A Real Man's Hands

MEMOIR A Real Man's Hands Sheila Kay Adams I've always had this thing about hands. That's one of the first things I notice about someone. I guess that's because I was always sort of self-conscious and even a little bit ashamed of my own. As a teenager they dangled out of sleeves that were always too short, so big and clumsy and out of proportion with the rest of me. I remember complaining about it, and Daddy said, "Oh, don't worry about it, honey. You'll grow into them." I was mortified. I lay in bed that night and examined them and thought, Lord have mercy, I'm going to be eightfeet tall. Daddy was over six feet tall with a big barrel chest, wide shoulders and massive arms. In 1952 while they were building the barn, one side needed an extra block under it to level it out. Mama said Daddy squatted down, grabbed the corner and raised it up enough so they could slip that block in there. As a little girl I thought he was the prettiest man in the world. And the strongest, and the smartest. He knew the answer to every question I could think up and could rattle off all fifty states. Alphabetically. And their capitals. Daddy worked a public job and was gone through the week. He would work ten-hour days and drive home from wherever he was. Every Thursday was like a holiday, and I would lie there dozing, waiting for the sound of that suitcase hitting the floor—Daddy's home! And I would spring out of that bed and go running through the house to be swept up in his arms. He would carry me back to bed and tuck the covers under my chin, and I would fall asleep to the sound of him and Mama talking, soft and low, with the crisp, clean smell of Mennen Aftershave on my hands and hair. When I was three years old I had to have my tonsils out, and I remember that day right down to the way the ether mask smelled when they put it over my face. Daddy carried me up to the door of the operating room and the nurse had to pry me out of his arms. I started to cry, reaching for him over the nurse's shoulder. "Daddy, Daddy!" And the look in his eyes as those doors closed between him and me—Mama told me he'd turned to her and said, "For a nickel I'd go right in there and git her and take her home." 65 He stood, waiting, the whole time, and his was the first face I saw when I woke up. Unfortunately that was not to be my only trip to the hospital. I was what Daddy called his active child. Lord, I was into everything. I shut the car door on my leg one time and had to have nine stitches. Daddy went right in with me and held my hand, and he shot one riddle after another at me. "If m-u-l-y spells muly and d-u-l-y spells duly then what does J-u1 -y spell?" "If a hen and a half lays an egg and a half in a day and a half, how many eggs do you get per hen per day?" I found what I thought was a piece of candy on the fireboard one time and popped it in my mouth. Turned out it was a worm pill for the dog. After Mama had liberally plied me with raw eggs to make me throw up, off to the hospital we went. Daddy's comment to that? "Well, honey, look on the bright side: at least you won't have worms." No, I was not an easy child and eventually I did something that required the first spanking from Daddy. Mama kept a little switch on top of the refrigerator and used it often and with complete, and seemingly gleeful, abandon. But, this was Daddy. Standing there looking up at him, watching those big hands go for his belt buckle, I knew...