funny angles.
The Thanksgiving meal would have been exhausting for her. She was dreading it, until the family stepped in. My mom told her not to worry about it. We would bring all the food we needed down to Grandma’s house. She could pick up whatever she wanted to at the store. I even volunteered to learn the ropes of Thanksgiving to ease her mind. She was so grateful. Her tired hands can’t do it anymore. The turkey is just too heavy to handle. Her hands don’t move right. Just the thought of being in charge of making the meal was too much. She was happy to pass the torch.
In the evening, after the meal was over and cleaned up, we sat at the table in the kitchen. I shoved a box of crayons, two candlesticks, some coloring books, and forks out of the way and wrangled in the entire family. A dishtowel was laid out so the hands would be seen easily in a black and white photo.
“We’re waiting on you!” I shouted to my dad and brother. They slowly got out of their easy chairs and shuffled to the kitchen. “Put your hands in a circle. Ready? Okay, don’t move.” I snapped a quick picture. “Wait!” I quickly changed the settings. “Okay, don’t move. Here I go.” Flash. Click. “Don’t move.” Another adjustment. Flash. Click. “Okay. Thank you!” The boys went back to their easy chairs. Grandma and the rest of the crew resumed conversations and coloring.
When I asked my grandmother later, she answered that hands are useful. They show kindness. They’re used to do things for others, to be helpful, to care for the sick, to play with grandchildren. Basically, her life’s work, but she wouldn’t say that.
I realize now the respect I have for old hands, the work they’ve done, the lives they’ve touched.
