I have my father’s hands and feet.
And his face, but that’s another story.
Whereas my mother and sister have sleek, elegant hands, I have chunky palms and stumpy sausage fingers which are routinely garrotted by rings. They’re proper peasants hands.
“Darling, they do a lot of work”… my mother reassures me, when I bemoan how sore and cracked they get.
“You have a well-developed thenar eminence, probably from all the kneading”…my massage therapist says, whenever she works on them (the thenar eminence is the fleshy bit of palm under the thumb).
Since my dad died three years ago, I’ve come to love my hands and feet. They’re not just similar – they’re exactly the same as his were. It’s like a little piece of him that I can never lose. When he was alive, we’d often put our hands together and compare – every finger was the same length, every nail was the same shape.
. . . . .
I’d like to think they were my grandmother’s hands as well, even though she died before I was born. By all accounts, she was very clever with her hands. It can’t have been easy feeding nine children through the Japanese occupation of Malaysia in the 1940s. My grandfather was the local Presbyterian pastor, so money was always tight.
Dad once told me that his mother brought in extra income by taking on small sewing jobs, and that she donated a lot of this money to folks in need in her little village. None of her family knew about it until the day of her funeral, when strangers arrived, weeping. She slipped away peacefully in a diabetic coma, and they found her, kneeling by the bed, in the middle of saying her prayers. No-one had any doubt where she went.
. . . . .
I don’t have my other grandmother’s hands – they were small, strong, and oh-so-clever. She would come and stay with us for six months at a time when I was young. She was always making something – crocheting daisy squares, or threading tiny beads, or folding paper.
Ah Mah would sit at our dining room table, sorting glutinous rice, one grain at a time, to make joong, little parcels of rice and meat, wrapped in bamboo leaves. Just for me, because she knew that they were my favourite. My strongest memory of my maternal grandmother is her seemingly endless patience. When I’m sewing or crafting something intricate, I try to follow her example, and to slow down and work more carefully, rather than rushing to finish a project.
. . . . .
So now, when I look at my hands, I no longer see ugliness.
Instead, I see the legacy of my father and my grandmothers. In many ways, my lifelong urge to create – to bake, craft, sew and cook – is inspired by the examples that they set for me. I’m incredibly grateful for such an enduring gift! ♥
I too have my father’s hands. The fingers and hands are the same shape as his were. I have also come to love my hands.
A lovely tribute to your father and grandmothers.
You have your father’s hands but so much of both your grandmother’s attributes. Touching post Celia.
You have such a way with words Celia. How wonderful that your creativity has been passed down to you from the strong, resilient women in your family and that you have come to love your hands xx
your clever hands are part of your dignity Celia. Rejoice that you have found your metier in your hands, so many of us lurch from one distraction to the next. How lovely to have those memories of touching hands with your Dad. I wish that kind of good fortune for your growing men. I put together a piece for a grand nephew yesterday about his immigrant roots and was again reminded how precious family memories are. Thank you sharing your piece today
Such wonderful memories you have of your family. My dad’s mother would come to stay with us in the summer when I was young to look after me while school was out. She was very good with knitting needles and crochet hook. I couldn’t read a pattern but she taught me to knit socks. How great you have your dad’s hands! I have my dad’s nose. The rest of me looks a lot like my mom. She’s been gone a long time. I love seeing her in my photos!
I’m really enjoying your recent posts. You are so clever, wonderfully creative and thrifty. Bless you for sharing your talents!!
I have my mother’s hands, including her arthritis. I have my father’s feet, including his tinea occasionally. When my tinea returns I like to think it is the ghost of my father visiting.
Hands that create are special whatever shape or size…I have my fathers hands too! And yes I love my hands!
What a loving tribute to your family inheritance! Was moved to reflect on gifts I have received from parents and grandparents and also what their lives can still teach me! Thank you for this!
Such beautiful words… you fill my heart to overflowing with love ♡
What a lovely post and a lovely way to remember your Dad. Thanks for sharing.
its all in the eye of the beholder! When I clicked on your blog posted on my reading list I was waiting for my magical reader to enhance your words so my failing eyes could understand your story and the first thing I saw was the photo of your hands, my thoughts were beautiful hands, strong and lovely, so I think our ideas of self are so much different than others, I enjoyed your writings to day so much and i know that your dad must have had wonderful hands as well and with all the skill your hands have they truly are wonderful.Thank you for sharing this today,
<3
This brought tears to my eyes. Beautiful stories, beautiful hands, beautiful people.
My mother’s face, my father’s hands. When we look at parts of ourselves that so strongly resemble our parents’, it’s impossible to believe that anyone every truly dies… we are all recreated in our children…
Such a wonderful post, Celia. You really touch the heart of us all, and remind us to be grateful and live life large.Thank you.
I too have my dad’s big hands and, yes, when I was younger and studying piano I always longed for the slim hands and elegant fingers of my flatmate who could play Chopin and Debussy so easily, while I was given Beethoven and Handel. Peasant hands, yes but not afraid of any work.
Now I see also my mum’s arthritis in my fingers and I too have had to have my wedding ring resized. I used to see mum in the mirror (scary!), and my cousins say I look just like her but now I think that sometimes I see my paternal grandmother who I didn’t know all that well. I do have one photo of her with her sons and some days I seem to have her eyes.
Gestures, laughter and sayings too, recall my family and I’m glad of that.
Not only beautiful but oh so capable too. Lovely hands, and lovely story.
I wish I could write as well as the above responses, I agree with them all…..wonderful/capable/clever working hands! Nice Grandmother memories.
I’m always very grateful for your comments, Susan! xx
What a wonderful lesson you have shared with us. The apple did not fall far from the tree in this case.
Bless you ,
Sent from my iPhone
>
Miracle Worker’s hands !!
I just sent you a sincere Thanks for , once again . .. your Supreme Generosity..
Hope I wrote in the correct section of this wonderful post
Much Love
Len
beautiful thoughts x
You have very clever hands too Celia, What a fantastic way to remember your family. Wise words from you as always.
I have my mothers hands and my youngest sister nearly wept on seeing them when I returned to Darwin a couple of years after my mother died.
I have ugly, bony feet that are a mirror image of my late Mums. I always hated them but like you, I’ve grown to love them because they remind me that I am part of her and she lives on in me.
I came across this on my discover page, and I truly enjoyed what I read, at first I thought it was going to be you just coming to realize that your hands are beautiful but you made it so much more. You brought them purpose, and the legacy you’re holding must be an amazing one, I can tell from just this post!
Celia, such a beautiful post. AND you added to my medical vocabulary–I’ve never heard of the thenar eminence!
I definitely have my mother’s hands; long slender fingers which makes buying gloves rather challenging! You have beautiful hands and what a lovely memory they are for you.
I relate. I have really ugly hands whereas my mother and sister have really nice hands. But, we are beautiful regardless!
I dont think that my hands ar ugly but my sister does. She bit her nails to the bone and I think that your hands look fantastic. Love who you are forever
This was such a beautiful read! I too never liked my hands. My mothers were always slim and delicate, while mine are quite the opposite. It wasn’t until 3 years ago, holding my grandmothers hand after she suffered a stroke, that I realized we had identical hands. Our thumbs were even the same length and shape. She has passed away since then, and now when I look at my hands I always think of her. Thank you for sharing this post, it really hit home for me.
Such a lovely touching post, dear Celia. I have the nose of my father & grandfather & the legs & figure of my grandmother & she was a lovely person! I also have her kindness & goodness for others!