I am fascinated with hands; little hands, big hands, wrinkled, weathered hands, manicured hands, the hands of gardeners, mechanics, carpenters, surgeons, clergy, musicians and beauticians. They express who we are, what we do, where we’ve been, and sometimes where we are going.
These are Kezzie’s hands, breaking up a Christmas sugar cookie at a Barnes and Noble cafe. She’s my kind of gal, enjoying coffee shops and bookstores. She was so intent on breaking up her cookie – then she saw my muffin. She got a quarter of the muffin. I got one of the cookie pieces.
That’s the way the cookie crumbles.
One of her current favorite books is “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie” by Laura Numeroff. It is a circular story that starts with giving a mouse a cookie, then he wants a glass of milk, and on and on until the mouse gets another cookie.
The picture has been sitting on my desktop for a month now, waiting for me and my hands to work with it. I’m ready.
I have my Yia Yia’s hands. Grandma’s hand were large, but, Yia Yia’s were quite small. I’d watch her work in the kitchen, kneading bread, wrapping grape leaves over meatballs for dolmathes, rolling balls of butter cookies. I’d watch her hands. They were never still. Grandma’s weren’t either. She cleaned houses until just before she died at 81. I just didn’t know her as well. My mother had her hands, larger than mine, her knuckles swollen from arthritis and her nails perfectly rounded as if they all wore a smile, no matter how much her hands hurt.
While I don’t have my mother’s hands and my fingernails don’t smile, I tend hold them in ways she did; folded one atop the other in my lap, as if in prayer in front of me, or curved backwards at my side when in a car’s passenger seat, where I always start searching for the house keys long before we arrive home.
Kezzie’s mommy doesn’t have my hands, BUT, she holds them the same way as I do and as her Yia Yia did.
Our Kezzie already has hands that are never still. She’s already “working” cookies. I wonder how she will hold her hands. I wonder what they’ll say. I just hope she doesn’t give a mouse a cookie.
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It’s funny the things that run through families, Penny, subconscious things that never get explained. I have a tick with my hands. I got it from my mother, but I know her mother had it, too. I’ve never figured out if my hands are more like my mother’s or my father’s, but my nervousness with them is definitely from my mother.
I loved this piece and Kezzie’s hands.
It is amazing, isn’t it Andra, these traits we carry without even realizing we are? How interesting it is that all three generations of women hold the same trait. The older I get, the more I see both of my parents in me, just in different ways.
Thank you, Andra. I’m touched that you did.
What a sweet post. I love your reflections on those little Kezzie-hands, and the way the oddest things – like a gesture – can surface in other generations. My mother’s hands were curled up with arthritis from her early 30s, but she continued to play the piano with just finger and thumb from each hand. Some would say her hands were crippled, but I always saw them as beautiful.
Isn’t it amazing, those gestures that pop up? How amazing your mother was, Juliet, and how determined to keep on playing the piano. I can’t think of more beautiful hands such as hers and the way she continued to express her love of music. Thank you for sharing that.
Kezzie’s hands are adorable and I’m sure they are always busy. I used to play with my Mom’s hands during church. I would bend her fingers and trace the line of her nails. Mom always had beautiful nails and took good care of them. One time in church I noticed that Jennifer was playing with my hands in the same way. Since Mom never lived to see her grandchildren, that simple action brought tears to my eyes. My Dad had giant, strong, hands that were amazing at setting tiny stones in their mountings or repairing the tiniest of watches with ease. He had a pattern of wrinkles on the knuckles of his left thumb that looked to my childish eyes like a face with a big smile and squinty eyes. I have the same pattern on my left thumb and so does my son. I need to check out his kids’ thumbs. My Dad gave up golf because he had arthritis in his hands and could no longer hold a club properly.
I am fascinated by hands. Perhaps that is why I have studied American Sign Language.
Thank you, Janet. She is a busy bee, for sure. Isn’t that amazing that Jennifer would play with your hands, in church, no less, the same way as you played with your Mom’s, especially since Jennifer never saw her? Just hearing of it brings tears to my own eyes – a gift from above right there in your little girl’s hands and your own. What a strong connection between generations, and a telling memory of your Dad, setting those stones. Once again, dear friend, I wish we each knew the other’s moms and dads in person. Now, I suspect you will checking out left thumbs in the next several weeks. Let me know if those knuckle wrinkles have spanned the years.
I imagine your fascination may have been part of it, Janet. I seem to remember a news story a few years back. I think it was a feature on an Olympian. She needed (it was a she) to take a foreign language for college credits,and chose American Sign. She had to fight it, as I recall, and won, contending it is a language. Do you remember that? I think it is a beautiful language.
Like you, I have also always been fascinated by hands and, for me anyway, it is easier to remember and visualize the hands of people who are gone than their faces.
Kezzie has lovely hands! Thank you for this enjoyable post Penny, it made me stop and remember the hands of many important people in my life too!
That’s interesting, Janet. I hadn’t thought of it, but there are many whose hands come to me when I see a chore being performed, how someone rests their hands, etc. More food for thought.
Thank you, Janet. I’m happy to hear you enjoyed this and that it has given you pause to remember. Good to see you here.
