Eight years ago, when Grandpa and Grandma came to watch me celebrate my biggest accomplishment then to date – that was, graduate from college – I was overwhelmed with gratitude. For their support over the years, their constant interest in what I was studying, the sweet notes and occasional box of zucchini-chocolate chip cookies that would unexpectedly arrive at my dorm-room doorstep, and not the least of all for simply making the 600-mile trip up to Bellingham to witness something I had worked so hard for.
After taking the necessary photographs, I asked a favor of Grandpa. I asked him if I could photograph his hands. He looked at me with that twinkle in his bright blue eyes and chuckled. “Why would you want a picture of these beat up old things?” he asked, holding out his hands, turning them over a few times. I told him because of all the hands I had ever seen, his were my favorite. They were the most recognizable, the ones with the most character, and most of all – they were (and continue to be) the most comforting. Chuckling again, he succumbed to his granddaughter’s crazy request. If she wanted a picture of his hands – whether he understood it or not – she could have it. And so I led him to my rickety kitchen table, set him in the light just so, loaded my camera with the highest quality black and white film that I could afford on my dwindling student loan budget, and snapped 3 shots. It was a quick act; one that some could easily forget, but one that would go on to be a moment in time that I think about on a regular basis.
You see those hands that I photographed that day, are not just any ordinary hands. They are the hands that we all – his brothers, his sisters, his wife, his children, his grandchildren, his friends – all recognize.
They are big and strong; they are warm and soft; they are helpful and handy.
They are the hands that built the foundation of a well-respected and healthy family.
The hands that volunteered time, care, and enthusiasm in this community, serving on the city council, leading a search and rescue, gathering the posse, and even flipping pancakes at the annual Easter egg hunt.
They are the hands that held his beautiful young wife’s hands as they started a long and admirable life together; the hands that would envelop hers as they watched their sons grow into men and later watch their grandchildren and then great-grandchildren come into this world.
They are the hands that we as small children ran hurriedly and excitedly to and the hands that scooped us up into the big bear hug that always awaited us.
They are the hands that snapped pictures of everything, everyone, all the time no matter the occasion, many times for no occasion.
They are the hands that clapped and cheered on his sons and later grandsons at ballgames. Those hands took his granddaughters fishing, put that gross worm on that hook, helped us reel in the really big fish, and helped us hold up our catch while we squealed in excitement.
They are the hands that shook the hands of others, loved ones and strangers alike.
And, they are the hands that held his granddaughter and grandsons in their darkest hour as they mourned the untimely and tragic passing of their father, the passing of his oldest son.
Those are the hands that held mine last month, and gave me strength to write these words and stand up here today to honor and celebrate my grandfather’s memory.
And, finally, those are the hands that even in the last days still squeezed ours to let us know that he was still there, still loving us, still our brother, our husband, our father, our grandfather, our great-grandfather, and most of all our friend.
Challen John Watson
1927 - 2011
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