Oh the stories your hands could tell...

If a picture paints a thousand words, how many words are contained in the stories your hands can tell?

For no particular reason I was looking at my hands yesterday and began to think of the many events in my life reflected in the scars and disfigurements of my hands. Of course, some of these stories have left visible reminders, yet others exist in wrinkles of my mind, only to be shaken loose by the mere sight of these instruments of tenderness, toil, passion and anger.

On the underside of the middle finger on my right hand there lies a scar just above the 2^nd knuckle. I must have been three years old when it happened. I scarcely remember how I received the injury, except that I had decided to climb the face of metal shelving and at some point had lost my footing leaving me dangling from a shelf, gripping the edge. Regardless of the shelving being upside down or right side up, the ledge that I happened to be clinging to possessed a lip which sliced into the meat of my fingers on both hands. Why I don’t have more scars, or a missing finger is a mystery to me. I can only imagine how freaked out my mother must have been.

Both of my pinky fingers are disfigured, yet fit snuggly against the ring finger on each hand. Several years separate each injury, yet both occurred in my youth.

My family took frequent camping and fishing vacations when I was young, and one such vacation took us to a park in eastern Iowa. It’s funny how I can’t remember if it were Strawberry Point or Keokuk now. Either way, I was as apt to wander off into the thick of the forest then as I am now. However, at that point, probably aged 12 or 13 I didn’t know the difference between a hand and a machete. This was made clear to me when I was karate chopping the weeds in front of me, clearing a path, when one of those weeds happened to have a thorn which lodged itself in the knuckle of the little finger on my right hand. Needless to say, this was painful and resulted in one of many trips throughout my life in Iowa to Dr. Velma in Schaller, 7 miles east of where I grew up.

My left little finger decided to take a left turn at the 2^nd knuckle during the 1^st half of a basketball game. It could have been Jr. High or High School and the game was, luckily for me, in Schaller, home of Dr. Velma. It occurred on an inbound pass and as I received the ball I had a momentary loss of sanity and attempted to catch the ball by ramming my little finger into it. This act resulted in a large “pop”, a ball dribbling back out of bounds, and me, doubled over clutching my deformed hand. ``Somehow, my mother was able to reach Dr. Velma who met us in her office only a couple of blocks from the gymnasium. Of course, nearly everything in these small Iowa towns is within a couple of blocks of each other. She reset the joint, which wasn’t pleasant, splinted it and of course, I returned to play the 2^nd half J

Being a lover, not a fighter, I had a serious issue with taking my frustrations out on inanimate objects by punching them, including school busses and steel reinforced gym lockers. This was clearly preferable to punching people, but as a result I have no knuckle to speak of on the little finger of my right hand and the middle knuckle of my right hand is permanently swollen and flat. Nice huh? This level of insanity may have preempted a few actual bouts of fisticuffs, but of course, that’s only my biased opinion. It’s a fact that after putting some serious hurt on a couple of school busses, nobody seemed to bother me much with the single exception of one freak of nature, who was ironically my wife’s boyfriend at the time of our confrontation. He decided to get into it with one of my friends, and being the goof I was, I stepped into the fray and left with a nose bleed and a bruised ego. Like I said, I was a lover, not a fighter.

There is a scar on the top of my right middle finger, just below the fingernail, where there used to be an enormous bump, it may have been a wart of some sort. I had it removed a few years ago after several years of getting it caught on things. It was in a most inconvenient location after all. I tried several times to remove it myself, each time resulting in much pain, blood and a larger growth. It started in the basement of my parent’s antique store when I was 15 or 16. The basement contained my father’s workshop where we made and refinished furniture. On this occasion I was making a cut on the table saw when my wood slipped through accelerating my guide stick forward and pushing my hand into the blade. I totally freaked out, and ran to the main floor. The cut was deep and my finger throbbed like the dickens. How my parents put up with me I’ll never know.

These stories are the easy ones to remember, and it probably says something about my persona that the easiest stories to remember are those involving injury and pain. There are others though.

In high school, as now, I was a very physically demonstrative lad. I didn’t have many girlfriends then, or ever, but I seemed to often have one from my sophomore year. After consolidating schools that year with the neighboring town of Holstein I dated two girls throughout the remainder of school, both of them were members of the percussion section in our high school band, as was I. Our lunch room was in the grade school building located two blocks west of the high school meaning we got a 4 block walk each day for lunch. Of course two small town blocks are about the length of one city block. When I was going “steady” with someone it was common to make this walk to and from lunch holding hands. Would that even be allowed today? I don’t even know. I’ve seen much more contact these days than we might have imagined then… well… maybe I imagined it, but really… that was the grist of the rumor mills then, not reality.

Sweaty palms. Sweaty palms seemed to be the benchmark of whether someone really liked you or not, or so was the ole wives tale. So, we’d make the 4 block walk to and from lunch, sweaty palms and all.

These are the hands that stroked my wife’s soft as silk hair and marveled over how electric and magical the touch of her skin felt. These are the hands that held each of my children in their first moments of life and the mystery of life that spark radiated from their little bodies, through my fingertips, up my arms and warmed my soul.

Each wrinkle and every line contain another story, another memory and yet cupping both hands together, they hold the future; my future and that of those I love. What will be drawn from my mind as I gaze at these hands many years from now?