Dad's Hands

            My Dad was a man of few words. If I had to guess, his most frequent words to me were, “I love you” or some variation on that theme. He said those words a lot through his battle with cancer. I think our love grew closer through his struggle and Dad’s appreciation for me grew. He developed a fondness and appreciation for the man I had become. I remember him telling me within the past month or two that I was “the man”.

            Before Dad’s funeral, Mom and I talked. Let me share mom’s recollections of the families’ last words to Dad. My last words to Dad were, “Love ya, Dad. Sleep good.” My brother Lance’s last words were, “Love you, Dad.” Mom’s last words to Dad were, “Love you. Sleepy good.” Dad responded with some variation of the theme of love to me. So, our last words were kind and that is a cherished memory.

            I wish Dad had become more of a talker or writer, so I better understood his thinking. But, Dad primarily showed his love through his action. So, I want to remember Dad’s hands—the thing he used to show his love.

            When I was a kid, Dad had big hands. Mom on occasion would call them, “Meat hooks.” He was a small guy, but because of work (and working out through various stages of his life) his hands were strong. His hands were broad, but more than that they were thick with muscle.

            I can recall intertwining my fingers with Dad’s. He would jokingly straighten his fingers and squeeze them together. My poor hand (I think I was a teenager or maybe even in my twenties at this time) was helpless in his viselike grip. I remember doing this with my right hand, but probably did it with both. I think all this hand squeezing came out of some macho hand challenges boys that age do. I remember thumb wrestling and other stupid things boys do with other boys. Then, I would try those things with Dad. Dad was much stronger than the other boys. There was no way to beat Dad in thumb wrestling—at least I think I thumb wrestled Dad, but I’m not sure. But, either way, I doubt I would have beaten him!

            In his prime, Dad had a ridge of thick calluses just below his fingers. The ridges came up to a peak that was sharp. The calluses were rough and thick—like a type of padding that would add grip to a tool in his hand. Even the tips of Dad’s fingers had this type of texture. Dad wasn’t afraid to work until he had bloody blisters on his hands. Sometimes he did this when he was gardening.

            Dad loved gardening. I think part of it was his hyperactivity. Part of it was saving money. And, part of it was he liked to give food to his family—not any food, but food that he helped create. I suppose it was his part of the meal-making process. Mom was the official cook and we were glad of that.

            One time Mom was sick. I don’t remember her illness at the time, but Mom was and is faithful and hardworking. So, she must have had a bad bug. Dad cooked. His hands made us hamburgers. I think Dad feared undercooking them, so he did the opposite. Those burgers were like charcoal briquettes. I don’t ever recall Dad being chef again. I think I may have written some sort of funny story or poem about the day Dad cooked for a school assignment. Seems it was likely around third or fourth grade, but I don’t remember for sure.

            Wherever he went, Dad made some sort of garden. At our house on Massillon Road, Dad put in a large garden. I think it spanned the width of the backyard and was fairly deep. We probably had a big enough harvest to feed a neighborhood. I only vaguely remember what was back there. I can recall cucumbers, but I’m not sure it was that garden. I think there may have been corn back there. My foggy memories of that house (I was about seven when we moved to another house) are somewhat limited. I think there was corn, because I have a vague image of the garden having some height.

            I remember Mom telling the story how Dad dug around to help build the foundation of that house. I’m not sure why. It was probably to save money. Likely there was an expensive repair, I can’t recall, and Dad said he would do it instead of paying guys to come out and dig it out with machines. That was Dad—he was strong and could work like a machine.

            As a kid and young man, I thought Dad was a workaholic. I didn’t like that. I wanted more of him. But, now as I reflect, I can see Dad was giving us all of him in the way he knew best. Dad’s father died when he was only four-and-a-half. He had no role model to follow in terms of how to be a Dad. But, his great love allowed him to figure it out and he did well. He raised my brother and me right.

