Dealt a Fine Hand

The other day I was washing a silicone sleeve that I wear over my partial left leg. I needed to turn the sleeve inside out in order to wash both sides. Silicone, when wet, is rather difficult to manipulate, covered in soap, harder still. Most people would have to grasp both sides of the sleeve and roll it down so the inside was exposed. I did not have to attempt this with slick hands. I reached inside, and pulled at the very end with the tips of my fingers, (I was grateful for their length) turning the sleeve outward. I kept one hand dry, making it easier to wash. This moment gave me pause. If you are still reading, this may not seem life altering. It may very well not be, however, this small act gave me a renewed appreciation for the things my hands can accomplish. No wonder zoologists who study primates are fascinated by the opposable thumb.

Those of you who have all your appendages may take them for granted. I am here to tell you, if one is missing, you tend examine a little more closely what the others are capable of.

I have had the good fortune to have very large hands, and no, for those with filthy minds; it is not always true about everything being proportionate, though my shoe size is relative to my glove size. These hands have been able to palm a basketball since my junior year of high school. They have made using a baseball glove a little easier, as well as more deftly. As for the winter gloves, yes, it has been harder to find ones that fit. I often had to settle for what was in stock, rather than the style I may have wanted.

One hand alone was large enough to support my five pound premature son immediately after he was born. Those hands, you may think could be clumsy, particularly after reading “A State of Disrepair,” were nimble enough to gently change innumerable diapers, make a thousand lunches. They were tender enough to wipe a nose, bathe an infant, and roll one mean joint without tearing the fragile rice paper or spillage. My hands have tied thousands of tight, concise, Windsor knots. They’ve tied a toddler’s shoes more times than I can count, and they’ve dressed a wound when a little boy fell down.

I have been fortunate enough to attend many hundreds of live events. My hands have applauded the excellence I’ve witnessed. Often, the New York Mets were responsible for me to bring my hands together. Every so often it was Broadway shows. Sometimes it was the concerts. Seeing Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers front row center for my son’s fifth birthday; my hands made more noise than I thought possible. My hands have never learned how to play a musical instrument. There’s still time for that.

I have also brought these hands together to stop a cat from clawing the furniture, or a dog from pissing on the carpet. But the times my hands were happiest was when they celebrated an achievement of my son Cory. His exploits on the baseball field would often serve as the driving force behind my hands coming together. The holiday shows he participated in with his classmates gave my hands great satisfaction exhibited in the form of applause. But I believe their proudest moments were when I brought them together to recognize his high school and college graduations.

My hands have built things, albeit most of them poorly, but they were responsible for the completion none the less. I have raised them singly in a variety of academic environments. In high school it was to tell my excuse du jour for not having completed an assignment. Most recently, at the collegiate level, it was because I had something of substance to add to the discussion, quite a change for my hands, they hardly knew how to act.

My hands have been raised to volunteer for countless school fundraisers and group functions for organizations I’ve been affiliated with over the years. A hand has been raised to toast a happy event. They have held up friends, sometimes at these very same events, when if my hands were not available, they’d have fallen over. Occasionally, back in my young and stupid days, I kept myself amused for lengths of time by waving my hand back and forth in front of my face while under the influence of some hallucinogenic. My hands have struck another individual in anger. These last two I am not proud of.

My height also matches the size of my hands. This has enabled me to reach things others of smaller stature were not physically able to. The grocery store is where I am most frequently put to good use. Another place is the kitchen, where I can put away the dishes my hands have washed, in places my wife can’t reach.
My hands are also rather strong. They came in handy when Cory and I first moved to Florida. We did not have a car. I was able to carry four full bags of groceries, doubled of course, the quarter mile walk back to our apartment. Had you met me after the sixth grade, you’d be well aware of the strength in my hands.

Drew Lindstedt, my middle school gym teacher, taught me how to shake hands. One day while giving instruction on wrestling, Mr. Lindstedt demonstrated the proper decorum prior to the beginning of a match. The combatants shook hands first. I was the guinea pig. When I took Mr. Lindstedt’s outstretched hand, he dropped mine, and chastised me.
“What is that, a dead fish!?” he bellowed. “Let the other guy know you’re alive for crying out loud! Now try it again!” From that moment on, whenever I’ve been introduced, or bid a farewell, I’ve let my hands do the talking as to the status of my current physical condition. I have shook hands with the famous, and the not so famous, friends and those who became friends, relatives and those who I consider irrelevant. I let each one know they had my full attention. One of my hand’s favorite handshakes was with an individual whom I admire and respect. It happened twice; both times he was giving me a diploma. Frank Brogan, Florida’s former Lieutenant Governor, now Chancellor of that states university system, is the former president of Florida Atlantic University. He congratulated each graduate personally at every commencement he presided over during his tenure.

The same hands that have twisted off stubborn lids, held hands with numerous females, have also been responsible for signing documents that have altered my life. One hand has been broken, as well as a couple of fingers on each, but the documents they signed did not break me, or my spirit.

There have been movie characters depicted with only one hand; the constable in Young Frankenstein, and the military uncle in Harold and Maude.
There are those too with one hand who deserve our admiration. Professional baseball players Pete Gray and Jim Abbott succeeded at their chosen endeavor despite the lack of one hand. Aron Ralston chose to cut off one of his rather than perish in the desert. Then there are many who serve in the armed forces that have lost hands not by choice.

Most of you who’ve gotten this far, I’m sure have all the limbs you were born with. The next time you bump your funny bone, or stub your toe, instead of curse, remember there are some who wish they could experience such a moment. Well, I’ve got to run. Oh, wait a minute; I can no longer run anywhere anymore. I do however, have both of my hands. They are responsible for, among many other things as you’ve read, writing this piece. I’m really thankful for that. It would suck to type this blog each week with only one foot.