Saturday, June 6, 2009
Slender Hands
Slender hands crossed her lifeless body. Everybody had to reach out and touch them the way she had always touched the ones she loved. It was not easy putting her to rest. The hands just made it all the more difficult. They lay beautiful and delicate, narrow with sculpted fingernails, the way they had rested on the kitchen table during long chats. The funeral home had placed them in the formal position, the position they used for everyone else, not realizing how much the hands would impact the entire family.
The brother and sister remembered hands holding theirs as they went into town or to church. She was older than they and kind. The hands reminded them of so many things: the weekend dances where their dad played the fiddle, keeping an eye on them while he played a waltz, a polka, or a two step; the family get-togethers with kids playing softball, the men in the garage or the barn, the women in the kitchen; and the weekend trips where fishing or hunting pheasants kept everyone busy. Or, they thought of the closeness they felt at weddings and funerals. The difficult times during the war as brothers came and went, and all endured the hardships at home. The family became huge as nieces and nephews arrived, and reunions were moved outside to the lawn and garages. Now, with her passing, there were only two Rakstads left for the family reunions that had long since moved to the park. Or…
He remembered the hands holding his during their wedding at the big Lutheran church in Grand Forks. They were small, yet held his with such strength that he was surprised. She held onto him through three children, countless locations, hard times and good, for sixty-four years. Or, he thought of the handkerchiefs she always carried in her hands or tucked into a pocket. The hankies had gotten so thin and sear that some of them were wispy and as fine as angle wings, but still she carried and used them since they were so soft on an inflamed nose. Or...
The sons remembered the hands tossing cards out during an exciting whist game. She never gave anything away. It was cutthroat whist for her. She calmly sat until it was her turn, then she tossed the cards out with a flourish, making everyone else work all the harder with very little chance to win. Or, they thought about the way the hands pulled them back from the edge of the boat, pushing them down to the floor, not letting them sit on the seats while the boat was going. She seldom went out on the boat. Afraid of the water, she usually stayed on the shore making lunch of sandwiches, potato salad, and rhubarb cake. Or…
The daughter remembered the hands rolling out lefsa dough. It had to be paper thin. She often said it should be thin enough to read the newspaper under it. Newspaper hadn’t been used since her mother’s time, but the story was still told as the dough got thinner and thinner. The hands carefully slid the long lefsa stick under the dough and flipped it over perfectly. Or, she thought about the way the hands gently touched each newborn baby, tucking in blankets and smiling into tiny faces, softly saying “Nimin doodla” or something similar from the distant memories of Norwegian endearments. Or…
The grandchildren remembered so many things. She loved the grandchildren, remembered every birthday, graduation, and anniversary. She attended all their weddings, usually wearing the pale pink suit and fluffy blouse that made her eyes sparkle and her hair shine. Her hands tightly held onto his arm as they made their way down the aisle to the grandparents section close to the front. Or, they thought of earlier days. Each one had something special to remember: Hands giving out cookies or filling in crossword puzzles with their help. Hands clutching a beige purse with something inside, a book, a toy, or a birthday check. Hands hugging them with an extra pat on the back. And, hands reaching up to adjust the volume on her hearing aid when it squealed as they hugged her back. Or…
The great grandchildren didn’t remember much. They thought of hands, small and cold, crossed over a familiar person. They thought of phone calls and birthday cards. They worried about the coffin, the depth of the grave, the strangers touching her hands, too. They will never know the beautiful hands, animated, young, and warm, poking into everyone’s lives, caring more than most people realized. They will never see the hands arranging and organizing garage sales for the best display or pot lucks for the best arrangement of the food. They will only have stories and memories from others. Even the oldest will quietly ask about her at family reunions and wonder what she was like. Or...
Other family and friends remembered the hands serving coffee or cutting zucchini bars. The visits in the kitchen or on the deck flashed upon their minds. The cards for special occasions arrived regularly with a small note written carefully and neatly with those hands. Her questions and concern about even them made her a favorite, so the church was full of caring loved ones on this day. Or…
The hands didn’t move. They were quiet and cool, frozen into place by the hand of God. Everyone reached out to touch them then pulled back as each realized the hands were empty; she was not there. The loss was complete. The hands were dead. All were resigned to that fact as the lid of the coffin was closed. She had a new pair of hands, clear and smooth and warm. God touched her, took her home, and covered her slender hands with his own.
