Grandma’s Hands

By the time I was born, only my maternal grandmother, Ruby was still living. From children’s books and the experience of some of my friends, I had an idealistic picture of what a grandmother was like. Unlike my grandmother, she usually lived nearby and came to visit often.

My grandmother lived in a country farmhouse, far away from where I was raised as a child. She had given birth to one child every two years until she had five sons and five daughters. About seven years after the last of her ten babies was born, Ruby’s husband, my grandfather, died. The year was 1927. If the genealogy records are accurate, she was 52 years old by that time.

The household was already organized with economy, precision and determination. A few of the eldest sons had gone off to earn money that could then be sent back home. The eldest daughters had long been taking care of the very youngest children and the ones in-between were used to tending to the farm chores and household duties.

Ruby’s children reaped the health benefits of her ability to prevent the spread of disease by meticulous attention to hygiene. She learned her native nursing-care skills from her mother. Grandma’s attentive watchfulness and analytical problem solving enhanced her reputation as one who could cure the sick.

My grandmother was a strong and demanding woman. Observation of my aunts, her daughters, has given me a taste of what this must have been like. She may have felt that the family’s very survival depended upon her ability to make decisions quickly and enforce them with a critical tongue. The precision cutting of her words sometimes left jagged scars that required healing over time. Yet, there was enough comfort, compassion and caring for the mending of wounds within the family and beyond. Those who were ill, or in need, could count on my grandmother for comfort and aid.

Despite the Great Depression and outward poverty of the little farmhouse, there was enough healthy food to eat and enough to generously share with others in my Grandma’s house. Guests were always welcome, whether they were friends or strangers. And, when the workday ended, there was music, books to read, lively conversation, jokes and laughter.

Even though I only got to see my Grandma in person once, each time we visited the old farmhouse its seemed that Ruby’s powerful spirit was still there. It was revealed in more than just the chipped Blue Willow dinner wear in the China cabinet, or the rocking chair by the kitchen window. It could be observed in the qualities of her children, my aunts and uncles. It emanated whenever a guest, whether child or adult, entered the back door. And, it is still reflected in the values and actions of her grandchildren.

When I curl a loop of yarn around my fingers to knit I think of my Grandma’s hands knitting warm socks and mittens. When I cook, I imagine Grandma’s hands kneading the many loaves of bread, baking the pies and churning the butter. When I help care for someone who is sick or in pain, I reflect on Grandma’s care that lives on long past her lifetime.

Perhaps the ideal Grandma that I imagined as a child visits me more now than she did when I was a child.