Son-One recently became engaged to a most wonderful young woman. They met through mutual friends of co-workers at Starbucks. (Another reason I love Starbucks, actually.) To announce their engagement to friends and family near and far, my future daughter-in-law (DIL) posted a photo on Facebook (naturally) of the two of them, her hand prominently featured to show off her glittering new engagement ring.
And her hand is beautiful. Her fingers long and slender. Her skin flawless. Her nails beautifully shaped and natural. I am in awe of beautiful hands. I notice. I envy.
Somehow, upon my father's death...and later my mother's...my hands turned into his/hers/theirs. Farmer hands. Factory worker hands. Beautician hands ravaged by harsh chemicals. Genetically rather short and stubby, ruddy of complexion, dry, wrinkled, now a bit blotchy and splotchy, thinning skin, prominent veins. Nails that never grow evenly and cuticles that encroach readily.
Admittedly I don't pay much attention to my hands, so mainly I am to blame for the results of this lifetime of neglect. I really dislike getting professional manicures (I've had maybe 3 in my life). It seems a crazy waste of money to me. (Not to mention feeling so silly sitting there while a bored manicurist tends to my fingernails, as if this has any impact on world peace!) And while I love buying lotions and cremes that smell heavenly, I mostly forget to use them. Also, my health-nut friends tell me I don't drink enough water to hydrate my skin adequately (I'm working on that one).
Often, when I am aware of them at all, I feel embarrassed by my hands. I have been known to "hide" them strategically at times inside pockets, folded demurely in my lap, snuggled in gloves. But sometimes I gaze at them, often on the Yoga mat where my hands are RIGHT THERE UNDER MY NOSE, and I feel a grudging sense of pride and familial connection.
My parents were hard workers. They grew up with their hands in the soil and on a plow handle in rural areas of Illinois and Indiana in the 1930's where, with their parents and siblings, they toiled to literally scrape a life out of the dirt. They moved to the city as a young married couple and went to work in the textile industry -- Dad dyeing canvas cloth for manufacturing awnings and tennis shoes (Keds!) and Mom sewing Maidenform bras and girdles in near sweatshop conditions (occasional needles through fingers a workplace hazard). Later she opened her own beauty shop, exposing those hands to the chemicals needed to color and curl other women's hair. They used their hands to cradle babies, lay wood flooring, remodel houses, work on cars, repair, paint, wallpaper, cook, clean, wash, landscape.....
The hands I see on the ends of my arms are a history of my parents... and of me. They may not be pretty, but they represent a nobility of character, I think. A history of toil, of experience, of love.
Still, I will encourage DIL to drink plenty of water, use lots of lotion, wear protective gloves and try to take care of those lovely hands better than I have mine, but to also know they will not be perfect forever. She has already bathed her child hundreds of times, washed stacks of dishes, wielded a hammer in their new home, planted a flower garden, steamed espresso, carried trays of food to waiting customers, and now works in a clinic where hand-washing rituals are obsessive....time will take it's toll. And her hands will tell a story, too.
At least, that's the view from here....©
And her hand is beautiful. Her fingers long and slender. Her skin flawless. Her nails beautifully shaped and natural. I am in awe of beautiful hands. I notice. I envy.
Somehow, upon my father's death...and later my mother's...my hands turned into his/hers/theirs. Farmer hands. Factory worker hands. Beautician hands ravaged by harsh chemicals. Genetically rather short and stubby, ruddy of complexion, dry, wrinkled, now a bit blotchy and splotchy, thinning skin, prominent veins. Nails that never grow evenly and cuticles that encroach readily.
Admittedly I don't pay much attention to my hands, so mainly I am to blame for the results of this lifetime of neglect. I really dislike getting professional manicures (I've had maybe 3 in my life). It seems a crazy waste of money to me. (Not to mention feeling so silly sitting there while a bored manicurist tends to my fingernails, as if this has any impact on world peace!) And while I love buying lotions and cremes that smell heavenly, I mostly forget to use them. Also, my health-nut friends tell me I don't drink enough water to hydrate my skin adequately (I'm working on that one).
