That’s the title of a country song I heard the other day. I had never heard it before but it really hit home.

But there’s another one sung by Holly Dunn that touches something deep inside me whenever I hear it. It’s called Daddy’s Hands.

Believe it or not one of my first childhood memories is lying in my crib one night and being scared of the dark. My parent’s had placed my crib in the corner of their bedroom.

That particular night I was lying there crying in the dark when I felt the crib being dragged across the floor. Daddy pulled it up along his side of the bed and crawled back in to go to sleep.

The next thing I knew his large hairy hand came poking through the slats of the crib and rested beside me. I remember reaching out and holding onto it. Soon thereafter I drifted off to sleep.

Just his hand being there was enough to remove any fears I had of things that were going bump in the night.

I can remember those hands picking me up when I was too tired to walk. And I can remember them connecting with my back side when I had done wrong.

Although his hands were rough and calloused from hard work on the farm they sure felt good when he patted me on the back when I’d done something good.

I saw those hands break untamed horses, and I saw them pull barbed wire while mending fences. Those hands pulled corn and picked cotton. They plowed fields and fought for freedom in World War Two. And I watched those hands holding a bible as he read in his chair before going to bed.

There was just something powerful about those hands.

The last time I saw them was a couple weeks before Father’s Day in 1976. He was lying in the funeral home and they were clasped in front of him. He was fifty nine.

My daddy loved Blackeyed Susan’s and the highway was lined with those black and gold flowers from our farm all the way into town.

The day of his funeral I stopped along side the road and picked one. I placed it in his hands just before they closed the casket.

I turned 72 recently and I’ve taken notice of a few things. One of the things I’ve noticed is my hands. They’re old. Much older than his were. They hurt from arthritis and tremble nowadays.

They’ve done a lot of the same things his hands did. But somehow they just don’t compare.

It’s like that song I heard the other day said. I miss my daddy.

Happy Father’s Day.

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Rick Algood
June 6, 2024