Hands tell a story. We all know people who talk with their hands. There are those dramatic soles who use their hands to accentuate their words with grand gestures. There are others who snap their fingers or clap their hands while speaking to emphasize words or secure your attention. I think some preachers do this to keep us awake in church. Yet, hands also help tell a story when they are perfectly still.

I remember my Daddy’s hands. His fingers were short and stubby and his nails were broken and brittle. As a woodworker and gardener in his retirement years, those hands met with sand paper, dirt, varnish and all manner of stress. His left thumb was shorter than his right having met with the table saw several years before he died. I used to hold his hands and worry about the nicks and cuts, but they didn’t bother Papaw who would just say “oh well, it can’t be helped.“ This man’s hands showed that he was a worker.

My Mother’s hands tell another story. She, too, was a worker. I remember those hands that not only cooked and cleaned in our home, but also stayed busy with knitting, needlework and constant sewing. Hers depict the pain of arthritis that she has endured for so many years. Now they are gnarled and the enlarged knuckles keep Mamaw from her preferred activities. We have tried numerous things to solve the problem, but alas her days of creating are past. It is as though her body is saying that it’s time to rest. The picture below shows a snapshot of my Mother’s hands with my daughter’s hands taken on the latter’s wedding day.

Mamaw’s hands also depict the pride she takes in her looks. I cannot ever remember her wearing much nail polish, but she is still taking care of her own nails and stays well manicured.

For several years she has wanted to wear more rings. A wonderful group of bridge-playing ladies volunteer at the nursing home each week and Mother plays cards with them. Evidently several of them wear beautiful wings and Mother wants to do the same. I cannot, however, get her old rings over those substantial knuckles and have tried to make her something she would wear. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to create anything to suit her. She won’t wear bling and she won’t wear anything plain. I made her a sterling silver S ring that was adjustable, but it didn’t make a hit. This week, I may have finally found the answer. First I had to convince Mamaw that I could NOT work with diamonds and I could not work in gold! Thank goodness she likes lapis. You can see the one I created for her on her finger below. I finally made something both adjustable to go over her large knuckles and acceptable to her.

                       

It’s a bit difficult to see in the second photo that the ring is open in the back. I was able to open it up and slide it past her knuckles and then squeeze it back shut when it reached the base of her finger. She was pleased since lapis is one of her favorite stones. You can see the configuration of the ring better in the photos that follow. The back was not yet cleaned in one of them.

                       

                     

 

 

 

 

Mother was pleased with her new ring and I hope it will help her hands tell her story. This ring says “I’m still beautiful at 90 years of age and I still take great pride in the way I look.” It also says that someone cares enough about her to try and make her happy.

Today, I’m looking at my own hands and realizing the story they tell. My hands show broken, liver of sulphur colored nails and short stubby fingers that are scraped and marred. My fingers do, however, wear multiple rings when I go out in public. My hands are a combination of both my Mother’s and my Father’s hands. They, too, are hands that work. These hands will create until nature says I must stop. I’m hoping that’s a long time from now.

What do your hands say?