Though there were times when we received a good cuff on the ears from those big hands, for the most part they were loving and hard-working hands. But as far as hardworking hands goes, his were soft. As a baker, his hands were always in the butter, lard, and shortening, kneading doughs into elastic balls of goodness. I can still see him pick up a finished loaf of bread with his hands and examine it for quality. He could roll out a French loaf, ice a cake with a tube of frosting, and dextrously flip donuts in hot oil. He could pull a pan out of the oven with bare hands, muscle huge lumps of bread dough into the hopper for weighing, deftly drop cookies onto a baking sheet, or roll little balls of dough into dinner buns. I loved those hands.
The poem below by Jack Ridl captures some of the life that lived in my dad’s hands.
Hands
My grandfather grew up holding rags,
pounding his fist into the pocket
of a ball glove, gripping a plumb line
for his father who built what anyone
needed. At sixteen, wanting to work on
his own, he lied about his age
and for forty-nine years carried his lunch
to the assembly line where he stood
tightening bolts on air brake after
air brake along the monotonous belt.
I once asked him how he did that all
those years. He looked at me, said,
“I don’t understand. It was only
eight hours a day,” then closed
his fists. Every night after dinner
and a pilsner, he worked some more.
In the summer, he’d turn the clay,
grow tomatoes, turnips, peas,
and potatoes behind borders
of bluebells and English daisies,
and marigolds to keep away the rabbits.
When the weather turned to frost,
he went to the basement where,
until the seeds came in March,
he made perfect picture frames, each
glistening with layers of sweet shellac.
His hands were never bored. Even
in his last years, arthritis locking every
knuckle, he sat in the kitchen carving
wooden houses you could set on a shelf,
one after another, each one different.