My hands are sore today. They normally go through life unnoticed until I break a nail or sustain an injury, but now a constant throbbing lets me know they hang by my side. It’s uncomfortable to squeeze them tight or open flat; the aftermath of hard labour scouring the boat. I’m systematically cleaning our Sea Cottage one area at a time and yesterday was the transom.
The only feasible way to do this was to be in a dingy on the water, a rubber Zodiac, and hang on to a rope or the davits with one hand to keep from floating away while scrubbing the back end with the other. SOS pads, a toothbrush and rags with various cleaners did the trick but it was rough to keep in position as the boat shifted and heaved in the wake of passing boats. I was on my knees, back and forth on my sides, on my rump, on my back and on my stomach, whatever it took to do the job. At one point hubby snapped the below candid shot of one of many contortions.
Diesel exhaust buildup and years of grime disappeared to exhume the white Gelcoat beneath. All of the metal for the swim ladder and davits were in a sad state of rust from years of neglect and salt water. At the end of the day when I crawled on board, stiffer than a cadaver from all the bending and bowing as the boat rocked up and down, the rust was gone and the coveted sparkle remained.
Sitting in the living room this morning I examined my sore hands. They are lobsterish in colour, swollen and shiny from the abrasive cleaners and stiff from the death grip on the washcloths and rope. There are boat bites, abraded knuckles against the metal fittings, and scratches from rubbing on the edges of brackets. They tingle and feel tight but despite their overall condition I have to marvel at their existence. They are an incredible engineering of flesh and bone, the most useful tools I use. How lucky I am to have opposable thumbs, they’ve graced me with a myriad of cleaning solutions.
My hands turned 56 last birthday so either genetics or the ravages of hard work are making them prematurely tired and worn. It seems my hands are always in water with dishes, cleaning and bathing. They are used hard but they have a lot to be happy for. They may not be model worthy but they are good solid hands, without long term aches or signs of arthritis.
My hands take scratches and cuts like true soldiers, each one leaving a mark, every scar a badge of honour. I’m proud of the hands they’ve become although they are looking a bit abused. They have wrinkles and spots some call liver, are freckled and scarred, sometimes as rough as sandpaper with not enough hand cream in the world to touch pantyhose.
My hands have caressed silk and cleaned toilets. Proud hands not afraid of a hard days toil. They are winner hands, doing work that looser hands won't do. Able hands, strong with nimble fingers. Combined, they have the strength to hold on and pull myself up but also the gentleness to clasp a loved one’s hand. They are friendly hands that wave to passersby, while driving me to destinations known.
They are talking hands that help enunciate my words, and are animated throughout a good tale. They assist directions to show the way and exaggerate size. The reach up high and scoop down low. A finger pressed against lips help to share secrets. A thumbs up confirms approval but also shows distant perspective.
My hands don’t like the heat. In the humidity of summer, they swell like boiled wieners. It’s extremely uncomfortable as if they might split from the pressure. Maybe that’s why they are so wrinkled, swelling and stretching, then looking like a Shar-Pei when deflated.
My hands love the cold. Although they appear fat and stubby in the summer they look long and lean in winter. I love my hands in the cold, they feel like cool ivory and my rings are loose fitting and swing around on the finger, when they swell sometimes I can't get them off or on. My hands like to garden; digging in the cool earth. They toil hard to reap rewards. Those same hands lovingly arrange the blooms in a vase and caress the petals.
I should wear gloves when I clean but I like to feel the cloth in my hand, touch the surface that I scour. My hands are very tactile, they like to feel what my eyes see, verify the pleasure of beautiful materials, the softness of objects and all things in nature.
My hands love to play with my hair, twirling the silky length into short spirals. They scratch my itches, swat at flies, and cradle a china teacup like a lady after piling firewood like a man. These hands have wallpapered, stripped furniture, built window and door frames, shingled houses and roofs and painted our entire home. They love to prepare food, serve it to my plate and then to my lips. They cradle my face when I read, pluck my wiry chin and powder my nose.
In my youth my hands played guitar, making beautiful music at least to my ears. When I was sick and housebound, my hands learned to play the piano. They did the best they could but were clumsy interpreting the notes...too much delay between the brain and the fingertips, there was enough fluidity to recognize the song but the music stuttered to the tune of annoyance.
As a majorette, my hands twirled a baton in the annual parades. My hands worked the stick through my fingers and threw it in the air to be caught eight out of ten times.
My hands create art, they drew portraits and painted landscapes My hands held the brush that made my thoughts appear in oils on the canvas. They’ve designed and hooked rugs and knitted dishcloths. They've fondled exquisite beads and made beautiful jewelry. They play cards and board games, decorated cakes, carved wood and cross stitched, typed many thoughts to paper, and signed my name.
My hands washed the elderly and bathed the young. They changed diapers and burped babies. They brushed dogs and scratched bellies, picked for fleas and ticks, caressed lovers and touched the cold hands of those who have passed.
