My Daddy's Hands

My Daddy's Hands

My Daddy's hands were always larger and stronger than most men, probably because of the type of construction work he performed as a cement finisher, block mason and carpenter.  Even as my own hands grew from little girl's hands to a woman's hands,  I never felt more safe than when he wrapped his arms around me and squeezed my ribs with those big hands even though sometimes so tight, I couldn't breathe from his Irishman's hugs!  Of course, he was a "bigger than life" figure to me from his height to his longer-than-most arms with those huge hands attached!  We used to tease Daddy about "scraping his knuckles on the ground" as he walked.  He would smile that big grin and laugh like he had just been told the funniest joke he'd ever heard!  "Yes, I know" he'd say, "I have to buy my shirts specially made!"  When I was little, I remember him coming home from work, his clothes dirty and sweaty, as well as a little dusty from mixing the block mortar, but I didn't care ... my Daddy was home and that meant I could sit on his lap and rest my head on his chest while he hugged me with those big hands and tell me how much he missed his little "Sparky" (a nickname he gave me he said later because my eyes always sparkled when I looked at him!). 

Those huge hands ... I remember always seeing one of them on the steering wheel and the other on the old "suicide" knobs while he was driving the old pickup truck.  I loved the fact that he could turn the steering wheel just holding onto that one knob - I was fascinated by it! There were also those few mornings that I'd wake up early (rarely) and catch him getting dressed for work. I loved watching those hands string up his work boots with such a steady rhythm, it was almost melodic and mezmerizing.  Or watching those hands holding the shaving brush whip up the soap into a lather in the palm of one hand and without any hesitation spread the white cloud-like peaks across his face, soon followed by the scraping sound of his whiskers giving into the bladed razor.  There was something so peaceful about watching Daddy shave ... no talking, just listening to the sounds and watching his face become contorted to dodge the edge of the blade ... first one side, then the other.  Then he'd tell me "There, smooth as a baby's butt!" Then I'd laugh out loud at hearing him say the word "butt"! 

As I got a little older, Daddy would take me to the jobsites to take payroll or check on progress of his men on a project.  I loved those times because it was a joy we shared - I knew he loved his work and he took pride in what he did.  He always told me, "If something is worth doing, it's worth doing the best you can." Sometimes, while visiting a jobsite, he'd pick up a mason's trowel to show one of the trainee's how it's done.  He'd grip the handle of that trowel and I'd swear his hand would reach around it twice!  Then he'd grab a block with the other hand and hold it up while he "buttered" each block end, then place it in a bed of mortar from the course below.  Yes, he had "working man's" hands - blistered and cracked, knicked and splintered but strong as Oak.  One day while I was visiting the jobsite with Dad, he got so flustered that the block work wasn't going as fast as it should. One of the young apprentices who had gotten his fill of Dad's chiding about working so slow, made the mistake of saying "Well, old man if you think you can do it faster, get on the other end of the line and show us!"  Well, that did it.  First, you don't call him an "old man" and second, don't challenge him to a block-laying contest!  Big mistake.  Dad got on the other end of an approximate 200-lineal foot long wall about 3 courses off the slab, and he told the Foreman to yell "Go" when he and this young apprentice were ready.  Afterwards, two things were clear:  One, the apprentice never referred to my Dad as "old" again and he also never challenged him to lay blocks again! The "standard" for laying blocks was set that day. 

One Saturday morning, I woke up to hear Mom and Dad talking in the next room about Dad playing "King of the Mountain" at the neighborhood "juke joint" and standing on the tailgate of his pickup truck asking for "anyone who was man enough who could knock him off it".  I don't know what idiot would want to find one of those huge fists upside their heads but there were a few brave souls that took his "goating" and lost.  Dad said someone called the Police and when he jumped down off the tailgate, some Coward hit him over the head with a beer bottle and he had to have stitches.  Later, he was not keen on getting the stitches taken out and every time he combed his hair for the longest time, he would catch the comb on those stitches until they were gone. If the truth be told, he was a real "baby" when it came to going to the doctor!

One memory I have of my Daddy's hands was when I'd done something wrong or sassed back (rarely to be sure) and he took off his belt and would just sit in front of me with those huge hands making that belt "snap" followed by a warning never to do that again! The few times he did spank me, my Mother said it just tore him up and she would be the one that would have to spank me!  I think Daddy worried about his strength and couldn't stand to see his girls cry for any reason.

For a working man, you'd think my Daddy would drink his coffee in a big coffee mug.  Only a few people knew it but he loved his coffee in a China cup with saucer!  Too funny to watch this because his "pinky" finger had been broken long ago and it would stand straight out as he gripped that China cup, almost like he was intending it to do, but such was far from the truth.  He just couldn't bend that little finger!  We'd sometimes tease him that he looked like a "sissy" but Heaven help anyone else who dared say that to him!

Another memory was to watch my Dad when he'd ask my Mom to slow dance, which was really the only dancing he liked.  He'd extend his huge, calloused hand to her and she'd place her small, gentle hand in his.  He'd then hold her hand close to his chest while he held her back with the other hand and gently touch his face up against hers, then he softly guided her around the dance floor. 

Later, I remember his hands holding my newborn baby boy for the first time.  Though my son, Matt, was a larger those most babies, his body seemed so tiny in the grip of those huge, gentle hands.  Funny thing, when Matt was being born, the doctor exclaimed out loud, "Look at the hands on this kid!"  Yes, he had inherited his grandfather's hands it seems! 

A few years later, as my Dad laying dying, I was sitting by his hospital bedside holding his hand, reassuring him his family would be fine and he could go.  As I looked as these hands that had worked so hard to give me such a wonderful life, I thought about the memories and what those hands had endured in his lifetime.  Those hands reflected his life and I thought about how they had impacted my own life.  From holding me in his arms - both as a little girl and as a woman, to wiping away my tears, holding my Mother while they danced, working-class hands, disciplinary hands, shaving hands, fighting hands, loving hands, gentle hands holding his grandson, worried hands, angry hands ... our hands reflect our lives and tell the story.  Then as I saw Daddy for the last time at the funeral and I bent over to kiss his forehead once more, my eyes then went to his hands crossed gently one over the other.  Funny, those once huge hands no longer looked so ominous, but looked somehow soft and peaceful.  Then I realized, his work here was done and those hands could finally rest. 

8-23-2013