GRANDMA'S DIRTY KNEES
Grandma's porcelain skin, graced ever so softly with tiny brown speckles. Her legs are slenderbut strong, her knees coveredwith fresh earth. As she stood she gathered her blue trimmed apron together with one hand,gently, so as not to bruise thered ripe tomatoes. While in the other hand, she carried a white chipped pail of savorystrawberries. With her shoulder shereached up to wipe the sweat from her forehead, catching it just before it ran down into her eyesand at the same time archingher wrist, carefully balancing the pail of berries.I continued to play, pushing my doll carriage up and down the hill. I stopped to watch asGrandpa stood in the shade ofthe old gray barn, brushing a chestnut mare till it shined like a new penny. I busied myself with mybaby-doll in her lavendersatiny dress. My faded tin dishes, trimmed a sage green with delicate pink flowers clinkedtogether as I washed them likegrandma had taught me. And Grandma was busy herself.She washed the small harvest she had just plucked from the vine, still warm in her handsfrom the hot sun. She driedher hands on her apron's skirt tail and placed a tub of water on the cook stove to heat for her dailychores.It was getting on in the day and I felt my tummy rumble. I could hear grandma singing fromthe wash-house as sherhythmically scrubbed back and forth and back and forth on her old scrub board, the corners slickand shiny from so manywashings. She turned grandpa's dingy clothes a bright white.I hurried in the back door, the old gruff screen door screeched it's welcome and then blammedshut. There it was, sittingwhere grandma left it, waiting just for me. A fresh bowl of strawberries and cream, sweetenedwith a spoonful of sugar and aprayer.It was always the biggest treat to rush in the back door to find my bowl of berries sitting onthe table. And mygrandma's little knees, covered with the fresh earth as she knelt to pick those strawberries. Andas she knelt, she prayed.She prayed for each of her children, grandchildren, and my grandpa. She always sought out littleniches of time as if it werea treasure of spun gold, and never put off anything she could do today.As the years flew by and her body became frail with age, she told me she missed being able tokneel down on her knees to prayand holding a handful of fresh warm soil in her hands. I wonder if she knows that I finally see thewisdom in such humble andsimple accounts. Thank you Lord for my Grandma's dirty knees.
©Mikki Jo Howard 2007
