Granddaddy's hands always looked dirty no matter what he used to wash them. He owned the dry cleaners in his town and laundromats there and in the neighboring town. Granddaddy was raised on a farm but, as a young boy, worked for a dry cleaner to help bring in money for the family. I suppose it was only natural that he would go into that business for himself.
Even when his hands were clean they looked like road maps. The lines representing the roads were drawn in black oil and grease. Even his nails had splits in them. Granddaddy did all of his own repair work whether it was a washer or dryer or the boiler and everything in between. There was nothing he couldn't fix. And his hands told the story.
Granddaddy was a working man with working man's hands. You would expect that his hands were rough and gruff. But they weren't. I remember them as kind, loving, giving, gentle and trusting.
He had hands that could skillfully manuver his trusty pocketknife around an apple keeping it's peel paper thin and in one spiral shaped piece without breaking. Hands that cut the bottom of the cedar tree every Christmas so that it could be donned perfectly with lights and ornaments and stand in all it's Christmas-y glitter. Hands rested, entwined, on his belly when he napped in his big, brown recliner.
Granddaddy had hands that worked hard and loved gently. Hands that left us way too early. Hands that were not placed just right in the coffin.
Hands I loved.
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