When I was small, I would sit next to my Dad in church and play with his rough, callused hands. I was young enough that I could get away with not paying attention to the service. I was in awe with how much bigger his hands were than mine, and I’d interlace our fingers just for comparison. I’d rub my fingers over the thick areas of skin, and I only appreciated years later the work required in making those hands so rough. As an adult, I still love my Dad’s hands. Of course, retirement living and lots of lotion have made them much smoother. They are still nice to hold, though.

My father didn’t tell me how to live; he lived, and let me watch him do it.Clarence B. Kelland