My grandmother had pretty hands.

She was a short, plump grandma who sewed all her own clothes from the same pattern, so she always wore non-descript pants and a sleeveless v-neck polyester top that was comfortable, I imagine, for her generous frame. She never went past 8th grade and never learned to drive. I took her to the bank to cash a check when I was in college. She had never done that before. She was, to me, an old and unfussy grandma, but her hands were slender, with fair unblemished skin and beautifully shaped, tapered nails. Did she spend time grooming those nails? Why were they so pretty? There was no polish, of course. We were Calvinists. 

Grandma wore a ring on her right pinky finger that I loved to look at. It was gold, with an oval sky blue center, the same kind that would have a cameo, but it was undecorated. I liked to run my hand over the smooth blue face of it. I never saw her without it. I wonder what happened to it when she died.  

My grandmother’s hands made a pie just about every week. I don’t think she ever ate any pie herself, but my grandpa was a happy beneficiary. “That’s real good,” he would murmur with his typical Dutch reserve. She also made cookies. So many cookies. We went straight to the square white Tupperware on the kitchen counter at Wallinwood Drive whenever we went to visit.

I’ve made her cookies hundreds of times, and when people ask me what they are, I just say they’re called Grandma’s cookies. That’s the only way I’ve ever known them. I have her original recipe, written in her neat cursive, in her little recipe book full of wildly unhealthy and gross (to me) recipes like Tuna Spaghetti Casserole, Cherry Jello Christmas Salad, and Apple Cheddar Pizza.

She also quilted. For each of us five kids, she made, by hand, a wedding quilt. She was a talented, precise seamstress but I did not love her color choices. I kept mine on our bed for a few years, then moved it to a trunk in our attic for decades. When we were packing up to move back to Michigan last year, I got it out again. End of a very happy story: my friend’s son made a jacket out of it for me, which I love. He transferred the embroidered names and wedding date to the lining. Even in the stitch work, I recognize my grandma’s handwriting.

On the other hand (sorry), my own hands are short and stubby. Not sure who I have to thank for that. They have a lot of age spots. Possibly this is due to the baby oil I slathered on them when I was in high school. I have a small scar on my left hand from when my cousin Beth went over it on ice skates. Accidentally, but still. My nails are unremarkable. One time years ago, I was in choir practice and Joan, who sat next to me, looked at my hands holding our shared music and said, “I like your hands. You have a working woman’s hands.” She had bright red gel nails. 

At this moment on my hands I have two burn marks from my oven. I am not a careless person but somehow I always have a few baking burn marks on my hands, wrists, or arms. I bake almost every day, so I guess it’s not unexpected. This time I was making pumpkin-shaped sugar cookies for my grandchildren.

My hands have changed thousands of diapers. They have graded thousands of essays. They have held Goodnight Moon and Housekeeping. They have joined with my husband’s on our rail trail walks. They have taken out the garbage, held the dog leash, planted flowers, washed windows, and made family dinners. 

On my left hand I have a cheap silver wedding band. I bought it on sale at Kohl’s for about six dollars, over thirty years ago. My engagement ring and true wedding band are gold, and I had to take them off when I jammed my finger in the garden. I could have gotten them re-sized but I never did because I don’t really care about jewelry. There’s a part of me, though, that wants to wear them again. The humble solitaire diamond I was so excited to show off  back then is very small, and I feel such nostalgia for who we were when it was exciting and just right. 

Things were so much less complicated back then. To be sure, I don’t want to go back; I love my life. We have wonderful kids, grandchildren, meaningful work, money to travel and money to give to causes that we believe in. We don’t bat an eye about going out for dinner or going on vacation. But we have lost people we love, we have friends who are terribly sick, and there is so much distress in the world. I remember my little diamond ring on my little stubby hand, and who I was then, with gratitude and love.

Unlike my grandma, my hands look like the hands of an old lady. And I guess that at 65 that is not surprising. But it is okay. I am grateful for all that my hands have done and can do. 

Header photo by Raymond Petrik on Unsplash