Hands.

You can tell a lot about someone's hands. No really. I mean it. You can see hands that have lived a privileged life or ones that have worked for everything they have--- or in some cases, don't have. Neither is better than the other, they have just lived different lives.

When I was growing up my Dad used to hire men who were, as my Dad would say, "down on their luck." They were employed by the Salvation Army and would help my Dad work on the lawn and garden. From what I could tell, they were nice men but they had taken a different road in life and it had come to a dead end. At least at the time. What always amazed me about these men was their willingness to work---and work hard. You have to keep in mind when you are working outside, in St. Louis, MO during the summer, it's not pleasant. It's hot and it's humid.

How did you know they worked hard?

I would look at their hands (and faces.) It didn't require a lot of effort to see etched in their skin the roads they had taken. Deep crevices told a story that was different than the one I had to tell. They often had scars or hard memories on their hands and faces that said a lot about their lives; one they were not likely to tell a young kid. What I admired about these men was their willingness to pull themselves up by their bootstraps and try to get back up; what I learned from these men was that life can be tough when you make tough choices. I knew many of the choices they had made, and I wanted to make sure they were choices I didn't make as I got older. Maybe my Dad had an agenda here?

Because I only saw many of these men once or twice I have no idea what happened to them. I suspect some were able to get out of their deep holes they had dug, but most remained, or fell deeper, into a situation they had no way of getting out of during their lifetime.

It was a great way for me to learn about life---something I have never forgotten.

The picture above is all about generations; my daughter is holding the hands of her great, great aunt. There were 104 years between the two of them. I think. The reason why I am not sure is because her great, great aunt would only acknowledge she was 105 years old. (I knew how old my daughter was at the time but had no idea how old Aunt Lona really was.) In the end, it turned out she was really 107. I guess she didn't want to admit she was 2 years older!

When Aunt Lona died at 109, she lived in South Texas in a 2-story home without air conditioning. She lived alone, never married, and had spanned 3 centuries of life---how do I know? Without her admitting her true age, you could see it in her hands.

Have a great weekend and thanks for stopping by.