I caught a glimpse of the back of my hands today and remembered my grandmother--Granny Tucker.
I remember sitting in her lap holding her hand, tracing the very noticeable veins, rubbing the age marks and freckles and pinching the loose, parchment-like skin. And now my hands look like hers! Life is amazing!
I am so glad my hands have been spared the hard work hers did while she was young--working much like a slave in her household of a sick mother, a father whose life was spent in the fields, and her 13 siblings, ten of whom were brothers. She got up early, cooked breakfast so all could get to the field at dawn, then cleaned, washed, ironed and cooked lunch--which she took out to those in the field. When there, she had to stay and work like the others pulling cotton, chopping weeds, etc. She was dismissed early to cook supper after which she fell into bed exhausted. It obviously never occurred to her wealthy father to hire any "house help"--After all, Lizzie was there.
But it made her tough and independent and gave her strength when her rogue husband left her alone with three children in the middle of the depression. And I am better for having known of her struggles and her endurance.