A friend posted a picture of one of her dad’s hands the other day. He had a bad sprain but they wanted to get it checked out to be sure. The PA reading the xray confirmed the sprain, then asked what he did for a living. He was a dairy farmer, my friend proudly shared.

The PA said… I should have known.

Anyway, the old dairy farmer got me thinking about an old apple farmer, and his number 3 son who grew up to be a soft in the middle desk jockey, and something he wrote in 2011.

Give it a read.

I looked at my hands, and was proud of my dad.

I was driving home from work Saturday morning, and I looked at my hands.
They were dirty and bloody and sore.

I’m a desk jokey. I spend most days talking on the phone, or e-mailing people. Sometimes I’ll run out to the warehouse and get a product out of stock to set up to answer a customer question. That’s what I do, I answer question. And sadly, after several years, it’s given me soft hands.

But Saturday, I had spent the morning in the warehouse doing some good old manual labor. Opening boxes, breaking down boxes, picking up boxes and garbage, stacking things on skids. Nothing too difficult, but again, I’m a desk jokey so it was kinda hard on my hands, and they showed it.

Like I said, they were dirty and bloody and sore.

That’s how I remember my dads, hands.

My dad’s hands never received a diploma, but he put four of us through college (the fifth one got a real job)
My dad’s hands never played a musical instrument, but he taught us all an appreciation for music.
My dad’s hands never did a power point, I’m sure they never even typed on a computer, never texted, But there’s so much more that they’ve done.

Before I was born, he was a milk man (back when there were milkmen) and his hands delivered thousands or quarts of milk. He got up very early, made his rounds, and then back to the dairy to clean and do whatever else had to be done.

After I was born, he became a farmer, and that’s where I remember his hands the most. He’s hands planted thousands of apple trees and picked millions of apples and cherries. When I was little he could spit an apple with his hands, a feat that still impressive his grandsons today. He taught me how to trim an apple tree, run a chain saw (great hand injury story there) split fire wood, and shoot a shot gun. All by hand.

So many times I remember his hands being cracked or cut, bleeding and sore. But he kept on smiling, kept on going. Kept on working. Working with his hands.

Today, many Americans don’t make a living working hard with their hands.

My dad and others from his generation made the America we have today, with their hands.

And when he could not do all that hard work, he just held moms hand.

And that was enough.

Like I said, I’m a desk jokey, my hands don’t do as much farm work, or dirt work of hard work as I like them to. But when I can, I go do work with my dad.

On Saturday, I didn’t work with my dad, but I worked with my hands.

And on the way home, they were dirty

and bloody

and sore.

And I was proud of my dad.