Slender hands crossed her lifeless body. Everybody had to reach out and touch them the way she had always touched the ones she loved. It was not easy putting her to rest. The hands just made it all the more difficult. They lay beautiful and delicate, narrow with sculpted fingernails, the way they had rested on the kitchen table during long chats. The funeral home had placed them in the formal position, the position they used for everyone else, not realizing how much the hands would impact the entire family.
The brother and sister remembered hands holding theirs as they went into town or to church. She was older than they and kind. The hands reminded them of so many things: the weekend dances where their dad played the fiddle, keeping an eye on them while he played a waltz, a polka, or a two step; the family get-togethers with kids playing softball, the men in the garage or the barn, the women in the kitchen; and the weekend trips where fishing or hunting pheasants kept everyone busy. Or, they thought of the closeness they felt at weddings and funerals. The difficult times during the war as brothers came and went, and all endured the hardships at home. The family became huge as nieces and nephews arrived, and reunions were moved outside to the lawn and garages. Now, with her passing, there were only two Rakstads left for the family reunions that had long since moved to the park. Or…
He remembered the hands holding his during their wedding at the big Lutheran church in Grand Forks. They were small, yet held his with such strength that he was surprised. She held onto him through three children, countless locations, hard times and good, for sixty-four years. Or, he thought of the handkerchiefs she always carried in her hands or tucked into a pocket. The hankies had gotten so thin and sear that some of them were wispy and as fine as angle wings, but still she carried and used them since they were so soft on an inflamed nose. Or...
The sons remembered the hands tossing cards out during an exciting whist game. She never gave anything away. It was cutthroat whist for her. She calmly sat until it was her turn, then she tossed the cards out with a flourish, making everyone else work all the harder with very little chance to win. Or, they thought about the way the hands pulled them back from the edge of the boat, pushing them down to the floor, not letting them sit on the seats while the boat was going. She seldom went out on the boat. Afraid of the water, she usually stayed on the shore making lunch of sandwiches, potato salad, and rhubarb cake. Or…
The daughter remembered the hands rolling out lefsa dough. It had to be paper thin. She often said it should be thin enough to read the newspaper under it. Newspaper hadn’t been used since her mother’s time, but the story was still told as the dough got thinner and thinner. The hands carefully slid the long lefsa stick under the dough and flipped it over perfectly. Or, she thought about the way the hands gently touched each newborn baby, tucking in blankets and smiling into tiny faces, softly saying “Nimin doodla” or something similar from the distant memories of Norwegian endearments. Or…
The grandchildren remembered so many things. She loved the grandchildren, remembered every birthday, graduation, and anniversary. She attended all their weddings, usually wearing the pale pink suit and fluffy blouse that made her eyes sparkle and her hair shine. Her hands tightly held onto his arm as they made their way down the aisle to the grandparents section close to the front. Or, they thought of earlier days. Each one had something special to remember: Hands giving out cookies or filling in crossword puzzles with their help. Hands clutching a beige purse with something inside, a book, a toy, or a birthday check. Hands hugging them with an extra pat on the back. And, hands reaching up to adjust the volume on her hearing aid when it squealed as they hugged her back. Or…
The great grandchildren didn’t remember much. They thought of hands, small and cold, crossed over a familiar person. They thought of phone calls and birthday cards. They worried about the coffin, the depth of the grave, the strangers touching her hands, too. They will never know the beautiful hands, animated, young, and warm, poking into everyone’s lives, caring more than most people realized. They will never see the hands arranging and organizing garage sales for the best display or pot lucks for the best arrangement of the food. They will only have stories and memories from others. Even the oldest will quietly ask about her at family reunions and wonder what she was like. Or...
Other family and friends remembered the hands serving coffee or cutting zucchini bars. The visits in the kitchen or on the deck flashed upon their minds. The cards for special occasions arrived regularly with a small note written carefully and neatly with those hands. Her questions and concern about even them made her a favorite, so the church was full of caring loved ones on this day. Or…
The hands didn’t move. They were quiet and cool, frozen into place by the hand of God. Everyone reached out to touch them then pulled back as each realized the hands were empty; she was not there. The loss was complete. The hands were dead. All were resigned to that fact as the lid of the coffin was closed. She had a new pair of hands, clear and smooth and warm. God touched her, took her home, and covered her slender hands with his own.
