Working Hands
Thinking of my father stirs up an endless sea of memories, all etched in various degrees of clarity in my mind. Some blurred now, some sharp as ever. From his clear blue eyes, blonde and then slowly graying hair, to his scuffed work boots or shiny wing tips, depending on the occasion. Service station owner, WWII veteran, father of a brood of seven, and small town councilman riding in the parade. Solver of world problems over coffee and cigarettes. Its all there.
I remember a specific plaid of a worn flannel shirt so clearly I could probably paint it precisely. The same for his baggy go-to swim trunks that emerged on rare occasions, or a leather belt that hung from the door handle when not cinching up those blue uniform pants. My dad was a many faceted, hardworking man with a hearty laugh. A tapestry of all the roles and joys and burdens that wove his life story.
He had a ruddy complexion, weathered by years of working in the elements. I noticed how that deep, baritone voice and his tall, strong frame sometimes intimidated people. It amused me when an old boyfriend voiced concern about not wanting someone like my dad mad at him. But I get it. Dad would have loved knowing that his tough-guy appearance shielded his sometimes tender heart. Mission accomplished.
But of all the things that told the story of my dad, what I remember most were his hands.
Those big, strong, working hands had a presence of their own. They served my dad through a lifetime of physical labor and digging in to get things done. In fact, literally, digging in the dirt of the garden was one of his happiest places. He’d dig and weed and water with those hands, dirt under his short nails. Then he’d lift them to gesture while he talked to the neighbor over the fence. Or proudly hand him an especially ripe red tomato.
Much of my father’s time through the years was spent at his shop on the corner; pumping gas, changing tires, rescuing customers from ditches or muttering and clanging under the hood of a car. To paraphrase a joke that fits here, “You can’t scare me, I used to hold the flashlight for my dad!”
It’s true–I’ve done it. I witnessed my father’s hands take on a mainstay of their character, grease and dirt coating his skin and lodging under his finger nails as he worked. Black creases and cracks meandered. No matter how hard he scrubbed, it never completely came off.
I think I embarrassed him once by commenting on his dirty hands as I shined the light on them while he worked. Likely he took it in stride. I hope he knew–long before I finally realized–that his dirt-stained hands were a badge of honor. His hands represented a powerful commitment to hard work, supporting a family, that didn’t leave room for vanity about getting dirty.
I remember when he showed me his washing station in the corner, replete with a jar of Goop that he joked was his secret weapon. A daily scrub with this smelly stuff took some of the grime away from his hands. But it left plenty behind to face another day. The stuff didn’t come off no matter what, and there was no use trying.
As time went on I didn’t even see it as dirt, but as strength–more of the way the man looked–that was part of his life. No one blinked when dad’s hands carved the meat at dinner, or clasped the evening paper he was reading, or even got something out of my eye. Eventually we hope to see what matters and move beyond what does not.
When I close my eyes, I can vividly see those hands; whether poking at coals on the grill, turning a wrench or wiping the sweat from his brow on a particularly hot day. They’re capably signing a check, hoisting a car on the back of his wrecker, or shaking the ice in his empty glass to signal for another drink. Two hands, jauntily adjusting the brim on his cap, scraping ice off my mom’s windshield and later carefully tying his meticulously shined dress shoes for an event. Holding babies and grand babies. I see them slowly moving over the beads of his rosary for comfort. I feel them on my shoulders in a rare hug and I hear them snapping to a big band number. They reach all the senses.
He’s lighting his pipe and blowing out the match. Then he’s gone. No worries. I’ll see him again in a million different ways. Safe on the path of dreams unfolding in my own hands.
