My Grandma's Hands

My Grandma's hands never saw nail polish and not much hand cream, maybe a little Jergen's lotion.

They could chop off a chicken's head, put Monday's wash through the wringer, make the flakiest pie crust ever, deft, deft, with only her wedding ring, short plump fingers, working the dough, kneading bread, never using a recipe, washing dishes, cleaning the chicken whose head she chopped off minutes ago, frying the chicken, always deft, pushing the pieces around the big cast iron skillet with the Crisco spattering.

Nothing ever tasted as good as that chicken, fried up brown, so moist and juicy, tasting like how a chicken should taste.

My grandma's hands once ran the sewing machine needle right through her finger on the treadle machine. She never swore, maybe said, "My goodness." Sang hymns in the kitchen while she tidied up and dried the dishes, The Old Rugged Cross, and The Garden. Always went to church.

My grandma's hands diapered four babies, hoed the garden, picked the bugs off the potatoes, made pajamas out of the feed sacks, picked the strawberries, twisted her hankie when she was nervous, always had to be at the station long before the train left, twisting that hankie, clean of course.

My grandma's hands laced up her corset, wiped my tears, put money in the collection plate, ironed the tea towels, set the table. My grandma's hands tied the strings on her sunbonnet, pieced and quilted many quilts, dug in her pocket book to find a quarter for me to buy an ice cream cone.

My grandma's hands turned the pages of her Bible and sometimes the pulp fiction, westerns mostly, she read before taking a well-deserved afternoon rest. My grandma's hands were never idle, never manicured, never pampered, but they were so beautiful.