Hands

About hands and mothers

bI’ve never been much for jewelry. No graceful swan neck to adorn with a thin gold chain, no satiny throat to nest a precious locket, no delicate ear lobe to sparkle with a diamond and no rings to grace long, slender fingers.

No, I am Midwestern, of white Northern European stock. Nothing fancy, ever practical. Sitting in the garden this morning, listening for birds and relishing the bright sky and quiet before traffic picks up, the leaf blowers start in the neighboring yard and the soft breezes turn to windy gusts, I look down at my hands.

They’re my mom’s hands for sure - small with blunt fingers, uneven, definitely un-manicured nails, veins more prominent than ever, knuckles and joints swelling with age. Even before these inevitable changes, my fingers could never wear a ring without it turning and twisting.

When I was around eleven, my beloved Aunt Fordy gave me a ring, a garnet or a ruby, I remember only that it was gold with a small red stone. I wore it for Confirmation, a ritual for Catholic school children that I never quite understood. It never had the gravitas of First Communion or required a snapshot taken in front of the rose arbor to commemorate. I guess it was to confirm my “faith”, as much as any preteen girl has faith. But I wore the ring that day and only realized a few days later that it was gone, so unfamiliar I was with wearing any sort of jewelry. Besides, I was still in a trainer bra and preferred riding around the neighborhood on my bicycle, maybe meeting up with one of the boys in my class, my first hints of attraction rather than annoyance these male creatures. I paid little attention to such details as jewelry back then.

I never told Mom about the missing ring and she never asked. I imagine that she assumed it was in the dresser with my other treasures; my First Communion prayer book and rosary, the medals from Lourdes and Fatima given to me, all by that same beloved aunt, the acorns in a little brass box from India, a small silk scarf that smelled like my mother. These were my treasures but I never pulled them out of their safe keeping. They stayed there in that drawer, my own private stash that my mother respected.

I never told Aunt Fordy about the ring either though I thought about it as a guilty young girl and even into adulthood. I thought about that ring every time I visited the farm and later staying with her in her apartment in downtown Waterloo, Iowa but never did I confess my negligence.

I remember holding my grandmother’s hand as she lay in the downstairs bedroom in the little house in Reinbeck, Iowa. She and my two uncles and my other aunt, Mayme, moved there after retiring from the farm. Grandma never liked town and survived only a few years. As she neared her final days, I sat at her bedside holding her unbearably soft hand now relieved of hard work, skin smooth and slack with age.

Ours was a loving family but not always physical in our affection. I don’t remember holding my mother’s hand even when she lay dying in her hospital bed. I was just starting college, a whole new life ahead of me and here I was trying to process the fact that she was dying. How was that possible, how could that be?

Her hands, frequently flecked with dirt from working in the yard, greasy from cooking dinner, red from cleanser when scrubbing the tub, cleaned-up with lotion and a bit of red nail polish for one of Dad’s company dinners. Those hands that sewed clothing for me and my two brothers when we were young, mended socks and replaced lost buttons, that helped wash the dishes at Grandma’s house when we visited, that applied mercurochrome when we scraped a knee, those hands the collected wild flowers, and clipped branches and blooms and arranged them in a vase from her basement “workroom”, those hands that brushed my hair and pulled it up in a tight pony tail, those hands that snipped a bright red geranium and pinned it to my summer dress, the time my date stood me up, a protected high school girl not used to being spurned, my mother who rolled and set her hair to save money to buy me clothes like that plaid kilt skirt I wish I still had today, those hands. She said once, holding them out, glancing down at them - I work with these hands.

Some years ago I had an accident and cut my hand on a broken glass vase. Even though it was my non-dominant hand being incapacitated, it was awkward and extremely difficult to perform the simplest tasks. The hand was repaired but showing more wear and age. A few years into our long relationship, J. gave me a delicate ring with a small but brilliant diamond. I wear it on occasion and make a point to when we are doing something “special” like a holiday night out or a birthday dinner.. I wear it to show my appreciation for his thoughtfulness, but he never comments. It twists and turns on my gfinger, delicate and pretty on my veiny, knotted hand.

My hands by now have had a lot more use than Mom’s as I have already lived twenty- three years longer than she did. I often look at my hands, how un-delicate and grubby they are after working in the garden or painting or house-cleaning. Then I think of my mother and remember her worn, beautiful, and proud hands. It’s a vivid and comforting memory and yes, I work with these hands.