helping hand

Thanks to a recent highway improvement project, our little town’s main intersection now has triple the number of lanes compared to last year. Subsequently, it takes longer for the traffic light to go through a complete cycle of allowing protected left turns and then straight ahead traffic for each of the four directions. And as a result of the longer cycle time, I have an opportunity to look around and notice things I probably wouldn’t otherwise see. In one of these interminable intervals recently I noticed a toddler in a child booster seat in the back of the vehicle next to me. The baby held up both hands, waved at the world and Mom in the mirror, did several high fives with imaginary playmates, made swoops and glides through the air, fashioned the letter “A,” and then went back to swooping like a happy bird, gleeful giggles and gurgles plainly audible through cracked open for springtime windows. And it made me wonder, at what age does the average person lose the wonder of and fascination with their own hands? I looked at mine just now; old, wrinkled, sun spots and age spots too numerous to count, along with assorted bruises that just seem to happen in a life filled with house work, yard work, volunteer work, and just plain old work in general. Remembering my mother’s hands, I realize I missed the genetic unlined boat. Of course, those hands could be strong as steel when pinching a miscreant child, and the snap of those fingers was enough to drive terror into the heart of anyone not acting per her wishes, but even at 83, her hands were still for the most part unlined, and always sported a meticulous manicure. Well, ok, it probably helped that she didn’t do heavy housework or wash dishes after the kids in the family were old enough to be saddled with those chores; after we all left home, help would come in on an as-needed basis, and there was a chrome dishwasher in the corner of the kitchen. I don’t remember Daddy’s hands as being anything other than gentle, but I know they must have been strong, too, for he was quite a successful carpenter. In my mind’s eye, I see my daughter’s hands as they cuddle a NICU baby. Garrett’s hands, when he hugged me, already felt Marine strong on my back. Slater’s hands are always so busy it’s hard to glimpse anything other than a blur; might as well try to catch lightning. Hubby’s hands speak silent volumes, in daylight and darkness sufficient to the task, whether it’s wielding a firearm, ripping shrubbery out by the roots, or giving me a back rub. All told, the hands in my world still can fascinate me. Recently, the one I most enjoy is grand daughter’s left.