It’s Memorial Day Weekend, and the Stars and Stripes are
flying high. Friends and family across
America are gathering around picnic tables and lighting up the grills. Kids are excitedly taking their first plunges
into chilly, early summer pool water, and then warming shivering bodies wrapped
in oversized beach towels and sunlight.
It’s time to welcome summer, time to enjoy a long weekend, and most
importantly, time to remember those who gave their lives for their country and
others who we have loved and lost.
As I write this I’m thinking about my mother and
father. They both passed away in the summer, my mother
seven years ago, my father five years ago, on the same date, July 9th,
two years apart. I still miss them, I
keep pictures of them in my Bible, I like looking at their smiling faces when I
begin my morning quiet time. Today I was
remembering their hands, funny, but for some reason I started thinking about
all that those hands did for me.
My mom had beautiful hands and they were almost always busy. Her hands were often crocheting, holding a
book, cooking (Memorial Day weekend probably stirring homemade chocolate syrup
to have served warm over vanilla ice cream), and writing, crafting, gardening,
or serving in some way. Her hands could type 120 words per minute and take
shorthand, skills that earned her top ranking wherever she worked. Her hands comforted me when I was injured or
sick, patted me when I needed reassurance, and applauded me when I performed or
accomplished something. Her hands held
my babies and two of my grandbabies, I wish they could hold all of my
grandbabies and her other great grandchildren.
Oh how I love and miss those hands.
My dad had gentleman’s hands; strong, clean, long-fingered
hands. My dad was a thinker, sometimes
those hands sat quietly folded in his lap, often on a book or article while he
thought. But those hands weren’t idle
hands, they built the calorimeter he designed at Oak Ridge National Laboratory,
they wrote reports for Nuclear Regulatory Commission, they gestured when he
lectured, and like my mom’s hands they served many others. His hands steadied me as I learned to ride a
bike, jiggled the pan on Sunday nights when he made popcorn, they awed me as he
used them to hold test tubes and do Science demonstrations for my elementary
school class and my children’s classes too, they held the books he read to me
while using funny voices for all the characters, they washed my hair and
brushed my teeth when I was a child. His hands penned poetry and lovingly
signed carefully chosen birthday and Valentine’s Day cards. Oh how I love and miss those hands.
I’m looking forward to our extended family cookout this
Memorial Day. There will be three
generations celebrating together. We
will enjoy hotdogs and hamburgers from the grill, play yard games, and chat on
my sister’s screen porch, the rocking chairs on the porch are coveted seats and
are never empty once the weather warms. I’m making a beeline for one of
them. My parents always loved these occasions;
they would love seeing all their children, grandchildren, and great
grandchildren ages ten years to four weeks old.
I’d gladly give up the rocking chairs to them, if only . . .
