Magician

My grandmother Erna was a sleight-of-hand artist. She may have been good: she was a fantastic cook, knitter, and seamstress, but I was also a credulous kid, so it is hard to tell in hindsight.

She had one trick. She would rub her hands slowly together, seemingly devoid of artistry. When her hands opened, a wax-paper wrapped Squirrel Nut candy would be nestled in one palm. She did it rarely, and for a small child this was pure conjuring magic. Her talented, paper-dry hands would simply come together and friction and heat would create a lump of hard, almost impossibly chewy candy.

Years later, when I was an adult, Gramie and I returned from a barefoot ramble around her garden. She grabbed the hose and rinsed off our feet, hers to mine, mine to hers. My feet... her feet. My feet were the same as her feet. We looked at each other's feet, then at our faces, then at our hands. Our hands were the same too. What was a muted but clear resemblance in other places was pure cloning in our hands and feet. I have my grandmother's hands.

My hands don't produce candies. Their magic is muted, even though they can produce some other things the way my grandmother's could. I can rub my hands together, but no conjuring ensues.

Posted: Monday - January 16, 2006 at 08:26 PM | |