The final forming of a person's character lies in their own hands.

Our lives can be summed up from our hands. The quality of our lives. How well we lived. How much we lived.


"Slave Hands" by Jack Delano, 1941

Hands give us self-reliance. They express love..





Or hate...



We use them to reach out...



To express devotion



Our hands are a symbol of our souls. Are we open?



Hands heal, nurture and provide.



Our hands tell our stories.

All of my life, I have been fascinated by hands. I remember as a child, watching my grandmother prepare tea in her old, drafty house, the skin of her quick hands looked like thin, weathered paper. Wrapping her hands around me as I sat on her lap, the gauzy skin of her hands felt so fragile.

You can usually spot a musher from their hands. My own hands make me look much older than I am because they're weathered, scarred, usually cut up somewhere and worn.


My hands are a sight for sore eyes! Manicure!

A mushers hands tell a story all their own. Hours spent scooping, preparing food, chopping meat, rubbing shoulders, massaging paws, and, most importantly, hanging on!

This is a blog post for my friend, TC Wait in Alaska and her poem "An Ode to a Mushers Hands."


My poor hands are cracked and torn
With calluses, ripped nails, and scars
Dry and scaly, tough and worn
They seem older than the stars

The winter’s cold has done its best
Leaving them tired, aching and sore
Even though they’d rather rest
They continue to do the dog chores

They scoop and clip and comfort
Giving each dog tender care
And when at the end of the day they hurt
Only after dogs do they get their share

I love my hands and wish them well
Ugly as they are to some
It pains me they have to go through hell
To allow my adventures to come

And here's a picture of what the snow belt of NE Ohio looks like from my front deck! I am sandwiched between three lakes and south of the great one, Lake Erie. And we definitely are feeling the effects of lake effect snow!



Until next time...