Her Eyes
By
K. Lee Martens
Her eyes opened. It was still dark outside. She always woke early, long before daylight. He was already up. She knew he would be, heating the water for coffee and laying out the cups and spoons. He usually arose earlier then she, got things ready for breakfast, and turned up the heat. He went to bed earlier, too.
She usually stayed up late reading her current book, working on the Sunday crossword puzzle, or watching a television show. Last night she had watched a show she particularly liked. He went to bed, and she put the closed captioning on. It was very convenient. This helped because then the noise didn’t bother him at all. He wasn’t a particularly sound sleeper, and she didn’t want to keep him awake.
She had always been reluctant to go to bed early. The few times she did were often a waste. Most of the time, she just tossed and turned for a couple of hours, anyway, so she had decided to sit up until she was tired enough to drop off to sleep. She had finally gone to bed when the show was over. Morning always came too early, and she was never one to sleep in.
She pulled the covers a little tighter around her shoulders. It was going to be a cold day, and the chill had not yet left the room from the long night. She reached over to get her hearing aids and put them on. She had been wearing them since she was eighteen. It was an ear infection—several infections, actually—that had robbed her of her hearing. Back then there had not been an antibiotic to fight infections. The result had been horrendous. Hearing aids, big, bulky, and weak, required a large, cumbersome battery pack. The whole package clipped on her bra, difficult to conceal. He was one of the few people who hadn’t been bothered by the whole thing. That was one of the reasons she had fallen in love with him. He never teased her about the battery pack or seemed to notice when she was slow to understand.
He was tall, handsome, kind, and smart. He could have had his pick of girls. She had never really understood what he saw in her. She was not considered a raving beauty. She had been cute, athletic, funny, and smart. But, the hearing aid had been a deterrent to other men before him. So, she was surprised and pleased when he fell in love with her and asked her to marry him. They had had spent sixty years together—three children, nine grandchildren, and ten great grandchildren. They had golfed together, played cards and games together, and laughed a lot. It had been a good life.
She pushed the covers back and sat up slipping on her slippers. The first thing she did every morning was wash her face. Today was no exception. As the water ran in the sink from cold to hot, she didn’t dare peek at the bright light. The hot water on the washcloth felt good. There seemed to be a problem with her eyes this morning. She was having difficulty focusing. Things were certainly foggy. She held the cloth to her eyes a moment longer before she put on her glasses. Turning off the light and grabbing her robe from the hook behind the door, she headed for the kitchen and a nice cup of coffee.
He was turning on the television and the news as she walked through. She paused to see what was on, but the fog was still there. It must be sleep still in her eyes, she thought as she went into the kitchen. He followed her and handed her a cup of coffee. He knew just how she liked it—black and very weak.
She sat at the tiny table in the center of the kitchen, put on her glasses, and reached for the morning paper. The paperboy always shoved it through the mail slot, so they did not have to go out into the dark and cold to get it. There was so much going on in the world, she checked the headlines the first thing every morning. Her eyes blinked twice. She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She put them back on and stared at the headlines. She couldn’t read them! Panic shot through her whole system for a moment. There was something terribly wrong.
Getting dressed quickly, they headed for the emergency room. She and her sister had macular degeneration in one eye that caused some distortion. She had been having him put drops in that eye for some time now. Maybe it had spread to the other eye or something. Questions blended with the fear as they drove through the dark.
The news was bad. A blood clot under the retina had robbed her of vision in her one good eye. There was no treatment. There was no cure. He stayed with her in the emergency room. He stayed with her at the eye clinic. He stayed with her when they went to the city to visit the specialist. He took her home when all hope was lost.
She couldn’t read her books anymore. She couldn’t work her crossword puzzles. She couldn’t watch television, but she stayed up late anyway. She sat at the kitchen table holding the newspaper. He had suggested trying books on tape. She just might. He thought the school for the deaf and blind might have something to help. She would call tomorrow.