Often, when I am aware of them at all, I feel embarrassed by my hands. I have been known to "hide" them strategically at times inside pockets, folded demurely in my lap, snuggled in gloves. But sometimes I gaze at them, often on the Yoga mat where my hands are RIGHT THERE UNDER MY NOSE, and I feel a grudging sense of pride and familial connection.
My parents were hard workers. They grew up with their hands in the soil and on a plow handle in rural areas of Illinois and Indiana in the 1930's where, with their parents and siblings, they toiled to literally scrape a life out of the dirt. They moved to the city as a young married couple and went to work in the textile industry -- Dad dyeing canvas cloth for manufacturing awnings and tennis shoes (Keds!) and Mom sewing Maidenform bras and girdles in near sweatshop conditions (occasional needles through fingers a workplace hazard). Later she opened her own beauty shop, exposing those hands to the chemicals needed to color and curl other women's hair. They used their hands to cradle babies, lay wood flooring, remodel houses, work on cars, repair, paint, wallpaper, cook, clean, wash, landscape.....
The hands I see on the ends of my arms are a history of my parents... and of me. They may not be pretty, but they represent a nobility of character, I think. A history of toil, of experience, of love.
Still, I will encourage DIL to drink plenty of water, use lots of lotion, wear protective gloves and try to take care of those lovely hands better than I have mine, but to also know they will not be perfect forever. She has already bathed her child hundreds of times, washed stacks of dishes, wielded a hammer in their new home, planted a flower garden, steamed espresso, carried trays of food to waiting customers, and now works in a clinic where hand-washing rituals are obsessive....time will take it's toll. And her hands will tell a story, too.
At least, that's the view from here....©
I always loved my grandmother's hands - they were rough and knobby and they were loving. Absolutely loving. And it turns out my mother also has those hands. And now they are MY hands...knobby (and getting knobbier with my arthritis) and rough with breaking nails but loving...hands that cook and work and love. And I see that three of my four children have those same hands...curved, longfingers but hands that know how to work and know how to hold. They aren't model's hands or the hands in magazines or even the hand that I see on others...but they are my heritage and I really don't mind having them. Hugs to you - :)
ReplyDeleteFROM AN EMAIL: As for hands, I think mine were my favorite when I was doing massage. That has been my art in the later years, and I usually have gloves on when gardening, so don't see them then. So my hands are working hands as well.
ReplyDeleteMy mom and grammas never sat down without picking up their"fancywork." Always a crochet hook flashing in the lamp light. Turning out bedspreads, tablecloths, and enough doilie material to cover Wyoming and put a frill around Rhode Island!
ReplyDeleteFROM AN EMAIL: Just been reading your blog. The stories make me think and reminisce about my own life and views on ordinary things like hands (I've always been fascinated by hands. It's one of the things I like about being an OT The focus on helping kids use their hands better). My husband's oldest daughter used to write us letters when she was home with her young children. The letters were filled with her musings about the kids they filling their day with wonder at every living and death thing that presented itself as they roamed their farm. She has a sense of humor and always ended a story of some difficult " mother moment" with something that made you laugh. I think you are like her or maybe she is like you. Anyway I look forward to reading your blog and learning more about your view from there.
ReplyDeleteYour post makes me think of how my attitude toward my hands has changed over time. My hands have always been "working hands." I was a gardener (always working without using gloves) for decades. A massage therapist... And a jump in and do-it kind of person. What's interesting is that my rebel self used to feel proud of not caring that my hands looked so "used and old". I feel a little different now. It's not that I don't like my hands but now that I AM older, my hands are just part of the whole which is changing... So, my processing about all those changes includes things like hands. Thanks for this post. :)
ReplyDelete