Labor of Love

I pause from my own follies to reflect for a moment on Labor Day. Which was yesterday, in case in the rush to get your kids out the door to the bus and into the classroom not looking like they were raised by wolves, you've forgotten.

Yesterday, I joined Scott on the boat for the first time since the storm (which we'll get to...) We were lucky to have not had it sink and luckier to have it in one piece after floating with the floating dock to unfamiliar places before settling right back where we always expect to find it.

I knew Scott would be busy hosing it down and cleaning it to make it sparkle, and we were taking Charlie (the neurotic King Charles Cavalier) and I would need to find something to do to entertain myself. I took the laptop.

And as I sat in the morning sun, firing up the Internet to answer e-mails and muse about the week that was, I saw in the smooth dark screen, my own reflection, most prominently, my hands. And I was struck by their appearance. Not their age, not their grooming, but their similarity to my father's hands.

I think I may have paused watching them, in their natural position of work, for a full 3 minutes, which if you are me, may as well be an eternity.

My dad's hands were massive. Mine are tiny. So it is not that. But the shape that I saw today was most distinctively his. My hands have matured to their own character. And they have grown to resemble his. The shape of my nails. Their length. The depth of the beds. Their strength. I am not sure how to describe the familiarity of them. It was the same sense of wonder I felt the first time I observed Pat cock his head in the mirror at the same particular pitch that my dad cocked his own, to part his hair. Almost ghostly.

And then I heard the song.

One of Scott's projects this day on the boat was to fix the stereo. Make it operable from the wheel rather than having to leave it unattended to go change the station rather than endure a Miley Cyrus ditty unnecessarily. He got it fired up and blaring and within minutes, I heard "I need a sign..." the familiar beginning of the tune by Train that always compels me to be alert, pay attention. Dad is talking. Listen hard.

Apropos that it is Labor Day. The day originally intended to celebrate the indefatigable spirit of labor unions, but has since come to be a day of rest and barbeque's, and symbolizes the official end of summer, will always remind me of Dad.

He would have begun the day manicuring the lawn, washing both cars, and listening to a baseball game on the radio. He would be tirelessly tinkering with something. Extending a hose. Unclogging a sprinkler. Repairing a porch screen. Fixing a window so it would not rattle any longer. His hands would be black. Scraped. Raw. I recall a day when he got overly anxious to remove clumps of wet grass from the blades of his Lawnboy and sliced his fingers deeply. With the lawn only half done, he placed duct tape on the wounds, hoped for the best and kept mowing. His labor of love. I will always remember him working.

I was a bit of a hoarder as a kid. Rock collections. Coin collections. Foreign stamps. Bits of beach glass. Shells, arrowheads, all manner of crap, stowed in shoe boxes for all posterity. I had removed an article from a Reader's Digest called "My Father's Hands" and had saved it for years, never having shared it with anyone. At this point, I can recall an illustration in the article, but not a single relevant other thing, except that it made me cry. And when I would occasionally go through a purge and think about discarding it, I would read it one last time, and it would make me cry, and through tear-filled eyes I would find a spot for it among the things I'd keep.

And so maybe the image of my own hands and the song by Train were just to make sure I remember. Like I would ever forget. And so, for Dad, I offer a song from Dan Fogelberg, who, reminding me of the article with this song, also makes me cry, just a little:

"An only child alone and wild
A cabinet maker's son
His hands were meant for different work
And his heart was known to none
He left his home and went his lone
And solitary way
And he gave to me
A gift I know I never can repay

A quiet man of music
Denied a simpler fate
He tried to be a soldier once
But his music wouldn't wait
He earned his love through discipline
A thundering, velvet hand
His gentle means of sculpting souls
Took me years to understand

The leader of the band is tired
And his eyes are growing old
But his blood runs through my instrument
And his song is in my soul
My life has been a poor attempt
To imitate the man
I'm just a living legacy
To the leader of the band.

My brothers' lives were different
For they heard a different call
One went to Chicago
And the other to St. Paul
And I'm in Colorado
When I'm not in some hotel
Living out this life I've chose
And come to know so well

I thank you for the music
And your stories of the road
I thank you for the freedom
When it came my time to go
I thank you for the kindness
And the times when you got tough
And, papa, I don't think
I said, 'I love you' near enough"

- The Leader of the Band (http://www.elyrics.net/)

Thank you, Dad, for your tireless work. You were a fine ship to steer by with your work ethic, and did an enviable job at keeping a lot of plates in the air at home. You did the work of two parents, and never let me forget how very much you loved us. Today I was reminded of your powerful, gentle hands, and am thankful to have had them to hold as a little girl.