GRANNY’S HANDS
I had so many better summer offers. Therese and her family had invited me to go camping with them in Colorado for a week. Sister Johnson had offered to pay my way to church camp in July. Patty and Polly planned on spending every sunny day at the public pool on West Lamar Ave.
I begged my momma to let me stay home this summer. I pleaded with Daddy to not make me go. The bus ticket was bought, my bags were all but packed, and my summer fate was sealed: I was to spend eight weeks with my great granny in Dawson, Oklahoma.
I was less than thrilled.
The night before I left, my momma came into my room and sat on the edge of my quilt-covered bed and asked me if it were really as bad as my weeks and weeks worth of pouting had indicated.
“Yes,” I grumbled, “There’s nothing to do at Great Granny’s house and there’s plenty to do here!” I chocked back a sob. I couldn’t tell you now if that sob was real of manufactured from teenage hormones and pouty child-syndrome, but I sobbed nonetheless, hoping to play on the sympathies of my parents who had obviously never been 13 before.
Momma softly explained that she and Daddy felt that there wouldn’t be many more summers for going to Great Granny’s house and I had plenty of summers left in me. They certainly wouldn’t want me to miss out on any time with Great Granny just so I could spend one more day at the pool with the twins.
“Give me one good reason why you wouldn’t want to spend time with Great Granny,” Daddy challenged from the door.
I knew that Daddy had asked that question using those particular words in that particular order knowing full well that I couldn’t really say anything against Great Granny. The truth was that I loved Great Granny. The truth was also that she was old and I was young and really, how could she be expected to entertain me for a full eight weeks?
“It’s her hands,” I whined in a lame attempt to give him an answer, “Great Granny’s hands are ugly. They creep me out.”
Daddy chuckled; Momma smiled and kissed my forehead, “Sleep tight,” she said, “Your 8:00 bus will come early in the morning.”
The two-hour bus ride from my comfortable home in the city with its luxuries like swimming pools and theaters and cafes gave me plenty of time to contemplate. I didn’t blame Great Granny for our terrible position for the next eight weeks. I did, however, decide that if I were miserable enough, she’s send me packing right back home. Before my bus pulled into the station, I had perfected my sullen face and practiced my big sighs.
The first sigh, however, was not forced or fake in any way. As I stepped off the bus, I saw her standing on the side of the building: Her pill box hat, though 30 years old or older, was placed squarely on her head; her faded flour sack dress was pressed and starched as much as the worn dress could be. The tops of her knee-high nylons were barely visible underneath her skirt and her shoes looked like black boxes with one-inch heels. And her purse. Her patent leather purse with on strap and one silver buckle was grasped firmly in her hands, her ugly, gnarled, weathered and scared hands.
She smiled when she saw me and I slowly made my way to her, allowing one more sigh to heave my shoulders about six-inches higher than they normally stood. Quickly, she placed her ugly hands on my shoulder blades and patted me swiftly, “Let’s go, girl,” she almost whispered, “It’s time to get on home. I’ve got peach cobbler that won’t fix itself!” Great Granny hated being in town and I could see that we weren’t going to spend any time here that wasn’t necessary. As I lugged my case, I struggled to keep up with the old woman. I barely had my case tossed in the back of the pick up truck before she popped the clutch and we were off.
“You hungry?” she asked as we passed a drive-in dinner. I smiled for the first time since I began packing for my summer.
“Yes, ma’am!” I responded already tasting the burger and onion rings I planned on ordering.
“Good,” Great Granny said as the pick-up flew right by the drive-in, “I’ve got pork chops and greens already cooked at home. I’ve been saving the greens for a special occasion and your arrival is certainly special enough!” I could hear the genuine excitement in her voice. I could feel the genuine disdain in my chest.
For the next half hour as the comforts of a big city faded from the view of the pick-up’s rear window, Great Granny chatted on and on and on about the summer festivities. Before the last TG & Y was only a memory, I had tuned Great Granny completely out of my mind.
After our lunch, where we ate our pork chops with our hands so we could be sure to get “every last scrap off the bone”, Great Granny said she was going to teach me how to make peach cobbler. When I saw no jar of canned peaches (which she always sent to my momma at Christmas time), I knew the process was going to be a lot longer than I imagined. I watched Great Granny’s hands move swiftly as she peeled the peaches and then without any seen effort, removed the pits. She asked me to hand her the butter from the ice box. I returned with the margarine at which time, Great Granny stopped her steady stream of cooking commentary and said, “Girl, we bake with butter and cook with oleo. Now, pass me the butter, please.” That was the first lesson Great Granny passed on that I can remember word-for-word. At home, we always bought oleo. I didn’t know there was a difference. Apparently, there was.
As the cobbler was placed in the oven, I became aware of just how hot the tiny kitchen had become. Great Granny invited me to go with her to gather some strawberries for the preserves she planned on canning the next day. I sighed my big sigh and put on my pouty face and told Great Granny I would just stay at the house. Alone. By myself.
“Suit yourself,” she said and grabbed a basket before pushing herself from the tiny house through the wooden screen door.
I wandered into the living room, a living room I’d been in at least a dozen times before, and looking for the television, which I knew I wouldn’t find. I glanced around for the radio, that I also knew would be missing. I scanned for something to bide my time and found a Bible, a Farmer’s Almanac and a basket full of fabric scraps. With the temperature in the house raising, I heaved a sincere sigh and followed Great Granny’s path out the screen door to discover the old lady was no where to be found.
