by Beth Goodman

Disclaimers: None whatsoever. Oh, maybe a spew alert.

Feedback is always welcome: bethgoodman@e-scribblers.com.

Copyright © 2004 by Beth Goodman. All Rights Reserved.

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I would hold her hand up and watch the veins drain and then hold it down and watch them refill. And then stop the flow all together with a little pressure.

Yeah, I know, I was a weirdo even then.

Granny's hands had been shaped by decades of manual labor, and bore the signs of old wounds and arthritic joints. But they were also the hands that gently held mine while I went to sleep at night to keep me from sucking my thumb, and the hands that dried my tears.

Those hands could do wonderful things, knead heavenly homemade bread, knit warm slippers, and grow beautiful roses.

I was looking at my own hands the other day, and realized what a roadmap to my past they are. There's the bluish scar from 7th grade where a girl who was evil incarnate stabbed me with a pencil, a long incision on my left fore-finger from the slip of a new pocket knife. A triangular scar on the back of my hand from where I tried to scratch off a piece of dirt at the car wash while using the high pressure hose -- lets just say that was a really bad idea.

My hands can't cook, or knit or garden. I didn't inherit those gifts. But they can tickle, play musical instruments and fix electronics and even do a half way decent job of typing.

I wonder if some day another little child will look at my world worn hands in fascination. I wonder what tales I will have to tell them about this scar and that bump.

I miss my grandmother's hands. Their cool softness on my cheek, and their strength as she harvested fresh vegetables from her garden.

But most, I miss the feel of her hand in mine, as we stood to face life's challenges together.

Take me to Life With Granny 6...

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