We called her "Gramama." She was my mother's mother. I remember her hands - they were gnarled like an old tree's knotty branches. Arthritis had distorted her knuckles and her fingers were no longer straight. She never complained about it even though some of her fingertips were twisted at an alarming angle. But, she could still do more with those hands than most people can dream of doing. She would make amazing meals that could be made to feed any number of people who showed up for a meal at the last minute. She made clothes for all of the grandchildren and their Barbies. My Barbie had four fur coats that she had sewn herself. She was also the first person I ever knew who could cook play dough on her stovetop. I had orange and purple play dough before it was sold in the stores. I grew up living next door to her. Her house was my house. I used to build forts in her living room using blankets and pillows, and she never minded. She was never, ever critical - but managed to bring out the best in everyone anyway. When I was sick, I wanted her to take care of me and the feeling of her cool hand on my forehead or stroking my hair was better than any medicine the doctor could prescribe. I remember watching her doing macrame, quilting and fine embroidery with her poor, crippled hands. She always gave amazing, personal gifts, like a handmade quilt for each grandchild. I treasure mine.

My children call my mother, "Grandmother." She inherited the arthritis. Her fingers are tormented and twisted, and she complains that they hurt. She has been an amazing piano player since she was 14 years old, and she is now 70. Everyone in my hometown knows her and tells her how talented she is. She knows that her talent is fading and every year says, "This will be my last year to play." She does not like to cook. Her gifts are often in the form of cash or gift cards, and follow a prescribed, budgeted amount. I do not remember her taking care of me when I was sick, although I am sure that she did. I do remember eating Beefogetti from a can frequently, because it just wasn't worth the time to cook for the one kid who was left at home. When I talk with her on the telephone, she asks for news of my family and when I start to tell her things, she interrupts and tells me about herself. Narcissistic, my oldest sister says. She has a white couch and her grandchildren are aware that they are not to mess up her house. My children do not look forward to visiting her. They are old enough to be aware that she is not interested in them. My mother is very critical, and news from home is always about who has divorced, lost or gained weight, or been sick.

I examine my hands sometimes to look for signs that they might be changing shape. My knees feel older so I am sure that my hands will follow soon. I wonder if anything can be done to prevent the problem if I see it coming, and then remind myself that the way my hands look have nothing to do with what I can do or how I am perceived. What is important is what comes from my heart.

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