Dad's hands

“Pipe down, you guys!” he said with an irritated scowl. We should have known better than to talk while the news was on during supper. I sat right beside my dad at the dinner table since the day I graduated from the high chair. He was at the head, facing the TV, and I was to his left; I felt honored to occupy that seat. During my adolescent years (there was even the trace of doubt in high school) I realized that he didn’t actually see any insects in my ice cream when he said, “Hey, there’s bug. I better eat it for you.” 

 As we finished supper, he got up from the table, leaving everything for other people. He’d been cleaning pigpens and cattle yards all day; I don’t imagine that he was too wild about working in the house, too. Not until I was in high school did Mom convince Dad to take his dishes to the kitchen, which was right around the counter. Now I understand that coincided with the movement away from home of my youngest sister. When he was growing up, I’m sure Dad didn’t witness a man doing any housework. As my mother has requested more from him in their retirement years, though, he has taken to it very easily. He washed his hands, but they didn’t ever seem to get clean. Stains from the iron injection that the baby pigs got on their first day were common, and under his fingernails was orange grease-paint marker that we used to indicate which pigs had been treated. We used Lava soap, with real pumice, from real volcanoes! The sandpapery feel it gave to wash up time was exhilarating. Lava was green and made no pretense to hiding odor or injecting fragrance. It probably would have been an exercise in futility; even painstakingly scrubbed hands carried a ground-in hint of pig manure. It could only be detected, though, by 200-mile-an-hour sniff with the skin right up under the nose. At least one of his uneven, craggy fingernails always carried the black dot of a blood blister. Sometimes the entire nail was black, ugly and partially torn off. His hands shouted out that this was not a man who sat around; his example still means to me that, ‘hanging around’ is behavior that needs to be avoided at all costs. Every minute must be used. When feed salesmen, seed corn dealers, or cattle buyers came to the farm, they knew they were not in for a long visit. When they found Dad, it was straight to business, finish talking using as few words as possible, and then be on your way—very little shooting the bull or chitchat. The weather can get along fine all by itself. During the first part of then evening, while MASH or Wheel of Fortune were on, he looked through the Des Moines Register. He’d been listening to NPR all day on the radio, so he probably had a good idea of the headlines, but he wanted now to get the background details. When lighter shows appeared on the television, he would pick up a book from the lamp stand/book case beside his chair. Every second of commercial, and often during the show itself, he could take in some of the bestseller that was always nearby. On Saturday nights after church, we would make a trip to the library with a box of books. We’d dump the books and fill the box again. Later on, a drama program might come on that would attract his interest and the number of pages read per hour would fall a bit. But the most pleasure spread across his body language when a popular movie, or news program, came up. He’d reach down on the right and pull the lever back to extend the footrest. He’d push back to extend the recliner. The book went face down on his gut to wait for commercials, and his hands would interlock behind his head. The working day was done and he could enjoy the story playing out in front of him until it was time for bed. I kissed my Dad goodnight, but I never got one in return, and didn’t think I needed one. When I was 8 or 9, though, I tired of the scratchy feel of his beard, so we shook hands. Maybe I liked this better—it meant equality of effort during our nightly ritual.