Annie's Hands.
For Grandma Annie.
Our twenties were spent caring for Roanne, Robin, Bill, Sally and Jill. Whether we were lovingly helping Annie concoct Hungarian delicacies on a cast iron stove, or briskly folding loads of fresh, cotton scented laundry, we were always on the go, nimble and ready to take on whatever the day had in store. When we weren’t helping Annie play Superwoman, we clicked away on the old computer at Dr. Herring’s office, where the children and adults of Mansfield would leave with pearly white smiles and lollipops.
A few years down the road, we got to hold the first of Annie’s grandchildren, Chaddie; a love surged so fervently through each of our fingers, and we knew undoubtedly that a rich legacy was unfolding before us. Little did we know just how deep and wide this legacy would reach.
After Chaddie came Emily, Zac, Christianna, Carly, Hannah, Christopher, Collin, William, Amelia, Caroline and Halle. Boy, were we busy. We became accustomed to beads of blood, covering us like a Pollock painting, from the bushels of blueberries at the Blueberry Patch. Even more familiar was the ubiquitous burn of the stinging nettle that would accompany any day sifting through dirt in the garden on Fox Road, feverishly searching for the perfect zucchini; an integral part of the warm loaf of zucchini bread that we’d lovingly knead while the grand-kids fought for space in the often crowded and overheated kitchen.
There was one time; who are we kidding, multiple times, where Annie did us dirty and we were cut so deep we didn’t know how we’d recover. She sure was stubborn, and much to our chagrin, she often opted for a 30 minute break with a tourniquet made out of paper towels rather than sutures administered by anyone with half a medical background. Lo and behold, we healed eventually; each scar on our skin a small reminder of the divine fare that went along with it.
In the case that a doctor did treat us properly, we’d immediately return to the kitchen to reciprocate the favor with homemade cinnamon buns or a blueberry pie. Oh the pies! Each of our fingers, swiftly and methodically rolling out crust after crust, gingerly assembling the filling, and delicately pinching the top and bottom crusts together to create something that would surely entice all the senses, and say “Thank You” better than any Hallmark card ever could.
We picked and prodded through boxes of treasures on Saturday mornings between 7 – 9 a.m., and uncovered Nancy Drew books, tin teapots and ornate cigar boxes for pennies a piece. Annie always knew the most deserving recipient, and had a knack for unearthing the garage sale gems; we like to think we acted as her unfaltering compass, guiding her to just the right box, rack or table.
Saturday afternoons often consisted of scanning the newspapers, circling and starring obituaries and goings-on in Mansfield, Lancaster or Jacksonville, leaving us covered in a filmy layer of black newspaper ink.
In more reverent times, we grazed across the pages of her worn Ryrie Study Bible, highlighting passages, scratching notes on legal pads and carefully crafting each cursive character that would, before we knew it, morph into a five-page letter that we would then stamp and drop into the mail for one of the grand-kids, or someone who was on Annie’s mind.
We spent much of our life grasped close to Annie’s heart, while she and Robin prayed for their loved ones, near or far.
When we moved to Lancaster, we helped Annie tenderly care for Ron, who would lay in bed, singing and enlightening everyone who came to visit with facts about the beloved Cleveland Indians. Again, we sifted through soil, a little more rocky this time, to harvest tomatoes, cucumbers and sunflowers.
After a few years in Lancaster, the crazy sisters decided it was time for Annie and Robin to move to Jacksonville. Can’t say we minded the change in weather; we were starting to dry out in the blustery chill up north.
In Jacksonville, we played a few games of Bingo, but that was more of Robin’s thing. Right out of the gate, Annie got busy doing what she does best. Pies. We were back in our element, cheerily rolling, pulling and kneading in the bright yellow kitchen on Segovia Avenue.
We finally made it out to the beach one chilly day in November; to feel the sand, the salt water and the texture of a shell was an indescribable moment. Annie laughed as her hair blew in the wind, and cried at the sheer magnitude of the beauty before her.
We were a part of Annie, and the stories we have are as vast as the stars in the night sky. We have touched all of you in this room, in one way or another. Do not dust away the hand prints that we…that Annie…leaves behind. Feel them, touch them, and know that you were and are loved, so deeply, by a woman whose beautiful hands were devotedly used to serve.
In Annie’s final days, we reached out to the heavens, soaring above her red curls as family and friends gathered around. Somewhere between heaven and earth, we grasped Ron and Bill’s hands, clinging tightly to them as we crossed the great divide. And out of all the places we’ve been, here is where we finally found home.