grandma's hands

an ode to annie clay.

I remember the first time I heard Bill Withers sing Grandmas Hands — I thought he had written a song about my actual grandmother. Like, the woman in my living-room wearing the green terry cloth bathrobe and ambiguously colored house slippers.

The lyrics fit her to a T, and the tune sounded like every song my grandmother would sing. She could be singing a hymn, or Stevie Wonder, or her ABC’s, and to me, they all had the same steady, kinda country rhythm of the song, Grandma’s Hands.

I asked my daddy “how does this singer know Nanna?!”. He laughed and told me that we all had the same Nanna, and wasn’t that funny?

Back then, I didn’t really get it, but this weekend I went to visit my Nanna in the house where she helped raise me, and she didn’t know who I was, so… it hits a little different.

Grandma's hands
Clapped in church on Sunday morning
Grandma's hands
Played a tambourine so well
Grandma's hands
Used to issue out a warning
She'd say, Billy don't you run so fast
Might fall on a piece of glass
Might be snakes there in that grass
Grandma's hands

My grandmother is a God-fearing woman. She taught me how to pray. The correct method is: out loud, and with feeling, in case you were wondering. She went to Sunday service, Wednesday Bible study, and volunteered to do the fish fry on most Fridays. She led the summer vacation Bible school for the neighborhood children, and she literally read the covers off of her own bibles.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

My grandmother was born Annie-Clay White in rural North Carolina (don’t ask me for the year- she would beat my butt if I told you). I always knew her name to be Ann Thomas, but sissy and I called her Nanna… for a while.

You see, what people call my grandmother is extremely important. She renamed herself several times¹ and different people knew her by different names. She would probably want you to call her Mrs. Thomas as a sign of respect (please remove your hat and spit out your gum as well. Mrs. Thomas is old school.) All her nieces and nephews from down south call her “Aunt Sherry”. Her late husband James (who I only met at the ancestral altar) would call her “Sweetie”. My momma and uncle have always called her “Mother Dear”. And for a while, to me she was Nanna — until one day out the blue, she didn’t want to hear that anymore.

“Don’t you call me no dern’ Nanna!!” She said it to me like we hadn’t been calling her that for years. She said it like the good lord himself had told her not to answer the call of Nanna any longer. And she absolutely did not.

“So what should we call you?”

“I’m your grandmother, so call me Grandmother.”

So we did. (I call her Mother Grand sometimes. Just to be ornery. She doesn’t mind.)

Grandma's hands
Used to hand me piece of candy
Grandma's hands
Picked me up each time I fell
Grandma's hands
Boy, they really came in handy
She'd say, Matty don' you whip that boy
What you want to spank him for?
He didn' drop no apple core

My Mother Grand is the only woman I ever saw stand up to my daddy.

I had gotten a whoopin’ over something — I don’t even remember how old I was. But I do remember when my Mother Grand lifted up my shirt, and saw all those welts on my back, she was HOT!

You gotta picture it. Mother Grand is tiny. She can’t be no taller than 5’3 in her old age, and yeah she’s a little fat. But she’s the kind of fat that used to be real skinny, and then just settled into soul food and plumpness in old age.

She is your quintessential plastic couch cover and crystal chandelier granny. Mother Grand was country as hell, but she didn’t want to come across as country to other people. She used her big words and pointed her chin to the sky and put on what she would call “a high falutin’ attitude”. And the only men she loved were her late husband, our lord and savior Jesus Christ …. and Victor Newman (if you know, you know). My daddy wasn’t on that list.

When she saw all the angry, swollen slices on my body, she called my daddy out his room like a naughty schoolboy.

“WAYNE! GETCHO BUTT OUT HERE NOW, YOU HEA ME!?”

I hid behind her skirts. Mother Grand was little, but she had this way of towering over people anyway.

“DON’T YOU TOUCH THESE HERE BABIES NO MORE YOU HEAR?! NAWWWW SHUT UP! NEXT TIME I SEE A WELP ON ONE OF MY BABIES, I PUT IT ON GOD ALMIGHTY, OUR SOVERIGN FATHER, IMMA BEAT YOU DOWN AND PUT YOU OUTTA HERE! DONTCHU PLAY WITH ME, WAYNE!”

And she had her hands on her hips, balled into fists.

She later used those same hands to bathe me in milk, and pet me up. Mother Grand had gorgeous hands. I always thought so.

