Raggedy Hands

One of my first memories is of the time I was all dressed up as Raggedy Ann for a costume contest. My little brother was Andy, of course, and my mom had made the costumes. I must have been about three.

We were about to go in front of the judges when I had a panic attack. My mom had sewn the mittens of the costume to the sleeves. I couldn’t move my fingers freely. I wanted them out. Immediately. There was screaming.

Mom gave in and ripped the seams open with her teeth and hands. It was an emergency. She lost her costume contest and I won my freedom that day.

My hands are always ragged from some project. I can’t keep polish on my nails. From painting to refinishing furniture to mosaic tiles. To writing. I need these hands as much as I need the brain.

This week something ripped and my fingers are flying all over the keyboard with story ideas. I love it when it’s like this.

This is a fountain in the Luxembourg Garden in Paris, fed by a natural spring. Those hands belong to Sweetpea and Spanky.


10 thoughts on “Raggedy Hands

  1. What Boz? Your hands tied or the streaming conscious? Just kidding.

    Actually it’s coincidental Max. I wrote this post days ago and was trying to find my mother for a photo of the Raggedy Ann costume. I’ve got about 20 posts in draft form, waiting for some editing or the mood to strike to post them.

  2. Kitty, since you use your hands so often, remember one thing: when you make guacamole, wash your hands afterwards. One thumb off the workshop, okay. Two thumbs off the workshop, big problem.

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