Gnarled Hands By David Roth © 8 April, 2004 Big, rough, gnarled and calloused. Those are the hands that I remember. Hands that held a yelling whelp Hours after he was born With a loving tenderness You would not have thought possible Just to look at them. Hands that toiled in the heat of day and cold of night. Hands that built two houses One to give warmth and shelter To a growing family, And one to replace the first one When an unknown arson Burnt it to the ground. Hands that offered both tenderness and compassion To a crying child, Or a needy friend But didn’t shy away When life’s circumstances Demanded a more stern response. Hands that brought forth the abundance of the earth Year after year in the harvest of his crops And in the passing along of that gift To his children and grandchildren. Hands that raised the sweetest corn and tomatoes This side of heaven. Hands that tussled a young boy’s hair, Or bounced him on his knee Calling him his ‘Bummer Boy’ While singing that silly song With those silly, nonsensical words “A rummada, bummada, rum da bum” Hands that held the sweet fragrance Of that special pipe tobacco Always clenched between his teeth Whether actually lit or not. Rough hands Calloused hands Gnarled hands Loving hands Tender hands Grandpa’s hands How I miss them. In  loving memory of Richard Joseph Meier, Sr.  My Grandfather.
						This photograph was taken in 1971 - shortly before Grandpa died.  This is the house he rebuilt after the arson destroyed the house my Mother grew up in. I spend many a wonderful time here, from Christmasses, to summers, to just being able to spend a few hours with my Grandpa. In the summer of 1971, I was between my senior year of high school and my freshman year of college. That's Eb (short for Ebenezer) there with us.