            Dad’s hands were outdoor hands. He loved hunting. He took my brother and me on a few hunting trips. It never took. I somewhat wish I would have feigned a hobby in hunting, just so I had a few more memories with Dad. He took us squirrel hunting on a few occasions. I remember Dad taking us to hunter safety courses. He made sure we were safe. I think we were only teenagers at the time.

            Dad’s hands played catch with my brother and me. I don’t have a vivid image in my head, but more of a feeling of throwing a ball back and forth in our front yard at Laura Lane. I think we may have also played catch in the lot beside my Grandparent’s (Mom side of the family) house. I remember having baseball mitts, oiling them up, putting a baseball in the middle and then putting it under the bed mattress and sleeping on it. I’m not positive, but I think Dad showed us how to do that to break in the mitt.

            In the front yard (on Laura Lane) we had this weird planter made out of a tire. I’m not sure Dad built that. I think it was made by cutting down the middle of the tread and the turning the rubber inside out. There were plants in there—planted by Dad, of course, but Mom may have helped. He did quite a bit of landscaping around that house—with bark and mulch. We had a drainage ditch to the front and side of that house. On the side between our house and the Meyer’s, Mom and Dad had a row of tall bushes planted. I think they had Donzell’s (a local nursery) plant those. There were low-lying shrubs behind them. I think Mom and Dad planted that part. Dad had a garden out back—not as big as the one on Massillon, but I’m thinking it was about six feet by ten feet.

            I know Dad planted tomato plants out there. I recall that clearly, because tomato plants attract grubs. My brother and I helped find the grubs and were paid per grub. I think it was only a nickel. We also put some pans out there with beer. It attracted the grubs and killed them.

            Dad also showed us how to hunt for night crawlers after a rain. We would use these for fishing trips. One time Dad took my brother and me snipe hunting in the backyard. In case you’re wondering, there is no such thing as a snipe.

            I can remember dad using his rototiller. Right now it’s sitting out in his garage. It is a John Deere. I think he loved that rototiller, because it helped him plant his gardens.

            Dad loved tomato plants. During our recollections over the past few days, Mom shared how Dad would love the smell of tomato plants on his hand. He would rub his hands together and smell them. Mom didn’t like the scent, but she did like the tomatoes. Right now out back of Mom and Dad’s house and in the garage are Dad’s tomato planters. I’m not sure any of the planters are out in the garage, but he does have wire tomato frames out there. He has something in the garage that looks like it’s made out of a five-gallon water jug. I suspect that either was a planter or one he was working on before he became sick. He used to like to create planters. There are some out back that are made out of blue plastic coffee cans. He also left behind several of the wire cages that help plants to grow upright. There are a few of his planters on the backside of his house that were made out of white plastic trash bins with trellises coming out of dirt. There is some giant red bin in Mom and Dad’s garage, which I suspect was something in the works. He also created hanging tomato planters. Dad’s hands liked to work and create.

            Dad loved fishing and he would take my brother and me with him. His hands showed me how to bait a hook. I think a few times Dad’s hand were impaled by a hook in this teaching process. You need to understand Dad’s kids. I was a quiet, relaxed kid. My brother was a hellion. Lance had (and still does) an internal, hyperactive motor that just won’t quit. In many ways, Lance is like Dad. So, Dad was in danger anywhere around Lance and a hook.

            I remember going out to Nimisila Lake Reservoir. I recall Dad with light fishing gear. He liked fishing for blue gills. As strong as Dad was, when he fished he used finesse. I remember sitting out at a slope near a tree. It’s weird—just a vague feeling. Maybe my brother and I will have to go back out there. Although, maybe things have changed and we won’t find the spot.

            Dad liked fishing with a fly rod. He taught me how. I picked it up pretty quickly. I also remember little casting weights we had to help practice spin casting. I have this vague recollection of setting up targets and trying to cast into them. I can’t say for certain, but I think one of these targets was a large, metal bin. With all these vague recollections, one thing is sure. Dad’s hands must have spent plenty of time teaching us to fish.

