Hands

My uncle died on Monday. The one thing that I always marveled at, the thing most striking about him to me, were his hands. He was a dairy farmer in Wisconsin and had the strongest hands I have ever seen. This wide pad of a palm was topped with five stocky fingers.

These hands milked cows, lifted hay and worked, probably every day of his life. They were strong hands... powerful hands.

These hands also lifted me onto the back of a cow so I could "ride" it, these hands held my aunt's and they squirted milk at the barn cats for a treat. These were powerful hands.

My uncle had a pool table down stairs in the house. This was a scared place, where my uncle and the other adults played pool after work. These huge hands held this thin piece of wood and made the balls move around the table at his command. Hard breaks, soft cuts and precise banks were all shots he, and his hands, could make. These were powerful hands.

I look at my hands, not stocky, not the hands of a dairy farmer. But maybe strong in their own way. I hope I often look down at my hands, when writing or on the computer typing away and think of Andy (Unky). I know I can always get a table, grab a cue and remember him.