When I think about my father one of the things I remember about him are his hands. He had large hands. They were strong and callused from years of hard work. They were the hands I remember picking me up when I fell down and spanking me when I misbehaved.

They were hands that held the steering wheel of the tractor that was used to plant crops and gardens, break horses and rope calves. They were hands that delivered mail on dirt roads to folks that lived in remote areas of the county. They pulled corn and picked cotton.

It was those hands that fought a war and opened gates to a concentration camp to free the people inside. Those were the hands that that took a bride and raised a family. I watched those hands as the held his Bible and studied the scriptures preparing Sunday School lessons. Those were the hands that signed on to build a new school on Ivy Avenue during the early 60s.

Those were the hands I did not want to disappoint.

Those were the hands I wanted to emulate.

The last time I saw those hands was when I placed a single Black-eyed Susan from the farm into them moments before the funeral director closed the lid of his casket in 1976. I was 24. He was 59.

I’ve thought about him and his strong hands many times over the years since that day.

When I look at my hands I’ve wondered, Have they measured up? Would he be pleased with the things these hands of mine have accomplished? I hope so.

I’ve held three grandchildren he never saw. - And five great grandchildren. They have earned me a living working in a mill for nearly forty years. Today they tremble a little bit and show all the signs of a man older than he was when he passed away.

I look at these hands of mine and I know they probably haven’t measured up to his... the man I admired most in my life. He set the bar high and he was a good father.

I know I was blessed to be his son.

Happy Father’s Day Daddy.

_______________
Rick Algood
June 13, 2018