Grandpa’s Hands

“I will never forget you my people.

I have carved you in the palm of my hand.”

-Isaiah 49: 14-16

I have always been oddly captivated by my grandpa Marvin’s hands.   To me, they were abnormally large and strong.  I distinctly remember a hand-shake I had with him when I was 7 years-old.  Maybe I remember because it’s peculiar to give your grandpa a handshake at that age.  My Toronto Blue Jays had just defeated grandpa’s beloved Phillies in the 1993 World Series.   I was quite nervous about our encounter because I didn’t want to make him rehash such painful memories.  But grandpa was even-keel as ever: “Congratulations,” his voice rumbled as his hand enveloped mine.   The handshake was more like Lenny Dykstra shagging a fly in center; grandpa’s worn leather mitt plucking my tiny ball of fist out of the air.  It felt as though my hand had traveled down to grandpa’s basement workshop at Hunsberger Lane and was stuck between the vice.

I quickly grew to realize the talent of those hands.  Neither of my parents were particularly “handy” at fixing anything around the house.   Luckily for them, Marvin and Beulah made the 10-hour trip up to Canada twice a year to make sure everything was in tip-top shape.   I remember sprinting home from school  one day so I could loiter as grandpa’s entourage as he built us a new back porch.  On the rare occasion, he would turn to me and ask, “Could you get me some more spikes?” Nothing made me happier.  Evidence of his hands’ labour littered my childhood landscape.  “Mom, where did you get this rocking chair?” “Grandpa made it.”  “Mom, where did you get this blanket?  Grandpa  sewed it.” “Mom, when did Grandma and Grandpa move into their house?” “After Grandpa built it.”

Those powerful hands were essential to Marvin’s career as a handyman, yet I was still mesmerized by them when he returned from a day’s work at the home.  I contend to this day that my Grandma makes the finest juiciest beef roast in the land.   But she would deflect my family’s praise to Marvin: “He cuts the beef properly,” she would say.  After one of these celestial feasts, I retired to their living room; stomach swimming in gravy, mashed potatoes and beef.  “You know what,” I said to myself.  “My grandpa is the best roast beef-cutter in Harleysville.  No, No, No, he is the best roast beef-cutter in Montgomery County.   Heck with Montgomery County, he’s gotta be top 5 in the state of Pennsylvania!”

And then there were the hundreds of Pinochle games we played after dinner.  Grandpa had such a distinct way of taking a trick you knew you were in trouble before he even played his card.  His right-hand would reach into his handful of cards with a certain arrogance as if to say “back-off kid, this trick is mine.”  It was like getting brushed-back from the plate by a Don Drysdale fastball.

It was only once the talent of those hands deteriorated along with Grandpa’s health that I began to understand their wisdom.   Grandpa’s hands were cerebral.  They worked at a slow steady pace until the problem was solved.   They knocked down jobs one by one for decades.  Of anyone I know, Grandpa took the saying idol hands are the devils workshop most literally.  He didn’t retire until he was 80 years-old.

Two days after retirement he suffered a torn aorta.  He survived a surgery that had quite low odds for success.  Doctors said he shouldn’t expect to live more than two years.  But Marv clung to life with the same vice-like grip that he swallowed my hand with years earlier.   It was tough to watch those hands in his final years as they struggled to conquer simple things like unwrapping a candy.  It hardly seemed fair that tools of such genius had been reduced to this.

In our language when things start spiraling out of control, we like to say they are out of hand.   When someone is not grounded in reality, we like to say they are out of touch.  Marvin’s hands were firmly in-touch and in control of his life.  What I would do for Grandpa’s hands.  I look down at my own and they seem so dainty and stupid in comparison.  I may as well be one of those Wall Street bankers who get a manicure weekly.   I hope the intelligence of our hands isn’t lost as we continue to evolve as a society.  As my grandpa showed me, you don’t have to use a computer to solve all your problems.

I always thought Grandpa to be a man of few words.  The only time I can remember him giving me advice was at Christmas one year.   He sidled up to me with a grin on his face and said, “Remember treat your woman properly.  She will keep you going.”  He unraveled his great big fist to reveal a necklace he would give grandma lying on his calloused palm.  I never forgot the advice or the image of his hand cupping something so delicate.   The action’s of Marvin’s hands spoke louder than his words.  He passed away Friday morning but he left countless real life monuments to remember those hands and the man in charge of them.