WORKING HANDS

At our November meeting of the Dahlia Society, longtime member Helen Pickett brought a bag filled with hyacinth bulbs. Always so generous, Helen wanted to share the bounty that she enjoyed as a result of a very healthy crop of these fragrant blooms, and she had more than enough bulbs for anyone who wanted them. The only thing better than bulbs from her garden are the chocolates that she creates and shares with us every year at our annual Christmas party! I've never had a lot of success with bulb flowers, but I love the look, the feel and the smell of the hyacinth, so I took a couple handsfull home with me that night. I finally took the time to plant them last week, burying them in holes along the base of the backyard fence, behind and around a perennial bed that I had this year. As I nestled each little pointy-headed bulb, I realized how much I had missed playing in the dirt. There is something so comforting about the texture, smell and give of garden dirt. Although I was wearing gloves, I still managed to get soil under my nails, making it necessary for me to use a soapy brush to scrub my hands when I returned to the house. It was a GOOD afternoon!

During December in Washington State, our gardens lie fallow, crusted with morning frost or drenched with winter rains. For dahlia growers, the promise of brilliant blooms sleeps in the dark, cool recesses of the crawlspaces or root cellars under our houses. My raised beds, full of black soil, are empty of the green shoots that make my heart beat fast when I think of the possibilities that springtime most certainly brings. I am grateful for Helen's generosity that forced me outside to plant next spring's hyacinths, and for the chance to once again put my hands in the dirt. It is my hands that most permanently remind me of the lovely work that dahlia gardening represents. I don't know about you, but my hands have been forever changed through my work in the garden. The cuticles around my nails have grown tough, and in my palms, I have callouses and scars from blisters gained through hoeing, raking, shoveling as well as the cuts gained when dividing some impossible tuber clumps. I have more freckles and sunspots on the backs of my hands, and my nails are short and businesslike, with no polish to interfere with the work "at hand." In preparation for my son's wedding last week, in order to be presentable, I got a manicure, where I quietly admired the valiant efforts of the young woman who took on this futile task. There was little she could do, other than to push the cuticles back, clip away the toughened hide at the edges of each nail, and sand and buff the surfaces. She did as good a job as anyone could have, reminding me over and over again that I needed to use more "lotion.....lots of lotion.....very dry.....use lotion...."

When I think about the gardener's hands, I always think of my dad. He never wore gloves, in spite of spending part of nearly every day in the garden and his hands were like steel covered in cowhide, and spotted like a leopard. I loved his hands, because they told more stories about who he was than any other single physical feature he possessed. With these hands, he gently sorted seeds from chaff into egg cartons as he sat at the kitchen table; he pressed sprouted seed softly into dirt-filled peat pots; he carefully transplanted hardened-off seedlings into well-prepared soil of the dahlia garden; he lay tubers in shallow holes, eye-in, at the base of each cedar stake that he had pounded into the ground; he pinched back laterals, and disbudded growing plants; he encircled the plants with his arms as he tied up the growing bushes of lush green foliage; he cut armloads of mid-summer color to present to my mom, and he touched her back as he received the hugs that always rewarded his efforts.

Although we give in many ways throughout the year, December is a month when we are even more conscious of how we can extend a hand to others around us, whether they are friends or family, or members of our greater communities - our towns, our churches, our charities. I am in awe of all that my hands allow me to do, and hopeful that I can live up to the promise that my hands represent. My wish for everyone is that your hands continue to bring you joy, whether in your garden or patting the head of a child; petting your cat, dog or horse; wrapping a present; washing a dish; pressing a piecrust into a pan or peeling a potato; molding a chocolate or stirring banana bread batter; kneading warm bread dough or separating an egg; lighting a candle or playing the piano; writing a letter, a blog or a card; or touching the face of someone you love. The hands of someone who grows flowers are doubly blessed, and as a result, they bless those around them.

My Father's Hands 2004