3rd paper -- Gramma's Hands

    When she was about eighty, my gramma took a liking to my newly acquired acrylic nails.  Not one to be showy, she had never given much thought to her nails.  But now she said, "I wish I had pretty nails, too."  Her natural nails were thick and healthy.  They curved gracefully -- in others words-- perfect.

    The next day I returned with all the equipment to do her nails.  First, I gently brushed her nails with warm soapy water and dabbed them dry with one of her thick, soft, blue towels.  I clipped and filed and shaped each nail  till they were uniform in shape and length.  I applied the base coat of polish.  At this point I knew we had a problem.

    I had not noticed until now, but my gramma's hands were never still.  And even with my constant admonishing to "Keep still," and "Be careful or you'll smudge," she kept drumming her fingers.  "I'm sorry.  I'll try to hold still!" she promised, meaning every word.  But, as I soon found out, the finger drumming was a habit so deeply imbedded it was now beyond her control.  We continued on with the first coat of color -- a pale pink.  I held onto her wrists while that coat dried.  It was the first of many times I gently restrained her to protect the wet, fragile coats.  I continued to apply another coat of polish and the top coat, holding her wrists between each coat.

    As anyone who's had a friend do her nails knows, this is a highly social process.  We talked a lot during this session, me about my job and my children and she about her past.  I loved her stories!  Most of them were stories I had heard many times before.  But now, they were being told to me alone and that made them even more precious.  She told about her own father, who, after nearly 50 years, she still missed.   "He would have loved talking with you," she insisted.  Her story grew to encompass her brother and sister, her mother who she barely remembered, and the kind stepmother who helped raise her.  Oh, how I wish I could remember all the details!

    The day's manicure session ended with a hand massage with luxurious lotion and I bade her good-bye.  I saw her at church on Sunday proudly showing off her fancy fingers to all her friends and telling them how her granddaughter had done them up for her.  She was totally tickled!

    We had scheduled another manuicure for the next week.  I showed up with several colors from which she could choose --  the pale pink from the week before, a classy taupe, and an elegant, deep wine color named sangria.  After I removed the the pale pink polish and gently washed and dried her hands, she pulled out a bottle of very bright, in-your-face pink.  "I want to use this," she sheepishly admitted.

    "Gramma!" I exclaimed.  "You want me to put this hussy pink on your nails!?"

    She did indeed.  So for week after week after week, turning into almost two years, I did (and so often had to redo -- darn those hyperactive fingers of hers!) her nails in what we all called Hussy Pink.  She loved the color.  I loved the time I spent with her and the stories we shared and the bond that had grown deep and strong

Comments

[Sandy Coffin]

This is wonderful! Great image of you and your grandmother talking and "doing up" her nails. I loved the "hussy" pink.

[Karen D.]

I love the descriptions! What a precious time. And bless you for investing in your grandma.