hand

Because my father lost his hands, my mother made a gift of hers. Cuticles ragged, knuckles scraped, fingernails smashed—farm work showed her no mercy.

Her hands were made for more delicate things, but she gladly sacrificed them because, really, what else was she to do? My father needed her, and she loved him, so she put her hands to work on our farm. She should have had the soft and beautiful hands more suited to her soft and beautiful heart, but life had other plans for her.

My father continued to farm after his accident, his prosthetic “hooks,” as he always called them, levied recklessly, the steel used to hammer and pry, to gouge and pull. Often, while working on machinery, his hook pinched or smashed my mother’s finger, and she took in a breath. If I were nearby, I’d hear her swallowing air. She might drop the wrench she’d been using. She might shake her finger. My father looked sheepish. Sometimes he asked her if she was all right. Sometimes he cursed. “Goddamn it,” he might say, angry with himself because he’d hurt her. Other times, he said nothing, just looked down at those hooks and maybe banged them together, angry with the fact of them as he waited for my mother to once more take up the wrench. He spoke to her gently. “Let’s try again,” he said.

Mom and Dad Truck

I’m remembering all this today as we draw closer to the start of another school year. My mother was a grade school teacher for thirty-eight years. Her hands were meant for turning the pages of books, for cutting paper into lacy snowflakes to decorate her classroom in winter, for moving across a tablet page with a red marking pencil, for petting the heads of girls and boys who for whatever reasons needed her affection.

But she gave her hands to my father. I never heard her utter a single word of complaint. She put away her nail files and emery boards and fingernail polishes, and her hands became rough with the signs of her work and her love.

When my father died, she wept over her casket. She said, “I’ve taken care of him all my life. Now what am I supposed to do?”

She lived six years beyond him, spent so many hours alone, her hands resting on the arms of her chair, her fingers lifting and falling, one after the other, as if she were a young girl, playing scales on a piano. I lived away from her then. We wrote letters. She wrote to me once toward the end of summer about watching the schoolgirls pass her house. She wrote about the sound of their bright voices, the way they interlaced their fingers and skipped along the sidewalk. Oh, their bright voices, she wrote. Oh, those beautiful hands.

 

10 Comments

  1. Jill Steele on August 18, 2014 at 7:45 pm

    Beautiful. I felt my heart move as I read this.

  2. Lee Martin on August 19, 2014 at 4:12 pm

    Thanks so much, Jill.

  3. Richard Gilbert on August 19, 2014 at 7:29 pm

    A lovely tribute to your parents and to the persistence of memory.

  4. Joanne Glenn on August 19, 2014 at 8:06 pm

    I just loved this. Reading and experiencing this most tender piece was a gift to me on a day that did not go well. Thank you for this gift.

    • Lee Martin on August 20, 2014 at 8:37 pm

      Joanne, I’m glad my piece could be a good part of your day. Here’s hoping for more goodness. Thanks so much for reading my blog and for taking time to leave a comment.

  5. Gail Weiland on August 20, 2014 at 3:51 pm

    I just read an analysis regarding how much about character is revealed in Ken Kesey’s descriptions of hands in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I had just thought to myself what a good writing exercise that would be–to see how much you could reveal about a person by writing just of their hands, and you posted this. Such a lovely tribute to an obviously lovely person. Thanks, Lee.

    • Lee Martin on August 20, 2014 at 8:38 pm

      Gail, there’s a really good essay by Ted Kooser called “My Father’s Hands.” I wanted to do likewise for my mother. Thanks so much for your comment.

  6. Brenda Serotte on September 16, 2014 at 10:31 am

    I came across your gem of a blog and, because it was on memoir, my favorite weakness, I kept reading. Today I read your piece about your mother’s hands and loved it. I’ve been thinking lately, with the Jewish holidays approaching, about my own mother’s hands, how I used to stare at them with the Vermillion-red nail polish, and how beautiful they were–even when she wasn’t. I miss her hands; hands are important in so many ways. Thanks for writing this.
    Brenda Serotte

    • Lee Martin on September 16, 2014 at 11:28 am

      Thanks so much for reading my blog, Brenda, and for taking the time to leave a comment. Our hands certainly have stories to tell. Take Care–Lee

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