He was asleep before her when she finally came to bed. She was not exactly resigned to the facts but was never one to whine or sink into self pity. She would leave the worry and the future to the Lord. She hung her robe behind the door of the bathroom. She took off her slippers and removed her hearing aids. The chill was creeping into the room as she pulled the covers up to her chin. She sighed deeply, asked herself’ “What’s next?” said a small prayer, and closed her eyes.
By
K. Lee Martens
Her eyes opened. It was still dark outside. She always woke early, long before daylight. He was already up. She knew he would be, heating the water for coffee and laying out the cups and spoons. He usually arose earlier then she, got things ready for breakfast, and turned up the heat. He went to bed earlier, too.
She usually stayed up late reading her current book, working on the Sunday crossword puzzle, or watching a television show. Last night she had watched a show she particularly liked. He went to bed, and she put the closed captioning on. It was very convenient. This helped because then the noise didn’t bother him at all. He wasn’t a particularly sound sleeper, and she didn’t want to keep him awake.
She had always been reluctant to go to bed early. The few times she did were often a waste. Most of the time, she just tossed and turned for a couple of hours, anyway, so she had decided to sit up until she was tired enough to drop off to sleep. She had finally gone to bed when the show was over. Morning always came too early, and she was never one to sleep in.
She pulled the covers a little tighter around her shoulders. It was going to be a cold day, and the chill had not yet left the room from the long night. She reached over to get her hearing aids and put them on. She had been wearing them since she was eighteen. It was an ear infection—several infections, actually—that had robbed her of her hearing. Back then there had not been an antibiotic to fight infections. The result had been horrendous. Hearing aids, big, bulky, and weak, required a large, cumbersome battery pack. The whole package clipped on her bra, difficult to conceal. He was one of the few people who hadn’t been bothered by the whole thing. That was one of the reasons she had fallen in love with him. He never teased her about the battery pack or seemed to notice when she was slow to understand.
He was tall, handsome, kind, and smart. He could have had his pick of girls. She had never really understood what he saw in her. She was not considered a raving beauty. She had been cute, athletic, funny, and smart. But, the hearing aid had been a deterrent to other men before him. So, she was surprised and pleased when he fell in love with her and asked her to marry him. They had had spent sixty years together—three children, nine grandchildren, and ten great grandchildren. They had golfed together, played cards and games together, and laughed a lot. It had been a good life.
She pushed the covers back and sat up slipping on her slippers. The first thing she did every morning was wash her face. Today was no exception. As the water ran in the sink from cold to hot, she didn’t dare peek at the bright light. The hot water on the washcloth felt good. There seemed to be a problem with her eyes this morning. She was having difficulty focusing. Things were certainly foggy. She held the cloth to her eyes a moment longer before she put on her glasses. Turning off the light and grabbing her robe from the hook behind the door, she headed for the kitchen and a nice cup of coffee.
He was turning on the television and the news as she walked through. She paused to see what was on, but the fog was still there. It must be sleep still in her eyes, she thought as she went into the kitchen. He followed her and handed her a cup of coffee. He knew just how she liked it—black and very weak.
She sat at the tiny table in the center of the kitchen, put on her glasses, and reached for the morning paper. The paperboy always shoved it through the mail slot, so they did not have to go out into the dark and cold to get it. There was so much going on in the world, she checked the headlines the first thing every morning. Her eyes blinked twice. She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She put them back on and stared at the headlines. She couldn’t read them! Panic shot through her whole system for a moment. There was something terribly wrong.
Getting dressed quickly, they headed for the emergency room. She and her sister had macular degeneration in one eye that caused some distortion. She had been having him put drops in that eye for some time now. Maybe it had spread to the other eye or something. Questions blended with the fear as they drove through the dark.
The news was bad. A blood clot under the retina had robbed her of vision in her one good eye. There was no treatment. There was no cure. He stayed with her in the emergency room. He stayed with her at the eye clinic. He stayed with her when they went to the city to visit the specialist. He took her home when all hope was lost.
She couldn’t read her books anymore. She couldn’t work her crossword puzzles. She couldn’t watch television, but she stayed up late anyway. She sat at the kitchen table holding the newspaper. He had suggested trying books on tape. She just might. He thought the school for the deaf and blind might have something to help. She would call tomorrow.