My hands are invaluable. Never magazine beautiful, they couldn't rest on their laurels. They’ve had to earn their keep with hard work....my hands have served me well.
The only feasible way to do this was to be in a dingy on the water, a rubber Zodiac, and hang on to a rope or the davits with one hand to keep from floating away while scrubbing the back end with the other. SOS pads, a toothbrush and rags with various cleaners did the trick but it was rough to keep in position as the boat shifted and heaved in the wake of passing boats. I was on my knees, back and forth on my sides, on my rump, on my back and on my stomach, whatever it took to do the job. At one point hubby snapped the below candid shot of one of many contortions.
Diesel exhaust buildup and years of grime disappeared to exhume the white Gelcoat beneath. All of the metal for the swim ladder and davits were in a sad state of rust from years of neglect and salt water. At the end of the day when I crawled on board, stiffer than a cadaver from all the bending and bowing as the boat rocked up and down, the rust was gone and the coveted sparkle remained.
Sitting in the living room this morning I examined my sore hands. They are lobsterish in colour, swollen and shiny from the abrasive cleaners and stiff from the death grip on the washcloths and rope. There are boat bites, abraded knuckles against the metal fittings, and scratches from rubbing on the edges of brackets. They tingle and feel tight but despite their overall condition I have to marvel at their existence. They are an incredible engineering of flesh and bone, the most useful tools I use. How lucky I am to have opposable thumbs, they’ve graced me with a myriad of cleaning solutions.
My hands turned 56 last birthday so either genetics or the ravages of hard work are making them prematurely tired and worn. It seems my hands are always in water with dishes, cleaning and bathing. They are used hard but they have a lot to be happy for. They may not be model worthy but they are good solid hands, without long term aches or signs of arthritis.
My hands take scratches and cuts like true soldiers, each one leaving a mark, every scar a badge of honour. I’m proud of the hands they’ve become although they are looking a bit abused. They have wrinkles and spots some call liver, are freckled and scarred, sometimes as rough as sandpaper with not enough hand cream in the world to touch pantyhose.
My hands have caressed silk and cleaned toilets. Proud hands not afraid of a hard days toil. They are winner hands, doing work that looser hands won't do. Able hands, strong with nimble fingers. Combined, they have the strength to hold on and pull myself up but also the gentleness to clasp a loved one’s hand. They are friendly hands that wave to passersby, while driving me to destinations known.
They are talking hands that help enunciate my words, and are animated throughout a good tale. They assist directions to show the way and exaggerate size. The reach up high and scoop down low. A finger pressed against lips help to share secrets. A thumbs up confirms approval but also shows distant perspective.
My hands don’t like the heat. In the humidity of summer, they swell like boiled wieners. It’s extremely uncomfortable as if they might split from the pressure. Maybe that’s why they are so wrinkled, swelling and stretching, then looking like a Shar-Pei when deflated.
My hands love the cold. Although they appear fat and stubby in the summer they look long and lean in winter. I love my hands in the cold, they feel like cool ivory and my rings are loose fitting and swing around on the finger, when they swell sometimes I can't get them off or on. My hands like to garden; digging in the cool earth. They toil hard to reap rewards. Those same hands lovingly arrange the blooms in a vase and caress the petals.
I should wear gloves when I clean but I like to feel the cloth in my hand, touch the surface that I scour. My hands are very tactile, they like to feel what my eyes see, verify the pleasure of beautiful materials, the softness of objects and all things in nature.
My hands love to play with my hair, twirling the silky length into short spirals. They scratch my itches, swat at flies, and cradle a china teacup like a lady after piling firewood like a man. These hands have wallpapered, stripped furniture, built window and door frames, shingled houses and roofs and painted our entire home. They love to prepare food, serve it to my plate and then to my lips. They cradle my face when I read, pluck my wiry chin and powder my nose.
In my youth my hands played guitar, making beautiful music at least to my ears. When I was sick and housebound, my hands learned to play the piano. They did the best they could but were clumsy interpreting the notes...too much delay between the brain and the fingertips, there was enough fluidity to recognize the song but the music stuttered to the tune of annoyance.
As a majorette, my hands twirled a baton in the annual parades. My hands worked the stick through my fingers and threw it in the air to be caught eight out of ten times.
My hands create art, they drew portraits and painted landscapes My hands held the brush that made my thoughts appear in oils on the canvas. They’ve designed and hooked rugs and knitted dishcloths. They've fondled exquisite beads and made beautiful jewelry. They play cards and board games, decorated cakes, carved wood and cross stitched, typed many thoughts to paper, and signed my name.
My hands washed the elderly and bathed the young. They changed diapers and burped babies. They brushed dogs and scratched bellies, picked for fleas and ticks, caressed lovers and touched the cold hands of those who have passed.
My hands are invaluable. Never magazine beautiful, they couldn't rest on their laurels. They’ve had to earn their keep with hard work....my hands have served me well.
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