Warm Hands

Winter on the farm brings a particular set of challenges and rewards. As I fork hay for the horses through the bitter cold, feeling the bite of frost on my fingers even beneath lined mitts, my mind drifts back to the days spent with my Dad, hauling hay and straw to feed our cattle. When I was a kid, a few of my siblings and I would go with him in the winter when he hauled hay and straw from the stacks in the field. He would harness and hitch the team to the big rack, and we would head out, their breath very visible in the frigid air. The jingling of the harness chains were in rhythm with each step as their hooves crunched through the snow. It made a steady beat in the silence of winter. Dad would pull up beside the huge stack in the field and start the task of loading the straw onto the rack with a long handled four-tined pitchfork. Even in the cold, his movements were sure and practiced, a testament to years spent tending to the land and animals. My siblings and I would run around the stack and play in the straw while Dad piled the rack high. We’d scramble up the side of the stack opposite Dad and leap off into the soft yellow straw below being careful not to get anywhere near him and his pitchfork. (In later years, we would help Dad fork the straw and hay). Once the rack was loaded, we’d nestle into the straw behind him, ready for the journey home. The combination of working horses, leather and straw was a delightful comforting aroma that was both familiar and grounding.

The cold was constant and even with lined mitts, frost would nip at my fingers. Dad had taught us to clap our hands together to coax warmth back into our fingertips but sometimes the cold refused to budge. (You know the feeling; you just experienced déjà vu.) When they wouldn’t warm up, Dad would take my hands in his own warm large hands for a moment, but what truly amazed me was when he’d slip off his own thick gloves and slide them onto my small hands, a gesture that has stayed with me ever since. I’d protest, worrying about him: “Aren’t your hands gonna get cold, Dad?” He would just smile and reassure me, “They’ll be okay for awhile.” The fingers of his gloves were so warm that my fingers would be toasty and flexible again within minutes. Sometimes, he’d pass me his mitts, which felt like little heaters wrapping around each finger. My Dad always had warm hands.

Now, as I work through the winter, feeding our horses and braving the elements, I carry those lessons with me. The cold may bite, but the memory of the warmth of my father’s hands, mitts, gloves, and heart lingers long after the frost has faded.

I had a pair of his leather gloves long after he was gone. They sat on a shelf in the perfect shape of his hands. The way they fit together, fingers slightly curled, made me realize how objects can capture the essence of a person long after their presence has faded. Those gloves were soiled and worn, bearing the marks of his many working hours. I knew many of the stories embedded in each stain and crease having worked beside him on the farm for years. The gloves looked warm to me sitting there on the shelf even though they were no longer. That didn’t matter, they brought a smile and cherished memories of warmth and comfort.