Everybody in our family has different hands. My papa’s are rough and weathered, always up in the air. My mama’s are soft and forgiving, like a pillow in which to lay my head--always helping someone out. And me, my hands are finicky and tender. Kyle’s hands-- big and clumsy, always knocking things off shelves. I’ve never seen Mitchell’s hands… hidden by the courage of his gloves.

But my Grandpa’s hands, my grandpa’s hands, like fluent machinery, constantly crafting concoctions. Through the heat and the cold, through the rain and the snow-- always moving, tweaking, constructing. He fixes, refurbishes, and fiddles. If anything goes wrong, he comes to the rescue like the super-grandpa he is.