The Hands Of a Maker

My dad is a carpenter, a farmer, a breaker of horses, a dog lover, a mechanic, an artisan, a father. A lasting impression I have of my father is of how large his hands are. Family legend has it, that as a baby and small toddler I could sit in the palm of my father's hand.

When I was a small child, those large hands lifted me up onto my first horse. Years later, when I was a teenager, those large hands drew ball point pen "tattoos" down my arms; snakes wrapped around daggers were my favorite and his specialty. Together we rode horses, lifted hay bales, and attended to the piglets.

I often think of my dad's hands when I am watching my own hands make things. My hands are tiny in comparison, but they bear a resemblance; calloused and worn they are working hands.

This Christmas I knit my dad a pair of fingerless mittens; made from tough Peruvian wool twisted alongside sock yarns, they are mittens that will work as hard as he does.