Jan's Grandma's Hands

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The apron was off the cast iron hook on the wall beside the woodburning stove and in Grandma’s hands before sunrise. I never noticed when she slipped away from the pallet of Joseph-coat colors that were our bed on the living room floor.

When I entered the kitchen the apron was looped over her neck and tied behind her waist, the eggs sizzled in one cast iron skillet, the fried green tomatoes and potatoes in two others. The smell of country ham made the air heavy, and Grandma wiped her forehead with her apron bottom, then used it, flimsy as it was, to protect her hands as she reached into the oven to remove the biscuits.

I set the honey and butter on the table, skimmed the cream from the bucket of milk for the strong coffee, poured large jelly jar glasses full of milk for the four children. Then stood beside Grandma as she speared the ham, put it on the platter beside the eggs, and poured water in to make her famous red-eye gravy. I loved to watch the water jump and splash as it fought Grandma’s determination to mix it into the grease from the ham. Her strong arms went to work scraping every bit of ham from the bottom of the skillet, pouring in plenty of salt and pepper, and stopping only long enough to stir Grandpa’s chocolate gravy now and again.

We heard the groan of the cistern bucket rope as Grandpa came up behind the house and drew the water to wash up. Sally, his plow mule snorted her good morning from where she stood at the top of the back forty, and turned her attention back to the oat bucket that Grandpa had left for her. Soon, Babs, Brenny, and Jerry Dale could be heard turning in from the front road, Jerry Dale taunting the two girls with the snake he had snatched from the base of the last blackberry bush they had raided.

They joined Grandpa on the back porch with their treasure, tin pails filled to the top with blackberries the size of concord grapes. Grandpa, a man of few words, snorted his approval of their morning’s work, and harrumped himself into the kitchen. Grandma put the platter of ham and eggs in his hands the minute he sat in his chair. Grandma had long ago given up on invoking God before breaking their fast. Grandpa only invited God into a dialogue after forty rainless days last summer, and the way he talked to him we were pretty sure God wasn’t going to come back for a visit any time soon.

Grandma’s hands accepted the pails of blackberries and promised cobbler to go with the fried apple pies for dinner. Though stomachs would be full by the end of breakfast, six hours of hot sun beating on our backs and legs fully stretched as we bent from the waist to dig potatoes with a hand trowel and pull cotton from plants would make us grateful for the table that would sag under the weight of crisp chicken, more fried potatoes and tomatoes, creamed corn, and green beans and poke salah both seasoned with ham hocks.

As she took the pails, Grandma stroked each child’s head and looked into the same blue eyes. Not a word was spoken, but her love, like the rays of the Tennessee sun, warmed each child.