He was asleep before her when she finally came to bed. She was not exactly resigned to the facts but was never one to whine or sink into self pity. She would leave the worry and the future to the Lord. She hung her robe behind the door of the bathroom. She took off her slippers and removed her hearing aids. The chill was creeping into the room as she pulled the covers up to her chin. She sighed deeply, asked herself’ “What’s next?” said a small prayer, and closed her eyes.
The Woodshop
By
K. Lee Martens
The woodshop was a getaway for him. In it he could go into a safe isolated place. She never came downstairs anymore. The responsibilities of her healthcare were more than he could take for long stretches at a time. She had been deaf, or almost, when he married her, but she was also cute, small, and smart. They played games and cards and worked puzzles all of their married life. She had been active and energetic, but not anymore. He knew they were in trouble when her heart began to give her trouble, but the day her vision went, suddenly and without warning, everything changed.
He closed the door leaving a spotless work area. The tools were hanging in their places, and the lights were turned off. He never failed to sweep and vacuum the sawdust whenever he left the room. It was all in perfect condition just waiting for the next time he had to get away for a while.
In the room he had left many projects sitting on the counter. In one area he had intarsia projects. This intricate artwork was pieced together from a variety of woods to create animals such as eagles or seasonal items such as angels. In another area perched the birdhouses. These varied from simple wood boxes to complicated designs that tilted or had multiple levels. Some of them imitated churches, schoolhouses, or barns. Others were created round or just an inch or so deep meant to hang on the wall.
Especially interesting were the log cabins. These were so detail oriented that many of them had handmade shingles and porch rails. Some of them were filled with handmade furniture, carpeting, and fireplaces. Most of them had lights. His current cabin project included a whole town. The general store contained canned food on the shelves. He had cut ads from the newspapers and magazines and glued them onto tiny wooden cans. They sat on the shelves waiting for the first customer. The restaurant had tables and chairs and a bar with stools. The schoolhouse was still in the works, and other businesses were planned. They were in various stages of completion because he never knew what kind of mood he would be in when he got free. Occasionally, he even had a special order from the barbershop.
The barbershop, owned by his friend, Charlie, was a good place to display his woodwork. It was in a busy area, just down the mall from K Mart and very popular. He put his cabins, birdhouses, cutouts, and wall hangings on the wall behind the waiting room chairs. A log cabin rested on top of the file cabinet. Charlie loved them because they improved the décor and added color and dimension to the long blank wall. Or, at least that is what he said. Once in a while he would sell one. That helped because he could make a little money from his hobby.
She called it his hobby. Actually, it was much more than a hobby. It provided an escape, am outlet, a vocation. With it he felt useful, like a contributing member of society. Everyone loved his work. He showed all the kids, grandkids, and friends who came by. They all wanted some variation of each project. This created a problem since they expected it given to them for free. He had finally solved that problem by giving them away as presents for birthdays and Christmas. Actually, she had been the one to suggest that idea. She was always one to watch their P’s and Q’s. It was a good solution. Everyone was happy.
As he trudged up the stairs, he thought about what to cook for them. He had been doing most of the cooking for some time now. She always supervised, but he had the working eyes and could tell when the pork chops were done or not. She fused about their pork chops. They had to be well done with absolutely no pink, and she made him check repeatedly before she would allow him to put them on the plates. Then, he had to clean up the kitchen. He fussed about cleaning up the kitchen, inspecting everything he washed and rinsing it all very carefully. No soap would be left anywhere. He worked on any spot for several minutes until it was totally gone. Her baking dishes had never looked so good.
The after dinner routine always remained the same. Her circulation had been terrible lately. The fluid collected in her feet and ankles making them very painful and walking difficult. He had to rub her legs nightly, wrap them, and help her to the bathroom to get ready for bed. When she was all set, he could get a bath, himself.
As he got to the top of the stairs, he heaved a sigh and set out to find her. She could often be found dozing in her favorite chair, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, or talking on the telephone with their daughter. Today, he found her in the laundry room listening to her books on tape while sitting at the little desk he had rigged for her tape player. The deaf and blind school had provided a special tape machine, so she could listen to her favorite books. She hadn’t noticed him entering the room behind her. She seemed very involved in the book, concentrating completely.
