Hands

 

When I look at the back of my 84-year-old hands, veins protruding and weathered by too much exposure to the sun, I am reminded of my dad’s hands.

Dad’s hands were always scoured by the elements, tan and rough even in the midst of winter.  He was a farmer and every day of his life he worked with his hands.  It was hard work he did; milking cows by hand, pitching hay and manure by hand, pulling a calf out of the mother cow – gripping his hands tightly on the rope.   He had to have strong hands; he had no other way to make a living. 

One winter day out in the woods he was splitting posts and the hydraulic wedge came down hard where dad’s hands were too close to the edge.  Blood spurted from the amputated finger. He was alone in the woods, and with excruciation pain he made his way to the house and found a rag to wrap around his wounded hand.  Then he got in the pickup and drove fifteen miles to Zumbrota to get medical attention, driving with his good hand on the steering wheel. 

He had a strong handshake with those big-boned farmers hands.  I shook hands with dad whenever I left or came home from college or a trip.  That was before I went off to Latin America and found out that in most of the world friends and family give abrazos when greeting or saying goodbye.   In our rural Norwegian Lutheran culture, we weren’t raised to show affection with a hug, but we eventually adopted the practice. 

Dad died at the age of 84.  The last years of his life his hands had become weak and shaky, as have mine now.  The few letters he wrote were barely distinguishable.  Such a contrast to the good penmanship he learned in grade school.  The Palmer method taught how to write using the whole arm, not just the fingers.  He had a good hand for writing cursive.

One of the last acts of his life involved his hands.  My sister Jean came home that last day, and when she entered the bedroom, he removed mom’s wedding ring from his little finger where he had worn it the last fifteen years since her passing.  He gave it to Jean and said, “you keep this”.  We all had tears in our eyes.  One of his last words was, “beautiful”.

That night dad died, his hands lying across his chest as if in prayer.  I don’t know if he was praying at the last, but he was a praying man, in his own way.  His hands were boney and wasted at the end.