            Dad’s hands were the ones on the oars out at Wingfoot Lake Park. Maybe Lance and I rowed on occasion, but Dad was the captain of that ship. Dad was a strong oarsman. He made sure we made it to all corners of that lake. There were little islands out there. On occasion we visited the islands. Not for a long stay, but often to simply take a leak. Dad also took us shore fishing out at Wingfoot.

            I can remember the Canteen out there. It had an eatery and a bait shop. They also had good prices. Maybe that’s why Dad liked Wingfoot Lake! We also had some nice family picnics out there. There were some nice trails and a great miniature golf course. There were some outings where we spent time in the pavilions out there. I recall there being outings with a lot of people, prizes and events. It’s those strange phantom memories—just enough memory to give an impression, but not enough for a complete picture. I suspect these were Goodyear events, where Dad worked at the time. I remember a sense of camaraderie at these events.

            Out at Laura Lane, Dad’s hands built a basketball court. We had a blacktop driveway. Dad could have just put a hoop up and used the driveway as a court. He didn’t. He made concrete blocks—probably two feet by two feet. I remember him having mold pieces. I’m not sure whether he made those pieces or not, but he used the molds to make the blocks. I think the blocks were two or three inches thick. Using these blocks, Dad built up a place beside the driveway to give us more space to play. That little court was probably twelve feet by ten feet, but it made a huge difference. When added to the driveway, we had a nice place to play. I remember a backstop behind the court—in between the giant pine trees we had out there. It was reddish and about four feet tall by six to eight feet wide. I think Dad may have put that in as well, so we didn’t spend as much time chasing down errant shots.

            Dad spent quite a bit of time putting up the pole and the backboard. He found a steel pipe—probably four to six inches in diamater. He had someone (I’m pretty sure it was a buddy of his that did autobody work) weld little lengths of steel bar at various angles on the bottom of that pole. He wanted to make sure when he planted it into concrete, that it stood strong and wouldn’t twist or turn. I think he dug the hole about two to three feet deep. That pole was immovable—like Dad’s love for his wife and kids. I’m pretty sure he was somewhat meticulous to make sure the hoop was exactly ten feet from the ground. That was Dad. Sometimes he went a little overboard, but he wanted to do things right.

            I can remember playing hoops with Dad out on that court. With Dad, hoops was just shooting around and having fun. Dad had a decent jump shoot. We (dad, my brother and I) would play games, like horse, where we’d take turns taking shots. I think mom came out there as well, but mostly it was Dad and the boys. If someone made a shot, the rest had to make the same shot or earn a letter. Once someone was a H-O-R-S-E, they were out. The games with Dad were relaxed. The games I played one-on-one with my brother were more cut throat.

            Dad’s hands put up a swimming pool in the backyard at Laura Lane. I remember he dug out a giant circle—probably about six inches deep, maybe deeper. I think our pool had a twenty-four foot diameter. So, you can imagine the size of the hole. He then dug out the center so the pool was deeper in the middle—probably 18-24 inches or so. He lined the bottom of everything with sand. I’m pretty sure he put up that entire pool with little outside help—maybe some from me, Lance and Mom, but Dad did the majority of the work. I remember him out there with a long piece of wood smoothing out the area for the pool. He also built a nice deck for that pool out of heavy wood.

            We had a swing set in the backyard. I think the swing set was before the pool. I remember when I swung really high the legs of that swing set would come off the ground. One time Lance got onto my shoulders and jumped off and tried to fly. He ended up breaking his arm. I’m not sure why that swing set was so dangerous. I’m sure Dad tried to build it right. Maybe he simply followed the instructions instead of his normal procedures of going over the top. I’m sure it was his hands that tore down that swing set—while I can’t say for sure, probably to protect my brother and me from serious injury!

