what is it about hands? i am forever fascinated by them. their age, their scars, their stories. these hands here -- they're the hands of a carpenter, arguably the best carpenter in town. how many porches has he built? stairs? bannisters? how many houses in this town have been touched by these fingers, planing freshly hewn wood to the smoothness of palm skin? he seemed delighted when i came outside to watch him work, and i said something about how my house now held a piece of history, the porch's bullnosed edges telling anyone who noticed that a craftsman was here.
after snaping a few shots, i stepped back and just let him work as the world went on around us -- fedex trucks whizzing past, the noonday siren warbling its call, the mailman bringing the catalogues. his hands went back and forth, planing the edges smooth, talking and joking and smoking as he worked. i thought of the state in the world right now, the economy, gas prices, global worry, and i looked back at his hands, and thought of how they'd seen everything from the newness of color tv to the glory of putting a man on the moon to the election of an african-american president.
nothing like the curves and shadows of an old man's hands to put things in perspective. like the trees in the earth, they're deep and they're strong and they're lasting.
