He Has His Hands

It is amazing and wonderful to me, how generations can pass and yet a character or physical trait can be seen in our children's children. This week, as I was hugging my grandson Butch, who is 10 years old, I looked closely at his hands that I had just been holding. Immediately, I was whisked away in my mind to a time some 40 years ago. There, I could see Butch's great great grandfather, Big Papaw. He was a tall and lanky man (over 6 feet), with eyes of blue and a heart of gold. I loved his smile and his quiet ways. He worked his many acres of land in cotton. Near their tin roof house was a large strawberry patch that I came to love on visits there. Picking strawberries with him was a joy. He and Granny, who was only about
4' 10", lived very simply with a woodstove to heat their home and a feather bed. The toilet was outside in the back yard and was my first ever time to experience an outhouse. They were precious country folk who worked hard, lived simply and loved their family.

One of the things I remember about him was his hands. His fingers were long and thin and calloused. And now, three generations later, I see those hands in my grandson. It is amazing to me and it brings joy to my heart. I suspect as the generations continue these wonderful hands will continue to show themselves and the blood and heritage of those gone on before us will live on. I like that thought. Big Papaw would have liked it too.