            In the back corner of the yard we had a burn barrel. Dad took a fifty-five gallon drum and shot holes in it with his .22 rifle. I’m not sure where he went to shoot the holes. While my brother and I (probably more me, because I’m more the momma-boy’s type) didn’t take too much to hunting, we did like shooting. Dad took us out to target ranges. During Dad’s funeral service, there was a picture of Dad standing behind us as we were shooting at Skyview Ranch. Dad also liked bow hunting. I remember my brother and I had these little plastic bows. I don’t think they had much power. Dad had a compound bow. I don’t recall that I ever shot that. Growing up, the only time Dad was gone from the family was an occasional week or so for a hunting trip or the time he worked overtime to buy us a computer.

            The burn barrel was a place where we would burn papers. It was a fun place to get a nice fire going and poke and swirl around that fire with a stick. When my brother and I were little, I don’t think Dad liked us playing with the burn barrel. As we grew, and he knew we wouldn’t torch ourselves, he loosened up and let us burn the papers. As little boys we loved fire and matches.

            Dad’s hands worked on cars. I’m not sure he always enjoyed it. But, growing up a mechanic’s bill was an expense. So, he did his best to fix things. At times he would become angry at the car and yell at it. I remember one time he was working on the car. He couldn’t figure it out. I don’t remember what part it was, but I recall being in our kitchen-dining room area out at Laura Lane and examining it. He was turning the screw the wrong direction. That’s one way I’m different than Dad and my brother. They immediately put their hands into action. I’ll examine something and think about it first. Dad did various things around the house—plumbing, electrical, painting or whatever. During Dad’s funeral there was a picture on the slide show of Dad helping to paint the interior of Hillwood Chapel. We attended there for a while. The church moved and built a new building. They needed extra hands and Dad was there. I can vaguely recall being in the skeleton of the building as it went up and helping out as well.

            Dad’s hand helped to feed and care for stray animals. There was Spunky, a little painted turtle. I think we found him (may have been a her, we couldn’t lift the shell to check it out) at Nimisila Lake. I’m not sure if Dad was the one who found him. It might have been my brother or me. We took Spunky home and put him in a yellow plastic dish. It was probably about fourteen-sixteen inches in diameter and six inches deep. We put a rock in the middle. Spunky was probably only an inch or two in diameter when we found him, but he grew bigger. He may have been around six inches (or more) before we released him back out in the wild. His tremendous growth was no doubt due to the baloney we fed him. Between that and his “aquarium”, he probably had lost the will to live before we released him. I’m hoping we didn’t free him at Nimisila Lake, but I fear we did. I remember fishing out there and there were snapping turtles. At least I think it was snapping turtles that would eat our fish that we kept on the metal stringers. We would put them on the stringer and keep them in the water, so they would stay fresh. Sometimes, when we pulled them out of the water, they were eaten up.

            Out at Laura Lane, Dad’s hands started feeding Lady. She was a sweet, petite kitty. She was white with various tabby-like patches on her body. We noticed she started hanging around the house. We then discovered Dad was feeding her. No wonder she was hanging around! Lady started to gain weight—quickly, especially around her sides and lower belly. She was pregnant with a load of kittens. We ended up giving away most of the kittens and Lady, but one cat remained—Spike. He was a strange cat, which was probably why no one wanted him. He was both grouchy and loving. Spike resembled his mother only much larger—and longer. Spike was a tall, lanky cat. We think he may have been the kitten that received the least nourishment in the womb before Dad starting feeding Lady. In the slide show at Dad’s funeral was a picture of him holding (almost in a hug) Spike. That was Dad—wrapping his loving hands around a needy animal.

            Two cats saved by Dad live with Mom. There is Gizmo—a grey tabby. Dad found her underneath a rail car at The National Inventor’s Hall of Fame. For some reason, I’m thinking it may have been called Inventure Place at the time. Or, maybe Inventure Place was a part of the Hall of Fame. Gizmo was only about four-and-a-half weeks old when Dad found her. He brought her home and she became Mom’s kitty. Dad was working, but Mom was at home. Mom cared for Gizmo, putting milk on her finger and letting Gizmo lick it off. Often kittens that young don’t make it, but Mom spent the time to nurse Gizmo back to health. We think Gizmo may have bonded with Mom as if Mom was her cat-mother. That cat loves to lay in Mom’s lap and purr. It’s good Mom has that companionship while going through this time of grief. She wouldn’t have that without Dad showing kindness to a stray.

