I’m sitting next to my daddy in church. Wynnton Methodist Church. I’m trying my best not to move. How does Daddy do that... sit so still like that? We sit in a pew that lets us see my mother in the choir. She’s a soprano. Sometimes she sings solos. Charlie Jackson is the pastor. He has a moustache and always smiles. Daddy says the pastor thinks the world is getting better, but that it isn’t. Daddy’s probably right.

Finally Daddy moves his arm from the back of the pew behind me. He uncrosses and recrosses his legs, adjusting the leg of his pants so that the cloth isn’t stretched or wrinkled. He puts his hand on his leg above the knee, the leg closest to mine. Now that he’s moved, I
can move. It’s a game I play. Seeing who can stay completely still the longest. I pull up his sleeve and check his watch to see how much longer I’ll have to play this game. He has strong, sinewy hands. Smooth. Almost hairless. The veins stand up on them. They look like the ones on that statue of David. His nails are perfectly trimmed. I don’t know how to do that. My mother cuts my nails, but Daddy taught me how to wash my hands.

Turn the soap over and over between your palms. Make a lot of suds. Now turn each hand inside the other, like this. He uses his hands to guide mine. Then wash each finger and thumb by squeezing them with the other hand, like you’re milking a cow. I’ve never milked a cow. Have you ever milked a cow, Daddy? Many times. On Grandma Drew’s farm when I was a little boy. Rinse them off and flick the water off your hands before reaching for the towel. He hands me the towel and helps me dry my hands. And turn off the light when you’re finished. We walk together to the table in the kitchen where my sisters are already seated and my mother is serving the plates. I know how to wash my hands. My sister Meredith makes some lame remark. My oldest sister Judy and my mother tell me they’re proud of me. I’m just like Daddy. But he’s a lot bigger. Daddy asks the blessing.

The pastor is still smiling... and talking. With both my hands, I take Daddy’s hand and turn it over so that his palm is facing up. Then I lay my hand on his to see how much bigger his is than mine. He can bend his fingers over and my fingertips only go to his first joint where there are lines across his fingers. Just me and Daddy, holding hands in church. I love my father’s hands. Daddy’s hands are for holding.

John, mom Gertrude and sister Merideth see Raiferd off for one of his first international sales trips. Raiferd eventually made seven around-the-world trips and visited more than 100 countries.

I’m lying with my head in my father’s lap, staring at the flickering gauges and speedometer in the dashboard of our 1955 Ford Country Squire. My feet are in my mother’s lap. My sisters are talking in the back seat. I’d rather lie in my parents’ laps than sit between my sisters. We’re on our way to our farm in Dublin, Ga. It’s December, a few days after my birthday, and
it’s already dark.

Jackass! That means a car coming from the other direction didn’t dim its headlights. Daddy never cusses. Sometimes Momma will say damn. With his hand, Daddy turns the knob on the radio. It crackles and hisses. Scratchy voices and music fades in and out. Gospel. Nope. Country. Nope. A preacher. Nope. Frank Sinatra. Yes. It’s WBT in Charlotte or CKY in Cincinnati. I know all the night stations. The music fades in and out as we travel up and down hills on our way to the farm. I can see the stars through my Daddy’s window. My parents sing along with the radio. My mother has a beautiful voice. I watch my daddy’s hands turning the steering wheel as we go around curves. He taps the dashboard in time with the
music with one hand.

I’m standing at the bathroom mirror. It’s my first day of school in England. My father is standing behind me, showing me how to tie my school tie. I have to wear a stupid uniform and a tie to school. The tie isn’t even made of silk. My father says this is a half Windsor. His hands look just like they did when I was little. He meticulously puts a dimple in the part where the tie comes out of the knot, the same way he ties his. He walks off to get ready for work and I untie it and then try it myself. He has to come back and show me again. After several attempts I get it right, but still not as good as his. His knots are always perfect.

I’m standing next to my mother. She’s crying. My father’s hands still look like the hands of Michelangelo’s David. Like sculpted stone. Perfectly manicured. The veins standing out. Only now, they’re cold. I notice that his tie isn’t properly tied. He would have never been seen with his tie tied this way. I retie it, properly, with the dimple where the fabric comes out of the knot. I think of all the things he did with his hands. All the things I learned watching his hands. Driving a nail. Sawing a board. Turning a wrench. Soldering wires. Operating a level. Shooting a rifle. Baiting a hook. Shaving. Carving a turkey. Shifting gears. Mowing the lawn. Throwing a ball. Cutting sugar cane with a pocket knife. Tying a tie. Holding my son’s hand in church. I lean over and kiss my father goodbye... for the last time.

I’m sitting at my desk, typing my memories. I look down at the keyboard. I see my father’s hands.