My Father's Hands

As a middle aged adult, (assuming I live to be 130) I have the honor of still having both my parents with me. Mother is 87 and Dad will be 93 this fall. In fact they live with me and it is an honor to be able to serve their needs at this time in their lives.

One of the interesting facts about not only my Father but all the men in my paternal line are their hands. All of the men have the same hands, large, strong and masculine. If a dozen men’s hands were lined up in a row one would be able to pick out my family, that’s how much all of their hands look alike.

The only difference in the hands is the size, my Father at his peak was about 5’10”, my brother the tallest standing at 6’1” and my son is 5’8”.  My grandson (my son’s boy), although he’s only 8, I can already see the family hands.

My Father’s hands represent everything good about the ‘greatest generation’. He served in the Navy during WWII. While in the Navy he learned to become a Turbine Engineer, operating the steam that controlled the engines of the ships. Getting out of the Navy at the height of the industrial revolution, he was able to transfer his skills to work in a steel mill. So for the next 34 years, his hands made sure that just the right amount of steam pressure was released throughout the mill.

For those not familiar with this type of work, it can be very stressful. Not enough pressure could shut down production. This could not happen; the mill ran 24 hours a day, 7 days a week 365 days a year. However, too much pressure could cause an explosion. 

One thing that all of my men have in common is the ability to use their hands to fix or build just about anything. When I was a child, my Father designed and built our family home. The only workmen hired were the electrician, the plasterer and the brick layers. My Father, my Mother, my brother, who was ten at the time and even I at seven worked on the house until it was completed. It was just what we did.

As time passed, I grew up, had my own family, who have their own families and memories faded. Now on the other side, having my folks with me some of the memories come wafting into my head when least expected. It is the feeling of a soft breeze that comes out of nowhere to caress my face with the tenderness of a babies touch.

My folk’s bedroom is just off our living room. In the living room adjacent to the bedroom I have a recliner and table and here is where I start my day. I generally rise before anyone else and I sit there and read, listen to music or just pray. This is my quiet time. My Dad gets up next and as him leaves the bedroom he enters the living room behind my chair. As soon as I hear him open the door, I reach my hand up behind me and as he enters he takes my hand and squeezes and pats it and says ‘good morning’.  This has become our routine.

One of the memories that came floating on the breeze is really more of hearing than remembering. The story as I’ve been told happens at about the time I started to crawl. We lived in a big old farm house and we had a coal furnace. Every morning my Father would go to the basement and stoke the fire. From the time I could make my way to the basement door I would push my fingers under the door and wait for my Daddy to come up the stairs and tickle my fingers. That was our game. When I was about 9 months old my Grandfather became very ill. He lived several states away and my Dad took off to be with him. At nine months old I had no idea what this meant. All I knew is that I would crawl over to the basement door and put my fingers under the door waiting for Daddy to come upstairs.

Of course he didn’t. According to my Mother, I’d lay there all day waiting. Soon I started to cry and before long I had stopped eating and only cried. Within a day or two I was hospitalized due to dehydration and my Father was called home; merely because he wasn’t there to tickle my fingers.

So here we are, all these years later, and we’ve come full circle. I reach up and Daddy pats my hand. But even more important I think of my heavenly Father. The only difference; when I reach for my heavenly Father’s hand, He is always there. He never leave’s me and even when I cry, He is still there to tickle my fingers and pat my hand.