My Father's Hands

When I was a little girl, a mischievous one at that, there was one thing I feared: my father's hands.

They were strong. I can still see the large veins and the gold watch that he wore on his wrist day in and day out. I can still feel the roughness in his palms from the work he did around the house and in the yard.

So why did I fear them? Well...to say that I was mischievous is an understatement. I was a flat out trouble maker. Those hands were what kept me in line. The fear of getting spanked always loomed in the back of my mind as I did things I knew not to do. As vividly as I can see the details in my father's hands in my mind, I can also see the hand prints that they left on my ass when I got caught.

So why name a blog after something I feared as a child??? Because as I grew older, my thoughts surrounding those strong hands changed.

Those same hands that spanked me when I got out of line were also the gentle hands that held me when I was first born. Those hands held my own when I crossed the street or entered a crowded room. Those hands put mecuricome and bandaids on my cuts and they hugged me when I cried. Speaking of crying...here I go.

Those hands patted me on the back when I succeeded and held my chin up when I failed.  They rubbed my feet when I was sad and they clapped the loudest when I shined in the spotlight. They held video cameras to record me singing until they shook but they never laid the camera down.

Those strong hands opened bottles and lifted heavy things for me. They killed the spiders I was so terribly afraid of.

Those hands trembled as they gave me away in marriage. Twice.

Those hands that I feared most as a child were one of the first to hold my first born son. I remember watching and noticing how gentle they were with their first grandchild. Those same hands helped me raise my son the first three years of his life when I was alone. They changed diapers and they walked a screaming baby around the house for hours on end. They held my son as they napped together and they were there when he took his first wabbly steps.

When I look at my father's hands now, I'm reminded of The NeverEnding Story: a movie from my childhood. In particular, I'm reminded of the scene where the big rock creature is staring down at his hands and he says something like, "These hands. These big, strong hands." I can still feel the grief coming from that creature as he stared down at his enormous hands that couldn't prevent his friends from dying.

So whythe hell do I think of this random movie and this completely random scene when I think of my father's hands??? Because I know there are times when my father looks down at his hands and thinks the very same thing. My father is that grieving giant rock guy whose hands were once strong enough to do anything.

My father's hands have always been a symbol of strength for me. They could do anything. They could fix anything. They could make anything better...

But that was before ALS came and took it all away.