There is a nice French restaurant I go to at times just to sit and have a whiskey while I work on some writing.  The other day there were three old coots sitting nearby and each had to be at least in their 80’s.  They spoke French which suggests they may have been in France during the last war to end all wars.

I glanced over at them, just as I saw was a perfect time to snap a picture.  I must show this to you.I kept looking at this picture for a long time!  What beautiful hands these men have!  Full of history.  I sincerely wish I could know what all these hands have done throughout the decades; what professions they had.  Are these the hands of compassion?  Manual labor?  Accountants?  Doctors?  Only they know.

During my life, I always looked at hands of others.  I used to work in the construction field and saw the hands of the craftsmen.  I found the hands of carpenters to be the most artistic.  Electricians usually had the most sculptured hands.  The hands of plumbers are interesting, but I never wanted to touch any of them – no telling where they have been.  Farmer’s hands will always show signs of the Good Earth.  I distinctly remember Grandpa Kimbrough’s hands.  They looked like they were formed and shaped by the sun.  Beautiful!  The many times I shook hands with him, they seemed to engulf mine in Love and Compassion.

Every time I am home to see my mother, I always love looking at her amazing hands, and I love holding them and caressing them.  I wish I had taken a picture of them to show you, because the history behind them is astounding.  I know those hands!  No telling how may times they wiped our runny little noses or held us close to her.  I know they cooked more meals than I can count.  Sewing, dressing us, driving us, caressing us, tucking us into bed.  I know for a fact they painted many things, included commode seats.  I always felt those hands were nothing less than a gift from God.

I look at my hands and I know what all they have done in life.  Not as impressive as these old coots; not as beautiful as my mother’s hands, but they are mine.  Give them another 20 years, and then maybe their history will show forth also.

Next, I must tell you about an art museum we went to.