In the nineteenth century, the pilgrims in my family trekked and sailed and felt the pull of adventure yanking them from the Scottish highlands to new life in the Tennessee Valley.
I have a photo of my great-great-great+ Uncle McConnell and his wife. He, dressed in full kilt regalia, stands like a sturdy post. Next to him, her skirts billow out like taffeta, and I hear a swish-swoosh when she walks.
Except that in the picture she’s sitting down. I think about why her hands seem troubled—maybe even crippled by the looks of them. My thoughts bounce from her crooked fingers to how I wouldn’t have survived at all, me being fragile and definitely crippled, well at least on the one hand.
How did this woman—I don’t know her name—get by? In the 1800s, women’s work was as brutal as a chain gang, relentless as a hungry baby’s howl. The means of a civilized life had to be cut down by wood chopped for every use: warmth and water and this week’s rabbit stew. Her fingers ached and she must have cursed their uselessness whenever she dropped a plate or pulled burning bread out of the flames.
Of course, her children dodged the polio virus that’s been around since forever. Not one of those young McConnells dared ask Mam why her fingers were tangled twigs just like I dare not ask God what was on His mind when polio came to visit me.
People used to tell me I was so lucky—sickness only stole one arm, one hand. I tried to feel grateful, but real thankfulness always stuck in my throat. I secretly hated watching my mother play her piano, all the Debussy and Boogie Woogie and Broadway show tunes. I hated listening to my sister practice her god-awful violin, accompanied by our Siamese cat who didn’t like violin music either. My aunt might’ve played something, but only in between chores.
She probably never had a chance to be a carefree teen, either. Life was all about hauling, chopping, slopping, cooking, washing, winding up her hair under a cap before she could fall into bed. I grew up too privileged—gratitude hid behind my fragile teenaged self, the girl who set her straight, almost-black hair on pink foam rollers. On my knees beside the dressing table, the better to prop up my lazy, paralyzed elbow and the hand that never did a lick of work in its life.
Like too many cheeky boomers, I’ve demanded answers. Am I really damaged goods like that one jerk I once dated? Yeah, the one who asked me if I swim in circles. I picture God with a killer migraine. But the question echoes across centuries: Why, God why? Â
Fanny McConnell Fisher with my bio dad’s family, around 1960.
We love to think we know the answers: at best God afflicts so we can be better humans, at worst, we’re so far gone that we need to be a taught a lesson. Oh, and did my great-great-great+ aunt ever thank the angry God? Maybe she, like me, like all of us crips and lame-os, blind and deaf and spazzes, quads and paraplegics—maybe she was an inspiration to everyone who never played one-handed volleyball or typed out snark using only their thoughts.
At the very least my aunt could say she inspired others to be better at whatever working hands are meant to do. Like lift them to the sky in praise or stroke a baby’s sweet head or swing that ax higher—inspiration or penance, take your pick.Â
My aunt went before me to say, look kid, you can’t have it both ways. Either you let the world in on your little crip secret or you don’t. The truth, she says, is that you’re a work of art, a work of love, really, so beauteous that you could make the God of Everything stop and admire.
Hands folded in her lap, I imagine she knew how to make people understand that they’re OK, or at least just shy of normal. I’ll bet she could try harder than most people, although if she’d had a say in it, she might have preferred to stay in the old country. In the 1800s, the Tennessee Valley offered few amenities, like toilet paper or books teaching you to type one-handed.
She worked hard to make everyone think she was okay when she knew damn well she was never going to be okay. I see it in her eyes, in the way she won’t quite look at you, in the slight tremor of her left hand. Still, she whispers across the centuries, telling me to never stop chasing gratitude. In every photo, stand up tall. She says I’m a thankful pilgrim and I’m starting to believe it.
Me with my mom, 1953
Truly lovely.
What great insights, Linda! I feel I know you better now. And you sure do look like your mother!