My Mother’s Hands
by Estella Padgett (with art by Jenny Judlin)
Writers Artists Night 2021
My mother’s hands have always amazed me.
I noticed then as a child, but appreciated them more as an adult.
They made me pause to reflect and were the source of much revelation and affectionate memories. I noticed the arthritis and scars and I think of how she used them to brighten my life and the lives of so many others.
She uses them for motherhood.
I looked at them and wondered at the multitude of tears she had wiped away, diapers she had changed, baths she had given, nose’s she had wiped. I know she used them to give hugs of understanding, pats of love, claps of encouragement and spankings of correction.
She used them to create.
I’ve watch her hands deftly thread the sewing machine, pin fabric against skin to get the hems “just so,” smooth fabric, move in and out with crochet needle, trace the holes with her fingers, mend gaping holes, return buttons to their rightful place, embroider lovely colors across fabric, firmly stitch layers together into quilts for a warm coverings for her loved ones, fashion solutions with the options available and her amazing and inspiring creativity, form protection from elements at the expense of elegance, I’ve watched her hands fight with tough material to upholster, turning white from clenching the fabric tight to stretch it and staple it firmly and matter-of-factly in place.
She used them to provide.
I’ve seen the strength of her hands as she repeatedly clenched and un-clenched to milk by hand. I’ve watched her hands feel fruit and vegetables checking for bad spots and carving them out before peeling them or stripping away kernels from ears of corn. I’ve seen her hands glisten with steam and sweat over a hot stove canning the fruits and vegetables that she raised. I’ve seen her hands covered in dirt as she set plants and seeds in the garden, observed the calluses her hands wrapped around a hoe caused, watched her hands vibrate in the hot sun as she guided the tiller up and down the multitude of rows. I’ve watched her skin chickens and carve them up for freezing, hundreds of them every year. I’ve watched her hands scoop out their feed and change their water when they were just chicks.
She used them to feed others.
She provided pies, cakes and cookies for benefit auctions, potlucks and neighbors in need. She used her hands to kneed bread, mold pie crusts, and slice vegetables for countless meals for her immediate family and her extended family. I can picture her stirring, kneading, chopping, always so sure with the knife, measuring by feel and by sight. I have seen her hands burned, sliced/cut. I remember her wiping blood away and continuing with her task, hands firmly clenched around meat pounder making sure the meat she worked to put on the table was easy to chew and a delight to eat instead of a struggle.
She wore her heart not on her sleeve but in her hands.
I’ve seen them clenched in anger. I’ve watched her wring them in distress. I’ve seen them folded in prayer. I’ve seen them tremble in anticipation.
My mother never had the money for lotion or the time to apply it, but has reminded me of the importance of proper moisturization time and time again.
My amazing mother provided for her friends and family for all her life with just her two hands