her father's hands could build things
| |

Her Father’s Hands

Share our stories on social media:


Before we met, we’d both suffered

broken marriages

had children with those previous partners.

With white paint, he covered an almost round rock.

Used ebony to letter “2ndChance”

placed it at the bottom edge of our driveway.

He was a machinist by trade

but excelled at carpentry.

He had a brawny back.

Muscled arms ended with strong hands–

hands that hoisted heavy boards and cement blocks

deftly hammered nails

tightly anchored screws with precision.

He built front and back porches

to adorn our modest home.

Every slat measured to perfection

expertly crafted

as he stooped down, his eye aligned

with the bubble of the level.

A two-story tree house built at the edge of the woods

of our farmette

crafted for the children.

An outside ladder

led to the upper deck.

Hiding out, any of our combined four children:

Looking for privacy?

To escape his ‘finding out’ about some actual misdemeanor?

or one imagined while he was in an inebriated state?

Impressed with his own handiwork,

he built an addition to our back porch,

a ladder for me to climb and relax at roof level.

“You could sunbathe naked” he said, proud of this idea.

Mostly I used it to escape—not unlike our children.

The beer ruined him;

up to a case a day when I left.

Dead at 57.


Natalie, his oldest, with two little boys.

Five years later, a new son, and

Breast Cancer.

I visited often to help with the boys;

give encouragement, hope, tenderness, love.

Four years she battled,

sometimes bloated from medication

other times frail as a starving waif

torturing her body with every new experimental drug.

One Sunday, while trying to encourage her to eat something,

I noticed it.

“Your hands,” I said as I took one of hers in mine.

“You have your father’s hands.”

My throat felt tight as if a stone were stuck there.

“It’s the meds,” she said. She meant the darker color of her skin

as if it were sun bronzed

like her dad’s.

It was more than that.

With all the heartache, the illness,

her hands had his strength.

In her much weakened state, those hands . . .

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *


  1. Hands are often the most telling part a person. One of my most vivid memories of our dad was the dark stains that grease and oil had permanently left on his hands after years as an auto mechanic. My folks were headed to Las Vegas once and I remember Dad, every night, working “Corn-Huskers lotion” into his fingers so no one would see his unsightly hands when he reached for the dice at the crap table. To this day, when I think of him, as much as his face I still see those capable hands.

  2. Loved the story! Two comments on the photo: 1) I never met a carpenter with such perfectly manicured hands. 2) Why is he driving a screw with a hammer?