by Ingrid Braley
His pudgy little hands hovered above the unsuspecting grey toad. Ever so slowly the small boy lowered his hands, swiftly he cupped them together. Success! The first toad catch of the season! Mud caked every crevasse of his chubby hands which now held his tiny treasure. Big bright eyes smiled proudly. Those are country hands.
Petite hands carefully plucked snow-white daisies. A few dandelions and buttercups completed the perfect bouquet. Small fingers wove more flowers into long, braided strands of golden hair. The most beautiful fairy princess twirled and spun across the lawn. Her yellow dandelion and grass stained hands floated gracefully as she held her fresh picked bouquet. Little girls oohed and ahhed and clapped their hands. Those are country hands.
His grease stained hands drug the heavy steel chain across the field road. The young man hooked it to the back of his buried pickup. With a holler and the quick motion of his hand, the chain snapped tight, as his father’s truck grunted to pull him out of the mud. Back on solid ground, those thick dirty hands undid the chain and threw it in the back of his pickup. Those are country hands.
Pretty young hands move quickly, slicing the spuds and dropping them in the wooden barrel. Through the prom is tonight, there’s still seed to be cut to fill that planter. The young girl winces as she rolls another full potato barrel. A wood splinter sticks into the palm of her hand. That evening she slips a couple bracelets on her scratched wrists and slides some rings on her fingers. The ends of her nails are a lovely shade of earth brown from the day’s work on the farm. Those are country hands.
Strong calloused hands rest on the thin steering wheel of an old tractor. The rugged man drives it up and down through the field until the hot sun lowers on Saturday night. At home as he washes his hands for a home cooked meal, the clear well water runs brown after it cascades over those big tough hands. On Sunday morning a little girl hops down the living-room stairs. She climbs up, in her pretty pink dress, onto Daddy’s lap. His rough hands, stained and scarred from years of hard work, gently brush through his daughter’s fluffy brown curls. Those are country hands.
A diamond ring and a wedding band grace the sun-aged hands of a mother. She slices a crunchy cucumber fresh from her well-tended garden. The sweet scent of baking bread, kneaded with her knowing hands, fills her kitchen. At the end of the day her hands refuse to rest as she sweeps the floor after messy work boots, puts the dinner dishes back in the cupboard and folds another basket of laundry. Her gentle hands tuck in her children one at a time. By lamplight she sits, her agile fingers weaving back and forth as she sews the knee of her husband’s old jeans. When she finally crawls into bed, she turns out the light with a glance at the near full bottle of hand-lotion. “In the morning,” she thinks, for she is too tired tonight to worry about soft hands. Those are country hands.
Side by side at a worn wooden table they sit. Her wrinkled hands take the serving spoon, dip into the hot metal pot and plop a heap of lumpy mashed potatoes on his plate. As she fills her aging husband’s plate first, his old hands reach out and stop her. She lets her thin, shriveled hands rest in his swollen ones. His fingers, bent now from arthritis, twirl the golden band still on her left ring finger. Their eyes meet, reading their heart’s silent words. They bow their heads before their meal; eighty year old hands clasped together in prayer. Those are country hands.
