Daddy's Hands

Country music artist Holly Dunn released a song in 1986 titled Daddy's Hands. The lyrics tell a story of a girl who reminisces about how her father worked with his hands to provide for his family, used those hands to comfort her following a bad dream and occasionally used them to discipline when necessary. Our hands tell the story of the kind of life we lived. If the eyes are the windows to the soul, then the hands are the front door!

How people take care of their hands - whether they adorn them with jewelry, get regular manicures, bite their nails - says a great deal about the character of the person. Rough and calloused hands reveal a life of manual labor, while smooth and soft hands identify the owner as a person of higher class. Many people (myself included) use their hands to communicate. I doubt I'd be able to speak a word if my hands were tied behind my back! I tend to gesticulate wildly, especially when I am excited or very angry.

Women will always inspect a man's hands, and not because of the urban myth about size! It's because hands are so symbolic to us. Will they protect us from danger? Softly caress us? Express deep emotion to us? Provide for us? These are things that we question and only the hands hold those answers. I love looking at peoples' hands...especially those of men from an older generation.

These are my daddy's hands.

They are big. They are covered with age spots. The tip of one was nearly completely lopped off decades ago when Dad worked for the Santa Fe Railroad and ran to jump on a car. The door unexpectedly rolled back and caught the tip of his finger. I always rub the scar when I trim his fingernails. His hands have gotten softer over the years, since he hasn't been able to work in the garden or complete woodworking projects. I am jealous of his ability to grow such perfectly elongated and square nails. My grandmother, his mother, also had beautiful nails.

He once wore a plain silver band on his left ring finger. In the railroad industry, jewelry is considered a hazard, so it wasn't until he retired - when he had been married to my mom for 40 years - that he began to regularly wear the symbol of matrimony. His fingers are slightly webbed, a fact that convinced me when I was a kid that he was from outer space. I've always had this wild imagination, folks!

Lately, his hands are very cold. Dad suffers from diabetic neuropathy, which leaves his fingers numb and cold to the touch. He has even been known to wear gloves while sleeping to keep his hands warm and avoid the pain. I often warm his hands between my own and the last time I did, I was struck by the irony that just the same as he held my hands to help me learn to walk, I hold tightly to his hands to assist him as he walks.

When I was an infant, his big powerful hands enveloped me, making me feel safe. As a toddler and preschooler, his big hands scooped me up when I fell down, and they dried my tears. Adolescent years were tough, so he often smacked my bottom to keep me in line. During my teen years, those hands applauded all the efforts I put in to band, choir, dance, and writing. Now as an adult, when I look at every line, crease, vein and spot, I can vividly see his life played out for me like a movie on a screen. Growing up in the Depression era, his time in the armed service, his life of hard work, and so much else is reflected there.

When I sit next to his hospital bed, again I hold his hand ... and I'm not exactly certain who is comforting whom.