Matthew Adam

When I was much younger I can remember looking at my grandad Mertz's hands. We called him Bakke (baa-key) for some reason, no one seems to know why any longer, but he had the coolest hands.

The were big compared to mine at the time, short wide fingers with gnarled nails. I can still see the veins that crossed along the back looking much like a road map.

Liver spots had started, but not many, and his palms were rough and scratchy when he'd rub our cheeks or rustle our hair. Bakke was a tool and die maker, a lathe operator, and the years of turning steel into intricate parts and pieces molded and scarred his hands.

But by far the coolest thing on, or should I say was not on, his left hand. Bakke was missing his thumb. There was a little stump where there had been one. The digit was gone but grandpa filled it's space with wonderful and funny stories.

The first I remember involved ice fishing in Iowa with no rod or reel. Making your thumb look like a worm in freezing water was a skill he would teach us when we were older. Bakke even had the head of great Northern Pike mounted on the wall that was supposedly the culprit. "He got my thumb, but he made a tasty dinner!"

My grandmother Hazel was the butt of many of the jokes. Grandma was very proper and totally deaf. Bakke would stand behind her and hold his stump to his nose and pretend he was digging very deep into his nostril. Rusty and I would laugh so hard we cried and grandma would just cluck and go back to her knitting.

After we were older and Bakke died we found that he had lost it an accident at work. A large piece of equipment had neatly sliced it away. The family legend is that grandpa was back to work after a couple of days. Never missed a beat, uncle Don would say, and everybody would nod in assent.

Bakkes hands never fired a gun against an enemy. During World War One they told him to stay home and create those wonderful parts and pieces to help the war effort. World War Two came and he had to shake the hand of a son who was leaving for Europe. In 1960 his hands held mine as he steered them along a wood lathe and like magic a table leg appeared.

I was rocking Matthew Adam this evening. Matt is our newest Grand baby. His tiny, smooth flawless hands laid across mine and the comparison is striking. When did I get grandpa hands? How did this happen? While not known as Bakke I am loved as Papa.

What lies ahead for Matt and what will his hands say when he is my age? What do mine say about me? If there is any wisdom in the shape and texture of my hands that I can leave to him, it might be this:

Never play with your dad's knife, and when you do cut your thumb, tell him right away. Even though you know he will be angry, he will dress your wound and giggle softly to himself and send you out to play.

Find an instrument that sings to your heart and play until your hands hurt. Play for the sheer joy and mystery of it. Resist the ones who say your song cannot be part of the universe's chorus, and tightly embrace those who sing a-long!

There will be times when your hands will do violence, guard against these and learn from your prejudices. Ask for forgiveness and be ready to forgive.

There will be scars that remind you of dark places you ventured to in fear and hopelessness, rejoice and applaud crazily because you returned.

Find a lover and caress them tenderly as many times as you can. Learn their body and soul with your finger tips and palms...this I guarantee will teach you far more then you can imagine.

Ah well Matthew, there are some of Papa's encounters with world. I will touch and caress you as long as you will let me, and then I will do it anyway. It's a Papa's duty!