“It doesn’t matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.”
–Anne Sexton
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My father’s hands told the story of his life, and therefore, part of my life also. The hand that found it’s way to the top of my head during my childhood was curved to fit my head perfectly, his touch light and comforting or approving, always. No exceptions. I would examine his hands regularly as a small child and he would retell the story of each scar or damaged finger. Most had to do with his 23 years working in the coal mines of Pennsylvania, beginning as an 18-year-old frightened immigrant from Italy.
My father’s slender and strong hands were always warm to the touch and were never raised against me. His hands were quiet, wrinkled and scarred, even quieter around my mother but would come alive for my sake, for a game of bocci, a small glass of wine, or a summer picnic with several families from our region of Italy. Each year he religiously planted and tended our summer and winter gardens, bending to his work and handling his tools like he handled me, with care and respect. (I have kept his tools because it is so nice to run my hands over the worn wooden handles.)
My father’s hands procured and shared with my mother’s help endless meals for the “hobos” who passed through, a friendly pat or appropriate touch to any passing animal (except gophers), and made it his business to provide as many meals and clothing for hungry children in this area long before there were agencies to turn to for this.
My father’s hands were helpless against my mother’s reason and rages. It was difficult to reason with my mother most of the time and so my father went for walks…a lot. He was not afraid of death when it came, and dismissed the hapless clergyman who came by with a shake of his head and a laugh. My father’s story is that of a simple man who survived fascism and was dedicated to Peace. I never told him this, but, “Bobbo” (daddy in Italian), I am so happy you were my father.
My father’s hands could be both, loving and harmful, a symbol of both, safety and abuse.
My father’s hands achieved a great deal in his life, creating both successes for himself and others, and victimization.
My father hands, psyche and heart had to have been the recipients of abuse and/or trauma, in order for him to have been capable doing of the things he’s done and believe the beliefs he’s held, yet he describes his childhood and past in an almost entirely positive light, and the few stories of suffering that he has told, only served, in his mind, to build character.
My father’s hands seemingly have no memory of having caused abuse to his children or to their mother. My father’s ears have a great deal of difficulty hearing about what life was like from their perspective. For my father’s psyche has, like it has for his childhood, created a much more palatable story of his parenthood.
My hands hold my truth as my eyes and my ears bear witness to what my father could not. My heart envelops my truth and says “Welcome home.”
My father’s hands painted pictures that looked like photographs. His specialty was dog’s heads, especially hunting dogs, which he raised. He captured the unique facial features of his favorite breeds and made them look regal. His hands also played the saxophone, which is what Mom says made her fall in love with him. She felt sorry for him because my grandpa reprimanded him for jamming with my uncle. “You need to play what’s on the page!” he’d yell at Dad. Mom loved his improvisation, but rarely got to hear it. This was before I was born.
My father’s hands put together his company’s newsletter each month. He was the art director and took photographs of events and people he worked with, carefully composing and arranging articles and images. This is how he supported our family when I was first born and he was just 18 years old. One time he featured me on the front page. Titled “Tami and the Dolls,” it was a round image with me sitting cross legged in a fancy outfit my mom made, my hair curled like I never wanted it to be, and I was surrounded by a circle of dolls. I didn’t like dolls at all, but Dad made it look really sweet.
My father’s hands once created a treasure hunt for my sister and me for Christmas, with notes spread all over my grandparents’ yard. We bundled up in layers and tromped through the snow reading hint after hint until we ended up at Grandpa’s garage door. When we opened the door, the corner of the garage had been made into a little stable, complete with two ponies munching on hay. My dad knew how to make my dreams come true, especially right after the divorce when I was struggling to make sense of what happened to what I thought was my secure home and family.
My father’s hands built the house we moved into when I was twelve years old. He taught me how to paint and let me help him as much as I could. The house was right next to Grandpa and Grandma’s and had 7 acres of land, with a pasture for our horses and a pond that froze in the winter. We loved sledding and tobogganing down the hill and across the ice. I thought I skated like Peggy Fleming and rushed home from the school bus each day to practice.
My father’s hands taught me how to saddle the horses and put a bridle in their mouths. He signed me up for competitions and beamed when I won grand champion. We worked at the barn together, shoveling manure and doing building projects, currying the horses after a ride, and trimming their hooves.
My father’s hands held me upside down by my ankles and whipped me with a belt because I got a comment on my report card that I talked too much in class. This was a different father than the one I knew before. I couldn’t figure out what happened except that I now had a stepmother and he wanted me to call her “Mom.” I refused. I already had a mom, and even though I didn’t want to live with her, she could not be replaced. My step mom must have put him up to whipping me. His hands had never hurt me before, except one time when I was very young and my mom made him spank me when he came home from work because I broke something of hers while playing. My exuberance often got me into trouble, but not with Dad.
My father’s hands were not seen by me for three years. I ran away from our home in Illinois at age 14, landing at my mom’s tiny apartment in California, and had little contact with him until I showed up on his doorstep at age 17. I drove across the country with my cat in my purple VW bug and thought a surprise visit was in order. He hugged me, but I knew we would never be the same together. I had burned that bridge.
My father’s hands were busy at work when I came to visit every two or three years in my twenties and thirties. He never once came to visit me except for my wedding when I was 32. On my visits we still went to the barn after work so he could show me the horses he was breeding—Arabians had captured his attention. He stroked them gently, telling me it was important to gain their confidence instead of establishing dominance, which is what I told him many years ago. I just smiled.
My father’s hands were restless after he retired. He could not do all the building projects he’d planned due to a series of health problems: knee replacements, heart issues, and double vision from a tumor pressing on his optic nerve. He was too dizzy to climb a ladder and had to stay out of the sun because of medication he was on. The horses were sold one by one and now the pasture sits green and empty, but the tack room is still full of the brushes, saddles, and bridles I used as a kid. He leaves the radio on all the time, even though he rarely makes the trek from house to barn.
My father’s hands built to-scale model airplanes, combat planes from WWII. He painted faces on the pilots and dressed them in period clothing. Every bolt and seam was replicated, and he carefully researched decorations, numbers, and signs to detail the body. The planes are capable of flight, but he never flies them. He just likes to make them look like the real deal.
My father’s hands write the cards he sends for my birthday, Christmas, and Valentine’s Day now. They used to be in my stepmom’s handwriting until just a few years ago. He always includes an inspirational quote that lets me know he gets me more than I think he does. He writes about God, which he never used to do, but I write him back about God, which I never used to do. I don’t think we believe in the same God, but using that name is building a new bridge between us. He writes that he loves me more than I’ll ever know.
My father’s hands sought attention from his “public,” that is, everyone who admired his artist’s hand. He would approach strangers and ask to print their name and us a very glitzy Old English script, which he did easily, as if it were his third hand.
His hands invaded into the darkness of night-time, when we should have felt safe in bed … he came most nights and yes, my mother knew. One morning she asked me if he had “slept with me” and I nodded yes.She kept walking and did nothing … there were people she could have, would have told, but she did not … she was the guilty bystander. This caused a lot of pain and rejection…. I am better now, but there are some emotional scars which never really healed.