I could have wandered through the meadow and over the hills and into the trees in search of Great Granny, but – in my state of self-pity – I was certain I’d be lost and would never find civilization again. I opted to safely plop myself on the back steps and wait for her return. It seemed hours that I sat there, but since there was not a clock to be seen and I had forgotten my watch at home that morning, I had no way of telling how long I sat there before I heard the familiar old voice singing, “The Old Rugged Cross” as she came over the west hill and into my sights.
Great Granny’s apron was stained almost as if she’d been bleeding and the basket she carried under her arm and on her hip appeared to be heaping with tiny little fruits. “Good news, girl!” she hollered, “The blackberries are ready too!” And she dug into the basket with her purple hands and held out a tart fruit for me to sample.
***
I only thought it was hot the day we cooked the cobbler. For the next few days, we canned preserves and jellies and jams and I truly understood was “hot” was. Great Granny talked non-stop partly giving me canning lessons, which I would quickly forget, and partly telling me all about the people to whom we’d deliver the jars of fruity goodness.
“Tomorrow, though,” she stated very matter of factly, “is Sunday and we’ll rest.”
And rest we did. I didn’t pack any books and I didn’t have any hobbies aside from television and swimming, so I mainly sat. I sat and watched Great Granny cross stitch. Eventually tiring from that, I suppose, she picked up her Bible and read, then, closing her eyes, she laid her head against the back of her winged chair.
“Great Granny,” I whispered, thinking I would offer to walk her to her bed. She held up a single finger instead and I silenced myself again with still another big sigh escaping from my body. Eventually, Great Granny opened her eyes and walked to the kitchen where she cut some slices of ham and placed them between two slices of mustard-spread bread. Afterwards, we ate the last of the peach cobbler.
When the afternoon sun had peaked and was on its westward slide, Granny dragged the basket of fabric scraps over to where I sat on the couch. “Let me tell you about quilting,” she said as she pulled a beautiful block of fabric in a pattern I couldn’t help but trace with my fingers. Eventually we moved to the table where we measured and traced and cut until Great Granny said I had the makings of a great quilt. And then I noticed that the afternoon sun had become the evening sunset. After another ham sandwich in our bellies and another reading of the Bible, Great Granny declared it had been a good Sunday and we made our way to bed.
The next week, we harvested honey and I pieced my quilt. The next week, we made a total of 14 pies that were all taken to the First Methodist Church pie auction. Of course, Great Granny wouldn’t let us bid on any pie explaining to me – as if I weren’t aware of this fact – that she was perfectly capable of making her own pie. The next week, Great Granny introduced me to catfishing. We went every day before sunrise when the temperatures were slightly cooler and the catfish wouldn’t be so deep in the “pool” as Great Granny called it. I tried to clean my catch, but my stomach just wouldn’t let me. I was amazed at Great Granny as her fingers securely held the knife that released the fish’s head and I was astounded as her hands swiftly pulled the skin from the filet and, with one great pull, her fingers would be holding the bones.
Against my original plans, time passed quicker than I anticipated. Eventually, time flew. I knew that I probably wouldn’t finish my quilt before having to return home and prepare for my last year of junior high. Great Granny and I tried hard to finish it up and, with the exception of one block, we finished the quilting. I promised her that I’d finish at home and then bring it back to her to see the completely finished product. Placing her needle in the pin cushion and removing the thimbles from her thumb and fingers, Great Granny patted my face with her leathered hands and said, “Oh, I’m sure you will.”
***
The quilt was the last thing I folded and placed in my suitcase, zipping all the contents as I prepared for Great Granny to drive me into town so I could catch the bus back home. She stood at the door of the little room I had occupied for the past eight weeks, “Girl,” she began, “How’d you like to eat a burger and onion rings in town before I see you off?” she asked. I knew that it was not her style to eat what others had cooked when she was perfectly capable to cooking for herself. I looked up to see her gently smiling at me, willing to make this concession on my behalf. Then I saw her hands, wringing at her waist-apron, not willing to be idle even for a moment.
I smiled as I said, “If you don’t mind, I think I’d like chicken instead. Do you have time to fry some?” Without a word spoken, Great Granny spun on her heals and I could hear the cast iron skillet being set on the stovetop. I sighed happily as I heard her busy herself and tried to memorize her every move so I could, one day, emulate it myself.
Before climbing onto the bus, I turned to hug Great Granny, and she placed her hands on my shoulders and patted me gently on my back.
I promised I’d be back to visit as soon as the quilt was completed. I took her hands in mine and said, “Thank you for letting me stay this summer.”
She squeezed me and said, “You are welcome anytime.” Then she turned me and nudged me toward the bus.
***
Sadly, I was thrust back into the life of a teenaged girl almost as soon as I stepped through my door and the phone rang. It wasn’t until October that I picked up the quilt to finish the last block. I decided I wanted Great Granny help me finish the backing. The phone rang and I pushed the quilt to the side, running to the phone…
…I carried the unfinished quilt with me in the back seat as we drove from our city. And then through the big city and into the country where we finally found ourselves at Great Granny’s First Methodist Church. I cradled the quilt through the entire service, tracing Great Granny’s stitching through the delicate design over and over again, vaguely aware of the comforting words the preacher spoke. I clutched the quilt to my chest as I walked up the aisle following Momma and Daddy toward the front of the church. I let the quilt drop to my side as I took my right hand and stroked her hands, her beautiful, beautiful hands as they lay across her chest. And then I walked away, using my quilt – no, our quilt - to wipe away my tears.