Penny, this is such a beautiful story. As much as I can still see the hands of both of my grandmothers, I have never noted a similarity with anyone else. My daughter doesn’t have my hands, nor I my mother’s. Isn’t that interesting? I love the way you describe the perfectly rounded nails “as if they were smiling.” The one thing we do note is that Karina is focused on hands. She takes our hands and strokes fingers in a particular way and needs the physical contact. It’s a very particular habit and quite endearing. She has done this since she was almost a newborn.
I can’t tell you how much this story touched me. Kezzie’s little hands and her concentration on the cookies is just precious! There was a lot of love in this post, Penny. oxo
Thank you, Debra. You might start noticing more similarities as you age. Your daughter’s hands may resemble someone other than you are focussing on. Jennifer’s hands (our older daughter) are like Tom’s. She has long, slender fingers and I see his hands in hers. That is an endearing habit of Karina. It sounds like she is very tactile. Won’t it be fun to see where that leads?
I’m so tickled to hear that it touched you so, Debra, and grateful to hear you say there is a lot of love. Thank you so much.
Hands and hand gestures are part of personality, we express ourselves through them even when they are still.
Calm, cool hands can stroke away the day’s cares and worries and the touch of a hand conveys many different emotions.
I often look at people’s hands straight after looking their face.
So very true, Friko, and I think we sometimes hear and see the most when hands are still.
Exactly!
I often do the same. Of course, a hand is often stretched out in greeting and one can tell a bit about a person by the feel of a handshake. Ah, Friko, you extend the discussion so wonderfully with your comments. Thank you.
Hands. So incredibly expressive: one of our great non-verbal signallers. A hand can say as much, if not more that words: in fact hands can tell secrets our lips would not say.
One could write a book, couldn’t one, Penny?
Yes. Non-verbal signallers. That is perfect, Kate. A book about hands and what they say, the secrets they hold, oh yes, indeed, that would be quite a book to write.
Both my mother and father had beautiful hands. I wish that I had made plaster casts or imprints of their hands before they died. Sort of like the death masks people used to make only these would be much more lovely to behold. And hold.
What a memory keeper those cast hands would be, Belle, but you know, you already have them in your heart and mind. Still, a lovely thought it is.
Lovely Penny! Thank you — you have given me something so beautiful to think about; I’m glad I came to visit before turning off the computer for the evening.
(You have the best commenters in blogland by the way! (I almost neve rtake time to read blog comments but I make an exception when I visit the Cutoff. You generate wonderful thoughts from your followers!)
I’m glad you did as well, Sallie. I’m about to turn off my own computer and you are my last thought and comment for the day. What a nice one it is and I do thank you.
Oh, Sallie, I quite agree. I do have “the best commenters in blogland” and each one in the turn brings good thoughts and insights. I’m so glad to hear you say so. Thank you.
I look at my hands now and see how old they’ve started to look. My mother looks at my hands and sees her own younger hands. I too love hands and particularly the hands of my children.The first thing I noticed about Kezzie’s was how long her fingers seem – violinist fingers! Hands and eyes. They tell it all.
A lovely, lovely post – thank you. Axxx
Interesting, isn’t it Annie, how such things as young and old vary with our perspective and age? I agree. Hands and eyes do tell all. Now, if our Kezzie comes to play the violin, I will certainly think of you.
You are so welcome, Annie, and I thank you, too.
All these memories of hands are so precise, almost clinical in description, each unique to the writer. Kezzie has outgrown the chubby fingers of an infant and is becoming the young woman of the future. Hands remind me of love, warming a cold hand in winter, grasping the hand of a new boyfriend, placing the of the wedding ring, backrubs, comforting massages when ill, and sign language to those who cannot hear. I look at a woman’s hands to view diamond rings and once looked at men’s hands for wedding rings or not! Such fun to ponder the possibilities. P.S. my husband gave me a Kindle for my birthday as he thought it was time to enter the 21st century in my reading habits. I’m not so sure…..
Oh, Marilyn, how I enjoyed reading all the things hands remind you of. I hadn’t thought of all those possibilities that hands convey. Isn’t it wonderful?
Happy Birthday! I’m not sure either, but, starting to think about a Kindle for some of my reading, though I could never give up my books and holding them. That was a nice gift from your husband. I’ll be interested in how your fare with it.
Such a tender, observant post, Penny, and I love the photo of Kezzie’s hands with her cookie.
I too love hands and enjoy seeing similarities and differences. DS has my hands, but without the arthritic thumb. Grandson#1 has true pianist’s hands, with long, mobile fingers, and has inherited them from his mother, our daughter. My middle sister has the most beautiful, slender, long-fingered hands (quite different from mine) and could easily have modelled for cosmetic advertisements with them. I could go on and on….. See what you’ve started.
Thank you, Perpetua. I appreciate your kind words.
How observant you are of all your family’s hands, with an especially fine compliment of your sister’s hands. My sister and I have quite different hands as well. I guess this did start quite a discussion, didn’t it? Maybe I’ll do one on feet. No, I think not. tee hee
Dear Penny, I’ve commented often on your writing–the beauty of it, the flow, the cadence, the lovely memories it captures. You are so gifted and this short essay on hands–your Yia-Yia’s, Kezzie’s, yours–is such a lovely way to speak to us about generations and the passing down of gestures and love and the deep down goodness of simply being. Thank you. Peace.
Oh, Dee, I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate all these kind words, so, I’ll try as simply thank you. Reading your comment has made a long day end in such sweetness. Thank you, and thank you again.