Memories

Memories
The auditorium was silent except for the sound of the preacher’s voice and the quite shuffling of those who just couldn’t quite sit still. I was young and, I am ashamed to say it, bored. I know that it is unrealistic for my grown-up self to wish that my 5 year-old self had paid better attention to Sunday morning sermons, but it’s true. As I sat in the uncomfortable fold out chairs I began to wiggle and squirm like a worm that had just been freshly baited. My legs started to bounce to a rhythm that only I could here. Right leg up, up, left leg up, up. Over and over, I repeated it, until finally my dad’s big hand came, none to gently, crashing down on my afore mentioned appendages. Before he could take his hand away I grabbed it, and began to study it like some bacteria on a microscope.
My dad had big, strong hands, the kind of hands that he called, “Workin’ man hands.” They were at least four times the size of mine and his fingers were like thick sausage links. His fingernails were brutally short. They were wide and very dull with not even a hint of the florescent light gleaming off them. I bent his fingers backwards and forwards. I flipped his palm one way and then the other. His monstrous calluses seemed to intrigue me the most. I could not understand how anyone’s hands could come to be hard as rock in just a few specific spots. Mine were soft as a baby’s bottom and I couldn’t comprehend such rough work that must have caused his calluses.
Pretty soon he began to play a game with me, a quite game that would not interrupt the church service. He held his hand out straight and stiff as a board. Then I cautiously put my index finger into the center of his palm, and then snatch it back as fast as possible. When I wasn’t quick enough my dad would capture my finger with all five of his. I loved it! It kept me mostly still and fairly quite for the rest of the service. I was entertained and my dad saved himself from the embarrassment of having a daughter who could not sit still.