They were an old woman’s hands. A working woman’s hands. The kind of hands that had spanked and swaddled, sewn and snapped. Hands that had seen some shit, okay? They were calloused from years of labor, yet tender when they touched. Her fingers were long and slender, with skin that had grown thin and soft with age, revealing a network of veins just beneath the surface. But she always kept her skin supple (“you not gon’ have me out here ashy!”) and her nails polished, pink or red. She used to drive a red Subaru, always with one hand on the wheel, the other in her lap, fingers drumming a gentle rhythm.

---

But I don't have grandma anymore
If I get to heaven I'll look for
Grandma's hands
Hmm-mmh

Last weekend, I pulled into the driveway of my childhood home, the old red Subaru wasn’t there anymore, but the house looked exactly as it always had—painted shutters, the flower beds that Uncle Gary tended were bursting with hyacinths, and the white, wrought iron fence my sister and I used to hang off of had just been repainted. My heart pounded with a mixture of anticipation and dread as I walked up the steps to the front door, memories flooding my mind.

I knocked gently and heard the familiar shuffle of slippers across the linoleum floor. When the door opened, there she stood—my Nanna, my Mother Grand. She looked at me with a puzzled expression, her eyes searching my face.

"Hello there," she said, her voice kind but devoid of recognition. "Are you here to see Gary?"

I forced a smile, my heart breaking. "Hey, Grandmother. It's me. I’m Bethany. Your grandbaby."

She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to place me. Grandmother does not like to admit it, but she knows her memory is bad. It makes her anxious as her symptoms worsen. "Oh.” She still didn’t remember me, but she trusted my mind more than hers. “Come in, come in."

I stepped inside, the familiar creak of the floorboards under my feet. The living room was just as I remembered it—plastic-covered couches, crystal chandelier, and the faint hum of the TV playing an old episode of The Young and the Restless.

"Would you like something to drink?" she asked. "I have some tea or soda. Are you here for Gary?"

My throat tightened. "No, thank you, Mrs. Thomas. I’m alright." It’s best to keep greetings more formal until she gets her bearings.

“You know me? Where from?…. Are you here to see Gary?” I sit patient in my heartbreak.

I looked around, taking in the photographs on the walls, the Bible on the coffee table with its worn edges. She didn’t remember all the times she saved me from my father’s wrath, or made me ice cream sodas and fried bologna sandwiches. She didn’t remember testing me on my states and capitals, praying with me every night, or giving me the money to go to college. She didn’t remember being the only one to support me when I dropped out. She didn’t remember that I’m engaged, or that I live on my own now.

"I don’t want to trouble you but," I said hesitantly, "can I ask you for a favor?"

Her eyes narrowed - Mother Grand is always on the lookout for a scam. "What is it?"

"I need to feel closer to God… could you pray for me?"

Her eyes softened, "Of course, I can!" She took my hands in hers, the touch of her calloused fingers still as tender as I remembered. Her eyes closed, and she began to pray, her voice steady and filled with conviction.

"Dear Lord, Heavenly Father, I lift up this young woman in the blessed name of Jesus, our saver, healer, and redeemer. I ask that you wrap your loving arms around her and keep her safe from all harm and danger.

I am sure she is dearly beloved, Lord, but we know your love is far greater. I place her in your loving hands, for it is as you say, all things are working together for her good. And for this, we thank you in advance. Amen.”

As she prayed, I felt a warmth spread through me, a sense of peace that I hadn’t felt in a long time. In that moment, it didn’t matter that she didn’t remember. Her hands, her prayers, her love—they were all still there, unchanged.

Studies show that touch releases oxytocin, a hormone that promotes feelings of trust and love. Throughout my life, my grandmother’s touch communicated these very things. From the way she soothed my scraped knees as a child, to the way she held my hand tightly when my father yelled, her touch always spoke a language I understood. Perhaps touch is a primal language, one that bypasses the limitations of fading memories. It's a language that says 'I love you' and 'I'm here for you' on a deeper, more profound level.

When she finished, she smiled at me. "God bless you, dear."

Tears filled my eyes as I whispered, "Thank you, Mother Grand."

As I left her house, I looked back one last time. Even as her memories faded, the love she had given me remained, a permanent mark on my soul. And for that, I am eternally grateful.

Bill Withers sings of a grandmother's hands that "clapped in church on Sunday morning" and "used to hand me a piece of candy." While my Nanna may not remember those specific moments, the essence of that song – the unwavering love and comfort – still resides within her touch.

I am clearly God’s favorite to have ever felt the touch of Grandma’s Hands.

1. My grandmother probably doesn’t even understand that she is in fact, a textbook womanist.