Grandma's Hands

Grandma's hands used to hand me piece of candy
Grandma's hands picked me up each time I fell
Grandma's hands, boy, they really came in handy
She'd say, "Mattie, don't you whip that boy
What you want to spank him for?
He didn't drop no apple core"
But I don't have Grandma anymore
If I get to heaven I'll look for
Grandma's hands

Bill Withers, "Grandma's Hands"

Words that are still surreal to write: my mom passed away last week.

While holding her hands in her final days, I couldn't help but think of Bill Withers' brilliant song. As I held her hands, I thought about all that they did in their 73 short but jam-packed years.

They folded countless swaddles, changed countless diapers, and washed countless bottles. They coaxed burps out of dozens of babies, reached into a crib thousands of times, and pinched millions of chubby cheeks. They made 15 birthday cakes every year, even if we didn't want one (especially if we didn't want one).

Grandma's hands put on bandages, smeared on calamine lotion, and dosed out Dimetapp. They wiped away tears and dusted off dirt. They signed report cards and hung art on the fridge. They clapped when we had a good game and rubbed our backs after a bad one. They helped with homework, flash cards, and science fair projects, and crafted origami-like corners on textbook covers. They drove through all of Northeast Ohio, most of Ohio, and significant portions of the eastern half of the United States for baseball tournaments and golf matches.

Her hands made five school lunches in the blink of an eye. They also made world-famous meatballs, corned beef, and pot roast that I'm pretty sure are still sticking to my ribs. They didn't meet a cookie, cake, pie, or cheesecake that wouldn't frustrate a pastry chef, even if we could "throw it away if it's no good." (It was always good.)

Grandma's hands wrapped enough Christmas presents every year to make Santa and his elves blush. They made scores of homemade, personalized blankets that, at last count, stretched from Las Vegas to Boston and across socioeconomic statuses from the waitress at her favorite Mexican restaurant to a private equity executive. Whether expressing love, joy, gratitude, or sympathy, they assembled cookie platters and wrote caring notes. They pressed "Buy Now" and scribbled on the "Sign Here" line enough to outfit her kids and grandkids for years and keep Amazon, QVC, and Kohl's in business through any economic downturn. They sewed award-winning quilts, assembled homemade kids' crinkle paper (that still rings in my ears), and penned hand-written notes just because. In leaner times when we were kids, they could balance a checkbook in a way that defied the laws of finance.

Always enveloped in a fog of testosterone, Grandma's hands cared for two older brothers and raised two younger brothers and five boys of her own. They cared for two sick parents until their final days and laid her only daughter to rest after just a few hours of life. They nursed her kids through broken bones, collapsed lungs, and surgeries from head to toe. They delivered her trademark "hiya, kiddo!" hugs that could heal just about anything. To fuel rock-like strength, her hands held a choir book at St. Paul's Church for years. To fuel patience, they lifted weights or held the handlebars of a spin bike at the local YMCA nearly every day for 20+ years.

Grandma's hands also let us know when she wasn't happy. They were quick to smack her forehead when we did something dumb, slap us in the back of the head when we did something really dumb, or wave at us dismissively when she was done with us (and when the grocery store didn't have enough checkout lanes open).

Even when cancer struck in 2021, Grandma's hands never slowed down. They still made dinners big enough to feed her family of 18, lifted weights and held the spin bike when they could (and still tried even when they couldn't), and took one last family trip to Ocean Isle Beach, NC, where they sifted through the offerings of her favorite beach shops.

When chemo had her feeling her worst, Grandma's hands pulled on a wig as she put on a smile and faced the world as if she was feeling her best.

Teddy Roosevelt said, "We must all either wear out or rust out. Every one of us. My choice is to wear out." With all due respect to Teddy Roosevelt, he had no idea what it means to wear out. Grandma's hands did.

At least her hands are finally getting some well-deserved rest.

And like Bill Withers, I'll look for you if I get to heaven, Mom. In the meantime, rest easy.