Grandpa's Hands

Today, I thought I’d climb down off of my soap box and give it a rest for a change. The following poem is not so much about my own grandfather, but my father’s description of his grandfather and others like him. I also drew in material from men I used to work with on our cattle ranch in Oklahoma. What you see, then, is a historical snapshot of our rural elders from the previous generation, the cornerstones of each family who saw the turn of the century and lived through the great depression. Many of us have our roots in just such men as these. I have had occasion to recite this poem in public and almost every time several people seek me out afterwards to inform me, "that was my dad," or "that was my grandpa, " or "that was uncle Bill." Happens every time, and they were all correct. As our grandparents pass away and we slowly lose those of the greatest generation, who experienced World War II, the memory of our heritage has been eroding. Whole new generations are emerging whose entire experience is suburban living, freeways and computers. As we lose touch with our past, with our pioneer spirit, we have lost track of many traditional values and what the American dream use to mean to a relatively poor agrarian society. So this one’s for the memory of all those who came before, who shaped this country and our families. They played a part in making us who we are ... we must never forget them.

Grandpa’s Hands
Some of my childhood memories linger
Through the passing of the years
Much of them are lost now
But some moments stand out clear
I remember the old swimming hole
At the bend in Bidding Creek
The swing up in the hay loft
A thousand games of hide and seek
I remember bottle-feeding baby calves
The ancient walnut stand
I remember my first pony
And I remember grandpa's hands
They were big and rough and strong
Even after he grew frail
They told the story of his life
With a line for every tale
When he talked about the "old days"
We would sit and hold those hands
And they told us everything was true
Somehow, it helped us understand
Grandpa's life had been a hard one
Filled with potholes all the way
He had never had it easy
From his first to dying day
From the farm in Minnesota
Where he worked his father's land
To the little place where Grandma died
He had toiled with those hands
And the plow, the reins, the sickle
And the hammer, hay and knife
Had each left it's imprint on his hands
Through the course of his hard life
When you held them, you could feel it
Every bump the wagon made
Every bale of hay he hand-tied
Every time he swung the blade
You could feel those frosty mornings
'Neath the Minnesota sky
The prairie fire in Kansas
The drought in late July
The axe he swung to split the rails
To build his daddy's fence
And the bottom of his pocket
When he groped for thirty cents
Those hands brought back a hundred memories
Filled with happiness and pain
Which spanned a lifetime and an era
Then they brought me back again
To the man who held me closely
On his death bed as we cried
I sat for hours and held his hand
Long after he had died
And I missed him, but I knew
That he had lived both well and long
And if he had taught me anything
It was, "be strong, and carry on."
Now, years later, I've my own family
And my own hopes, and dreams, and plans
But I'll always have the memory
Of my grandpa, and those hands
By Frank Carpenter ©