HANDS

My father worked in the logging industry when I was a child. He was one of eleven children from a Catholic family in rural New York. In some ways my father was a difficult man, in other ways he was kind and light hearted. My father had large, hard hands. The deep calluses and meaty fingers frightened me, I did not want my hands to look as worn as his. Of course in retrospect those hands were the result of the hard work he performed and loved. Now that he is gone I think about his hands often in the studio when I am working with tools he left me. His hands and his laugh, mostly his hands.