Dad’s hands have always been rough and gnarled. One of his fingers was broken when he was young and it was never set properly. It happened either in a farming mishap or playing football (I will have to check on that story). That finger is a bit crooked, and adds to the character of these hands that have known so much hard work. He worked hard farming, in factories, or driving truck. Growing up, there was an old tractor that sat in our yard. I remember him tinkering through the grease and grime as he got the old thing running. For me, those strong, capable hands inspired confidence.
Though his hands were caloused and tough, his touch was soft and gentle. In a moment, there was comfort for a teary eyed little girl or a hug for a broken hearted teenager. Dad would stroke my hair and hold me. I knew all would be well.
My best memory of dancing is that first dance in Dad’s arms. There was joy in his touch as he smiled at me. Dad led me on the dance floor much like he led me through life, with gentleness and by example. Words were not needed as we joyfully embraced and followed the music.
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Today I cherish each moment I get to spend with you, Dad. I wish there were not miles between us, but I can remember exactly how that last hug felt. It lingers in my memory and I recreate it often, celebrating your love and taking comfort in your touch.
Happy Birthday, Dad.
I love this shot. It takes me back to a summer day in Michigan, with Dad working on that tractor. The details are perfect, the tiny tear in the t-shirt, greasy hands, red International tractor in the background, and dappled light coming through the maple tree on the farm. This picture celebrates my dad. I think it was taken around 1988. Wonder if I could ever find the negative…
Dad passed away today, December 11, 2010.