I remember her hands.
I remember they looked a bit clawlike.
I remember her fingers curled in, the joints knobby,
the age spots sprinkled from wrist to nail on the wrinkly,
folded skin that draped her frail, petite hands.
folded skin that draped her frail, petite hands.
She was suffering from arthritis,
I would imagine.
I would imagine.
I remember her half finger.
I always tell people the stand mixer chopped off her finger.
I remember her telling me that story, once, when we made cookies.
Probably, because I was staring.
Today, I always tell people that if you aren't
a mindful baker you too,
could end up with
half a
finger
in the
batter.
a mindful baker you too,
could end up with
half a
finger
in the
batter.
As a young child my eye was always drawn to that missing finger, the half finger. I always wondered what really happened to the other half. Perhaps, it's not the mixer's fault. The aunts who know more than me speculate that my memories of the stand mixer mishap might be flawed. I've been told it may have been a Stokely Cannery injury, from when she worked there (on the line?). I know memories can be crazy and unreliable.
Have I made that story up in my head?
What about the rest of my memories?
Have I made that story up in my head?
What about the rest of my memories?
Grandma and me-1975 |
And I remember playing cribbage with her. I was very young then and I don't remember winning. I knew how to play because she played with me. I remember being fascinated at how she could hold the cards, and shuffle and deal, with half a missing finger. She always let me lose, gently. But the aunts who know more than me have told me she usually played cutthroat cribbage. She took her fifteen-two's quite seriously.
Gracie |
I wonder if my great-grandma Gertrude ever looked at my hands the way I look at Gracie's hands. I wonder if she ever compared my hands to hers. I wonder if she ever imagined her great, great granddaughter would be playing cribbage like we used to. I wonder if Gertrude told me the stand mixer, finger chopping story just to scare me and ensure I'd always respect the power of a stand mixer.
Or maybe, she really just wanted me to stop staring at her finger.