He hated interrupting her while she was busy with her books or crossword puzzles. Maybe he was a little early today, anyway. Maybe dinner could wait a while longer. Maybe he had just enough time to add a coat of varnish to the angel he was making for his daughter-in-law. So, he turned around and eagerly descended the stairs. A smile crossed his face as he flipped on the lights and entered t
By
K. Lee Martens
The woodshop was a getaway for him. In it he could go into a safe isolated place. She never came downstairs anymore. The responsibilities of her healthcare were more than he could take for long stretches at a time. She had been deaf, or almost, when he married her, but she was also cute, small, and smart. They played games and cards and worked puzzles all of their married life. She had been active and energetic, but not anymore. He knew they were in trouble when her heart began to give her trouble, but the day her vision went, suddenly and without warning, everything changed.
He closed the door leaving a spotless work area. The tools were hanging in their places, and the lights were turned off. He never failed to sweep and vacuum the sawdust whenever he left the room. It was all in perfect condition just waiting for the next time he had to get away for a while.
In the room he had left many projects sitting on the counter. In one area he had intarsia projects. This intricate artwork was pieced together from a variety of woods to create animals such as eagles or seasonal items such as angels. In another area perched the birdhouses. These varied from simple wood boxes to complicated designs that tilted or had multiple levels. Some of them imitated churches, schoolhouses, or barns. Others were created round or just an inch or so deep meant to hang on the wall.
Especially interesting were the log cabins. These were so detail oriented that many of them had handmade shingles and porch rails. Some of them were filled with handmade furniture, carpeting, and fireplaces. Most of them had lights. His current cabin project included a whole town. The general store contained canned food on the shelves. He had cut ads from the newspapers and magazines and glued them onto tiny wooden cans. They sat on the shelves waiting for the first customer. The restaurant had tables and chairs and a bar with stools. The schoolhouse was still in the works, and other businesses were planned. They were in various stages of completion because he never knew what kind of mood he would be in when he got free. Occasionally, he even had a special order from the barbershop.
The barbershop, owned by his friend, Charlie, was a good place to display his woodwork. It was in a busy area, just down the mall from K Mart and very popular. He put his cabins, birdhouses, cutouts, and wall hangings on the wall behind the waiting room chairs. A log cabin rested on top of the file cabinet. Charlie loved them because they improved the décor and added color and dimension to the long blank wall. Or, at least that is what he said. Once in a while he would sell one. That helped because he could make a little money from his hobby.
She called it his hobby. Actually, it was much more than a hobby. It provided an escape, am outlet, a vocation. With it he felt useful, like a contributing member of society. Everyone loved his work. He showed all the kids, grandkids, and friends who came by. They all wanted some variation of each project. This created a problem since they expected it given to them for free. He had finally solved that problem by giving them away as presents for birthdays and Christmas. Actually, she had been the one to suggest that idea. She was always one to watch their P’s and Q’s. It was a good solution. Everyone was happy.
As he trudged up the stairs, he thought about what to cook for them. He had been doing most of the cooking for some time now. She always supervised, but he had the working eyes and could tell when the pork chops were done or not. She fused about their pork chops. They had to be well done with absolutely no pink, and she made him check repeatedly before she would allow him to put them on the plates. Then, he had to clean up the kitchen. He fussed about cleaning up the kitchen, inspecting everything he washed and rinsing it all very carefully. No soap would be left anywhere. He worked on any spot for several minutes until it was totally gone. Her baking dishes had never looked so good.
The after dinner routine always remained the same. Her circulation had been terrible lately. The fluid collected in her feet and ankles making them very painful and walking difficult. He had to rub her legs nightly, wrap them, and help her to the bathroom to get ready for bed. When she was all set, he could get a bath, himself.
As he got to the top of the stairs, he heaved a sigh and set out to find her. She could often be found dozing in her favorite chair, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, or talking on the telephone with their daughter. Today, he found her in the laundry room listening to her books on tape while sitting at the little desk he had rigged for her tape player. The deaf and blind school had provided a special tape machine, so she could listen to her favorite books. She hadn’t noticed him entering the room behind her. She seemed very involved in the book, concentrating completely.
He hated interrupting her while she was busy with her books or crossword puzzles. Maybe he was a little early today, anyway. Maybe dinner could wait a while longer. Maybe he had just enough time to add a coat of varnish to the angel he was making for his daughter-in-law. So, he turned around and eagerly descended the stairs. A smile crossed his face as he flipped on the lights and entered t
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