He Has His Dad's Hands

I copied and pasted this from my old MySpace blog, which I started long before this one. I wanted a friend to be able to read this one so I'm reposting it here. It's amazing to me that I wrote this almost a year ago. Sometimes I like to read the old ones...to compare where I was at this time last year. It can make me sad to read my old stuff. But it also gives me strength. I've still got a lot of conflicting emotions I wrestle with. But I'm working through them. And I don't think I'm "lost" or broken or abnormal with my time-frame. To the contrary, actually. I think I'm dealing with it all in the most rational way possible. Not too fast, not too slow. Not avoiding the painful stuff, yet not dwelling in the misery. I'm finally confident that I'm doing it the right way for me. I still have so many doubts and worries. Sometimes I wonder if the patience and time it takes (to do it RIGHT) will be worth it in the end.

I hope so. And, My Friend, if you do read this...it's everything I wanted to say to you today when this topic came up. My mind has many deep thoughts. I just can't seem to get them to transfer into words that come out of my lips.


Tuesday, May 19, 2009

He has his Dad's hands When Adam was born, many people commented on his hands. They weren't freakish big but he had good-sized hands. That's one trait that he inherited from his Dad. Chuck didn't necessarily have what would be considered huge hands. But they were wide hands, man hands, strong hands. It's almost funny because he wasn't a "big" person. His personality was the laid-back, quiet type. He wasn't one to stand out in a crowd. He didn't appear nearly as physically strong as he actually was. But his hands told a story. For many years, his hands were always marked with scabs and scars. With dirt and grease that only time would fade away. He had hard-working-man hands. If you looked at his hands, you could tell that he deserved every penny that he ever earned. But his hands had a softer side, too. The hands that could repair a lawn mower, dig a trench, roof a house, fix anything on a car...those hands could also stroke my face, brush the hair out of a little girl's eyes, cradle a baby, gently wipe away a tear, be a perfect and permanent place for a cherished wedding band. His hands were so capable. Of anything. He could fix anything. A washing machine. A toilet. A car starter. A favorite broken toy. He could assemble anything. A bike. A desk. A crib. He could do laundry. Scrub a toilet. Do the dishes. Wash windows. Clean out the eavestroughs. He could cook like you wouldn't believe. A juicy steak. The best bacon cheeseburger you've ever tasted. One-of-a-kind breakfast potatoes with just the right combination of seasonings. Yes. His hands were so used and scarred. But his hands meant so much more than that. His hands provided security because of his strength. Playfulness with a pat on the butt as I walked by. A gentle touch to the face on the days I needed it the most. Obscene gestures to unfriendly neighbors. Bathing his sons after a long day in the sandbox. A paycheck with greasy fingerprints on it. While they may not have been the prettiest hands in the world, they were beautiful to me. Yeah, Adam has his Dad's hands. From the minute he was born. I've known that all along but I really watched him today. He needed to attempt to repair his Grandma's weed whacker. The handle broke off and the pull-cord retracted inside the casing. Chuck fixed it last year with a make-shift wooden handle. The knot let loose and we were faced with the same problem as before. I didn't watch Chuck fix it last year. I didn't even know that he did fix it. Adam didn't watch him either. But he was more than willing to give it a try. He went outside to start taking a few screws out of it. I think he presumed that it would be an easy job. It didn't matter if it was easy or hard though. He never doubted his ability. He got a little confused at times...talking out loud to me about it. (Which obviously did no good because I am in no way mechanically inclined.) Maybe he took it apart more than it needed to be. I mean, this thing was literally in pieces. I secretly wondered if it would ever even run again...let alone have the pull-cord repaired. As time went on and the pieces continued to multiply, Adam got more and more tools out of his Dad's toolbox to work on this task. (If you've been an avid reader, you know how much the shed and his tools mean to me.) For a short time, I wished I wouldn't have even asked him to attempt to repair it. He's got all of these tools out...Chuck's tools. Will they be put back in the place they belong? Shouldn't that toolbox be some sort of a shrine as to the way he spent so many years of his life? I even questioned Adam..."Why is that missing from this set? Do you remember what drawer you got that from? Will you make sure you put the tools away tonight and lock the shed?" Then I wanted to slap myself. These were his Dad's tools. Would his Dad want them to sit and collect dust? Would he want me to go out and buy new ones to actually use in order to preserve the ones we already have? No. He wouldn't. He would only ask that we take care of them, put them away, and put them in the right place when we are done. And, really...honestly, if those tools can't be in Chuck's hands, what better hands could they be in than his son's? I just want them to be taken care of and respected, I guess. After a little time, Adam did get the weed whacker fixed. With really no input from me or his Dad. (Confession time...at one point I did ask Chuck to lead Adam's mind in the right direction...to put the same thoughts in Adam's head as he would have had in his. I don't think that was even necessary though.) It wasn't necessary. Because Adam was born with his Dad's hands. Not just in appearance...but in his ability. In his inclination for all things mechanical. He came in the house after he finished and I took on an all-too-familiar role. I had the hand cleaner and an old rag to dry his hands ready for him. He washed his hands a few times and commented about how he couldn't get all of the grease off...how it would eventually wear off in time. One of the dogs sniffed his hands like crazy and I commented about how his hands smell like Dad's...grease and all. And at that moment, I had no doubt that his hands will some day bare the same types of marks and scars that a lifetime brings. They won't be identical to his Dad's because his hands will tell their own story. But I'm proud of Adam's capable hands. It's strange how a simple body part can be a link to the past and such a strong hope for the future. Yes, Adam has hands so similar to his Dads. When we are attracted to someone the hands aren't the first thing we look for. But maybe they should be. Because they do tell a story. And his was quite an awesome story. I miss those hands. 10:29 PM