Daddy's Hands Showed Me How to Embrace Life

I believe Dad knew how much I loved you. I hope he knew how much I appreciated him for providing examples of right and wrong, teaching the value of hard work, and showing me how to love.

Memories of working beside Dad in the family business remain precious. Walking into Nick's Bakery, named after my father, Dad always took a moment to stop whatever he was doing, wash his hands, and give me a hug. Having washed them often since starting work at 3:00 a.m., they were not dirty, simply covered in particles of the last items added to the 25-gallon mixing bowl.

I admired how he worked instinctively, with no recipes in sight to produce breads, donuts, cakes, and pastries. The image of him standing at the 6-foot-long butcher block bench, dressed in white pants and shirt, wearing a flour dusted apron still makes me smile.

Watching his automated movements demonstrated strength and confidence as the wooden paddle extended 4-feet into the gut of the oven extracting bread pans. To this day the aroma of fresh baked bread summons an image of him withdrawing pans holding four loaves and banging them on the table to loosen the sides of the bread so they would dump onto the wood countertop.

Country music blared and mixed with the smells in the bakery, and it wasn't uncommon to hear Dad's voice accompany Merle Haggard's singing, “Take This Job and Shove It." However, his passion for the family business contrasted the words of the song. As his own boss, I watched Dad live the dream by slaving six, often seven, days a week at the bakery. The oxymoron of going to work described the daily experience of baking, a job that provided security and satisfaction but demanded constant devotion.

"Whatever job you choose, do it well."

Dad taught lessons through experiences. Often I was reminded, "Whatever job you choose, do it well," as Dad modeled this value as repetitive tasks were tackled with dedication.

I watched him every morning check the temperature of the donut fryer, mix another batch of icing and unlock the door leading to the alley knowing the firemen would arrive soon to pick up their daily breakfast roll order. With a finger, he tested the cake batter to determine the correct consistency. He poured another cup of coffee but any breaks consisted of taking a sip and moving on. By assessing the aroma, he knew how much time remained on the items in the oven.

With the palm of his hand, Dad pounded the air out of the dough, rolled it flat and generously slathered it with butter before covering the entire product with cinnamon-sugar. The smooth movements of his rough hands demonstrated the skill and precision of an artist. He finished the cinnamon rolls by rolling the dough into a snaking tube, slicing it precisely into half-inch pieces without needing a measuring instrument and arranging them on evenly on baking pans.

"Be a master of your trade to succeed"

With the morning baking complete, the sunlight announced the second shift. Without a change of name tags, Daddy, walked from the back of the shop, adorned a clean apron, and his callused hands turned tender to caresses a decorating tube.

Firmly pressing droplets of frosting onto a spindle and turning it slightly, he created delicate roses to place around the edges of a wedding cake. By then the music had switched to soft rock to please the employees and the customers. Boy George sang “Karma Chameleon" announcing the reality that all humans change to the needs of their environment while stressing the necessity to remain true to ourselves.

Dad accomplished every tasks as needed: created contracts with customers, mopped the floor, gave cookies to children, hired and even fired employees. His behavior taught me to be adaptable and willing to accept the challenges that a job required.

"Accept change; it is inevitable"

That was forty years ago, and the family business has long since been sold and the building demolished, replaced by modern architecture. Simultaneously, the years have aged Dad, both mentally and physically.

He rests in a tattered recliner sometimes awake, often sleeping. His hands are weak but his spirit soars when he reflects on a life well lived. Pictures of children, grandchildren and great grandchildren adorn the walls and coffee tables around the living room. Images of his contribution to the world and testaments to the future.

"Appreciate what you have instead of wishing for what you want."

Games shows, especially The Price is Right at 9:00 am, filled the room every morning. Though it was never the same since Bob Barker retired, Drew Carey as a replacement sufficed; something is better than nothing. Even though he watched daily, Dad failed to match the price to the items because they do not align with the reality in his brain of twenty years earlier.

He proudly shared, “Twenty-five years ago, I attended a filming of that show. Not just anyone can get on it. We had to sit outside for hours.” It didn’t matter they never called his name to join Bob on stage because the experience made him smile. He told everyone who listened the details of getting the tickets, waiting in line and where they sat in the audience, never leaving out the fact that a stranger had to save his space in line so he could go to the bathroom in at the convenience store down the street.

"Love unconditionally"

At the age of 85, the backs of Dad's hands, once tan, resembled a white canvas decorated with blue veins, brown spots and purple blemishes. I thought of the love he shared each time he wiped my tears over the last 60 years and the never-ending support he offered to push me forward when in doubt.

To this day, I believe the writer who penned the words to Holly Dunn's song, Daddy's Hands must have known my dad.

“Daddy’s hands weren’t always gentle, but I grew to understand there was always love in Daddy’s hands.”

I love the words even though Dad said they made him sad. He did not want to remember the times I deserved discipline, and those hands had to inflict pain, even to spank a misbehaving child. I am grateful he loved me enough to establish expectations and enforce rules. As a parent myself, I gained understanding for the statement, “This hurts me more than it hurts you.”

"Never give up"

During hospice, we embraced Dad's presence in our home. Conversations with great-grandchildren filled the time you lived with our family. Though we understood you would only be with a short time, you brought life to our home and left loving memories.

Dad's last weeks in the hospital, we communicated through a window as your hands fidgeted with images in the air that only you could see, forever on a mission to accomplish tasks. We waved, smiled and mouthed, "I love you." The kids held up pictures they drew. On good days, we talked on the phone and gave virtual hugs.

Unable to rotate his frail body, a kind nurse turned Dad's bed to face the visitors outside. We stood there, family, the same framed faces strewn around the living room. With effort, his arm raised in the air slightly to signal awareness of our presence.

As I sat beside your bed, we held hands one last time, you strung a few words together announcing a desire to go home. In my heart I knew you wanted to join Mom, who you had missed for so long. Though your skin appeared translucent, I felt the strength of unconditional love when you squeezed my hand. In your mind, your were going home to be with the love of your life.

We never said goodbye to each other because that would have final, and Dad forever lives in me and others he influenced. Not a man to preach or deliver long speeches, his behaviors shared values to guide life. I am forever thankful that Dad, showed me how to live.