I have my father’s hands. They are the same shape, the same nails, the same tapered fingers, and slightly square palms.
In my earliest memories, Dad’s hands were hard and calloused and he usually sported a black nail, cuts, or a burn. He had farmer’s hands.
When my brothers and I were small, he used those hands to throw us in the air or hang us upside down by the feet while we screamed with laughter. He taught us to cast a fishing rod, grip a golf stick, and to hold on very tight to a water ski rope. He wasn’t going to keep turning that boat around if we weren’t going to hold on tight.
When we were exhausted from the day, he would gently stroke our faces with those big rough hands, and they ushered in the sleep.
Dad could make anything with those hands. He fashioned solutions to all the farm’s problems with wire, a star picket, and sometimes a really big hammer. He had a gift for thinking around a problem and fixing things. The one thing he couldn’t fix was a decent meal, but he was very good at getting other people to cook for him. So, I guess… problem solved!
Animals would always calm under Dad’s touch, whether it be a sheep or one of his dogs or the many injured birds he rescued. He used to say he liked animals more than people. I think he probably did. He judged you according to whether or not his dog liked you.
That said, if he loved you, Dad loved you quietly but ferociously. I remember in my darkest, most angry hour he placed his hand on my cheek and said, “You can never say anything that will stop me loving you.” I softened, like one of those injured birds.
Dad loved to make people laugh. When we were kids, he used those big hands to tickle us and make us giggle until it physically hurt. He would snuggle into us and rub our soft little faces with his sharp whiskers while we screamed and laughed…. He called it chin pie. My brothers do that to their kids now.
As we grew older, he told jokes instead of tickling. He always had a new one ready for when we visited or he talked to us on the phone. He loved the anticipation in a well-told joke and measured his success by our reaction. Even at the end of his life, when all the layers had been stripped away, he didn’t lose his humour. It’s like it was embedded in the deepest, most resilient, part of his brain.
Over the last two years, we all held Dad’s hands a lot. By then, they were soft and smooth. When he was dying, we were all there and we held Dad’s hands for the last time. He squeezed ours back, almost undetectably. But it was there.
And now he’s gone, and our hearts are bruised and sore. But it makes me smile to know, I’ll always have my father’s hands.
