When I was growing up I remember staring at my father’s hands and thinking how strong and tan and perfect they looked. When I was older I still stared at them, even many times while he was giving me one of those teen-age talks with advice, etc. The hands remained the same, strong and always tanned, and a little weathered as the years went by. I thought they were the most handsome hands in the world.
Maybe his hands are one of the reasons I always felt safe when I was with my father, no matter where we went. Maybe it was just who he was, like his hands, strong, tanned from working hard outside, and always confident. More John Wayne than even John Wayne could be, because he wasn’t acting. Dad was a true old-fashioned cowboy, straight from the ranches of the West.
Dad holding his first born son, and Mom!
His hands made a living for a family of 9 children and our dear Mother, his wife. He worked hard and his hands were always busy. It seemed to me as a child that everything he did with them turned out right, from riding and breaking a horse, to making a living working with cows plus another full-time job, to building or repairing things. Even more amazing was how those strong hands could be so gentle when he was holding our mother when he danced with her. Gosh, I never saw two people who could dance a Waltz more perfect or as smooth as they could! I loved to watch them dance!
When he walked me down that long isle on my wedding day, I was nervous, but he made me feel strong and confident because his hands held on to me and I knew I was safe. He thought he was giving me away when he handed me over to my husband-to-be at the end of our walk down that isle, but little did he ever know that a part of my heart never left home.
Eventually he would hold my own children, his grandbabies, in his lap with his still strong, tanned and gentle hands.
After Dad passed away, 30 years ago today, I remember holding his hands in mine, touching them for one last time, hoping to always remember them and the security I felt in their presence, in his presence. I hope I never forget my father’s hands, even in my old age and forgetfulness, because they were an important part of my childhood.
The memory of my father's hands has made me realize how important the work of our hands can be and should be, and the lives that they will touch!
I miss you, Dad!
~ Gwen of IRISH ACRES