I don't have pretty hands. It's a fact. I've come to accept it. They have always been wrinkly, like I just got out of the bath, and my nails are often chipped and black from working with silver. I usually hide them in my pockets when I am feeling self conscience.
I tried getting fake nails to glam them up a bit, but they just looked like wrinkly hands with thick plastic ends. I spent the first day of my honeymoon ripping them off.
I inherited my ugly hands from my father, who, in turn, inherited them from my grandmother. My grandmother's name was Vola. Vola Wyatt. She was the pinnacle of our family. She made Christmas happen.
Her hands, her wrinkly hands, kneaded and draped and clipped and cleaned and stirred and smoothed until Christmas, Campbell style, materialized. Then she dialed and served and presented and hugged and made each of her grandkids feel like her favorite. I miss her so much this time of year my chest constricts each time I make one of her recipes or catch myself humming the way she used to hum. And, oh how I miss her hands. If only I could feel her stroke my hair or grasp my arm. If only I could plant one more kiss on her downy cheek.
And now it is up to me. I have to put my hands to work and recreate the type of Christmas I had as a child, the type of Christmas I want Thom to have. They are large gloves to fill.
Stumble It!
