Jarad Dewing compares his hands, and his life, to the men who came before him.
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If eyes are windows to the soul, Grandpa’s hands are a crooked cobblestone walkway. One firm clasp, one hug, his granite fingertips digging into your shoulder blades, and you are mere footsteps away from entering his story. Grandpa’s gnarled knuckles tell tales of pitchforks and gutting deer, welding sparks and tractor repairs. There are eons of hay bales and brittle winters in the cracks of his joints. I would never want him as an enemy.
That was my first understanding of the family hierarchy: You will lose if you fight with your elders, because they are harder, rougher, and manlier than you will ever be. You don’t have the gall or the balls. You don’t have the hands for righteous battle.
My father, a pastor of the old-school country ilk (and also a man with whom very few would think to tussle), was fond of using the Hebrew word chokhmah in services. Translated as “wisdom,” the term carries with it a history and tradition of learning through repetition. “Pounding in,” as he put it. Seeing the same thing over and over, hearing the same words over and over, inevitably roots a message firmly in the spirit. Beginning as knowledge, the message progresses to understanding, and eventually, through application, to wisdom.
I saw Grandpa’s hands several times a week for over twenty years: holding a chainsaw while he cut firewood for his ancient mother-in-law, clutching a black leather Bible so worn that the pages were curled and yellow, patting a newborn cousin’s tawny crown. The grease permanently worked into his wrinkles was anointing oil to me. Taught through this repetitive exposure, I learned that wisdom was knowing when to be strong and when to be gentle. Wisdom was a firm grip and a welcome hug. Wisdom was personified in him.
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In fifth grade, I was assigned an interview project and so I chose Grandpa, and I asked him about the Korean War. He’d driven a Jeep for officers, and I imagined his younger self holding a steering wheel, saluting, lacing up his boots. I asked, “Grandpa, what would you say if someone ran away from a war?”
I can still feel his hand on my small shoulder, heavy with fate. “Well… I’d think they were yellow.”
That weight struck me again, nine years later, as I sat at the desk of an aging Lieutenant Colonel. His manicured fingers were laced together on his desk, resting on my discharge papers. Desk jockey, I thought.
“Cadet, why would you want to give up this perfect opportunity? What better place will you find than the Academy to become a man of honor?”
I wiped my sweaty palms on grey pants, unable to keep from picturing the disappointment on my family’s faces. I imagined their whispered disapproval. Told you he couldn’t cut it. He doesn’t have our blood. He’s too soft.
“Sir,” I answered, “this very well may be a perfect place to learn how to fight a war. But if it’s not the perfect place for me, you wouldn’t want me in your war.”
Apparently satisfied, he sent me on my way, back into the forests of Pennsylvania and a long line of men slowly shaking their heads.
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First impressions of godly men with stolid faces embedded themselves in the crevices of my psyche so intractably that removing them became painful and nearly impossible. Chokhmah works. So does brainwashing. These images of barrel-chests and hands like shagbark hickory roots are insidious things. They seeped into my definitions, my personal culture, and my destiny like some weird osmosis.
But hands are not hearts. Scars and skin don’t tell the whole story. When I look at my callouses and improperly healed bones, I can say that yes my hands look a little like my grandfather’s, but they are not exactly like his, because I am not exactly like him. In fact, we differ quite a bit. Really, we’re damn near opposites. I set out looking for respect by aiming to be like the patriarch I took to be a small god, and all I found was an old man. The respect I had to earn the same way I earned these hands – picking up the rough stuff and the fiery things and holding on. That’s what hands are for.
Photo via Sharada Prasad/flickr