My Dad's Warm and Calloused Hands By Laurie Ann Moore Dillenbeck (daughter)
Contributor: trishkovach Created: 1 year ago Updated: 1 year ago
My Dads Warm and Calloused Hands
By Laurie Ann Moore Dillenbeck
Time cannot hinder the reverent recollections I have of my dad and the way his touch radiated the love that he had for me.
Dad and I walked, leading my horse Molly, down the narrow road from our 1814 rock farm house to the barn, while he carefully guided us, the sun shined brightly on the old rusty barbed wire, that was divided by glistening aged fence posts, which seemed to unknowingly balance several inches of fluffy white flakes. The smell of crisp clean air gave a sense of cleansing, as did the conversations I had with Dad. He always had the answers to my many questions.
The flying crystals brilliantly produced a snow-globe effect, which seemed protected, as I was protected by my father. Pine boughs loaded with snow seemed to create a sound proof barrier. All you could hear were the crunching sounds of the snow compacting beneath each step we took, and the perfect rhythm of Molly’s hooves penetrating the fresh, untouched drifts.
My dad held my seemingly tiny hand, tight in his calloused, strong and yet gentle hand, to keep it warm and safe from the bite of cold. His hands were always warm, as if he had just pulled them away from a roaring fire, or even a hot steaming water bottle. They were brown from the long summer days that he worked so diligently to provide for his family, although this was extraneous, as we were all satisfied with his love, which seemed to fill us.
The deep scars on his hands leading from knuckle to knuckle seemed to spell, “HARD WORK.”
I can imagine feeling the comfort and acceptance in my dad’s warm hands as he held me, his new Christmas baby, so many years ago. Many other times I have felt unconditional love and security in my father’s grasp, much like the walk from the 1814 rock farm house to the barn.
Now that I am grown and my dad has passed on, when I face lifes derisive and chaotic moments, I still feel the comfort and safety from the bite of it. My dad’s warm, calloused, strong, and yet gentle hands.