Working Hands

Joyce McDonald Hoskins

Dad’s hands were calloused, chapped, and work worn. Sometimes they were cracked to the bleeding point. He worked in the fields, coal mines, and tire shops of West Virginia. Content to stay in the mountains, he never went out west and seldom went down south. Except for a short trip across the Canadian border, he never left the country.

            We were never wealthy, but we never wanted. We never wanted because Dad worked. He worked hard. The first to arrive. The last to leave. He gave his all. Always employed, he considered unemployment checks to be for the disabled.

            Occasional fishing or hunting trips were his only personal indulgences. A picnic, an evening at the Drive-in Theater, or a trip to the stock car races were times to rest and enjoy his family. Simple pleasures of a simpler time.

            Dad delighted in bringing his children small surprises. A chocolate bar on a winter evening, ice cream, or a soda on a warm summer night.

            A good man. A man of his word. He believed character counted. Keep your word . Be on time. Care for your family. Be kind to animals. Help those less fortunate. He didn’t say these words. He simply, quietly, lived them. Day in. Day out.

            Once, as a very small child, I became separated from my family at the county fair. Strangely, I wasn’t afraid. I knew my Daddy would find me. A fair worker lifted me to one of the game stands, where I could easily be seen. It was only a minute before Dad’s large, rough hands gently lifted me to his shoulders.

            I miss him. I long to see his smile. Hear his voice. Touch his hands.

            One day in Heaven I’ll see him again. I won’t have to search. I know he’ll find me. I’ll feel his rough, hard working hands take mine again.