            Mom also has Bootsie—so called for her white feet that almost look like she’s wearing high heels. She is a black and white cat. We think she may have been abused before Dad took her in. She has uneven pupils, her jaw doesn’t sit quite right and she has a weird knot near the bottom of her sternum. Sometimes she lays funny, on her back or side with her back legs sprawled apart. Sometimes she is on her side, but her back legs are twisted so that portion is more on her back. She has a hyperactive tail, even when relaxed and purring. Even though she has her problems, she has the sweetest temperament.

            Dad started feeding her about two years ago. She started hanging around the house. As the weather became colder, Mom and Dad built a fort for her to stay in. They laid blankets over the picnic table in their back yard. They put a box underneath there with padding for her to sleep. They put a candescent bulb to give her heat. So, Mom and Dad had an inside cat (Gizmo) and an outside cat (Bootsie). I mentioned to Mom that when the weather gets cold, Dad is going to take her in the house, which happened. I believe it was around January of 2013.

            At first Bootsie was nervous. She hid upstairs most of the time. Gizmo, who probably only weighs six pounds, was the boss of the house, even though Bootsie is a much larger (and thicker) cat. Over time Bootsie has healed and grown more adventurous. At times she’s the boss of the kitties. At times she demands attention. She is becoming an affectionate lap cat. She will be another companion for Mom.

            I remember for a period of time, Dad was away from home on a working assignment. I was probably in my early to mid-teens at the time. I don’t think he had to take this assignment, but it was an opportunity for overtime. Dad’s hands worked hard in that overtime to buy my brother and me a computer—an Atari 800XL with a five-and-a-half inch floppy drive. I remember we hooked it up to a TV for a monitor. I think Dad was working sixteen-hour days throughout the workweek and also some hours over the weekend. He was probably putting in 80-100 hour per week just to buy that computer. We did have fun with that computer. I don’t know that Dad ever fully understood that thing, but we wanted it and I was interested in computers for school. So, Dad made sure he found a way to buy it for us.

            Throughout the years, Dad’s hands changed. They were always strong, but as he grew older they became less meaty. In the late 1990’s (not sure the date), Dad had a stroke. He recovered quickly. I remember them testing Dad’s hands for grip strength. I think he was around a hundred-and-ten pounds of grip. I’m not exactly sure those grip strength tests were related to the stroke (it could have been for something else at a different time), but I’m pretty sure they were.

            Several years ago, Mom developed an interest in making jewelry. She would buy various beads and string them together. Dad became interested and also started making jewelry. Through the years Dad went through several bouts of depression that affected his health. This loss of vigor, along with age, took away some of his hand strength. But, he always found something to do with hands.

            One hard part of Dad’s cancer was he wasn’t able to do things with his hands like he wanted. Over time he grew weary. He just didn’t have the strength to go outside like he wanted and play around. I think the last tomato plants he had were last summer. I don’t think he had a chance to plant any this year. Cancer took away Dad’s hands.

            My last memory of Dad’s hands was touching them as he lay in the casket. His hands were ice cold. I was overwhelmed with grief at that moment. Through his bout with cancer, Dad became cold, and as he grew weaker, he grew progressively colder. He wore layers and layers of clothes and still couldn’t find warmth. I think the only true warmth dad received was from a mattress-pad heater my mother and I bought for him within the last few weeks of his life.

            In many ways, Dad’s hands were his life. It was one of the main ways he showed his love to me, Lance and Mom. His hands were his outlet for his creativity. He was involved in several patents while working as a lab technician at Goodyear. And, his creativity was evident in the tomato planters and jewelry he made. Dad’s hands represent Dad—a kind, humble, hardworking man. Dad’s hands were love.