Amazing Hands

I have always been aware of,  and intrigued by hands. So much so, that I have been accused of being a witch.  First by  my mother's beautiful, capable hands with the tapered fingers and perfect nails which were a startling contrast to the down to earth, edge of poverty, life she lived starting in 1912.  She never let her hands lie idle. I think about home made bread when I think of her hands.

My dad's hands were the hands of the blacksmith. It was amazing how deftly he used them to paint his western scenes, detailing the smallest thing in the foreground.  I am pleased that I inherited his no nonsense, square hand.  The hands that contribute well to society, the hand of philosophers, artists, painters, men of letters.  The hand of the person more keen on fame and recognition than wealth.  The last sentence sounds like a negative thing to me;  I never thought my dad was keen on anything but blacksmithing and painting.

I love my husband's hands.  He was an engineering student, finishing concrete when I met him. I thought it was his soft mouth kissing that attracted me to him but it was his hands.  They were those square hands that matched my own. His roughened by hard work in contrast to mine. I still love his hands though they are softer now after 27 years in an office and 10 years of retirement.  They are still as capable as ever and very strong which is an added benefit to life.

I once made a live action short film on hands.  The first hands in the movie were those of a five day old baby and  progressed to the hands of an old man playing the yellowed keys of an old piano.  The people whose hands I filmed were loveable people.  That was over 30 years ago and I recall each one with tenderness.  My husband's hands were in the film filling out income tax forms.  Hands do a multitude of things.  Even in America, then and now.

Today I got an email from a young friend in the Peace Corps in Thylla, "a typical thatched hut village" in Senagal, Africa.  She writes of hands. It is a beautiful, poignant letter.   "My hands and feet are ...callousing, darkening.  My feet cracking at the heel..." "Hands and feet are survival tools, modes of transportation, complex machines."  "Laundry is tediously scrubbed, article by article with the hands, the peanuts we plant were shelled by hand, knock by knock.  Soil is tilled and prepared by hand and beast.  Loose fingers strain and separate food, cluthch hot pans as though somehow magically insulated.  Protection is a curious notion.  No cutting borads, no rubber gloves, not much soap.  The women cook by feel, by the handful.  Salt and spices are thrown into the mix. palms are licked clean.  Hands are exposed, vulnerable to the rough environment.  That is life here."

I thank and love her for reminding me.