Washing Hands
Nathan E. Pralle
The tap squeaks softly as it turns, the pace of the exiting water increasing
as the handle rotates. Grasping its partner, I twist slightly, and then let the
tips of my fingers drop below the shiny metal faucet, blurred with steam. My
skin pierces the rushing tube of liquid, the water sluicing over the edges of my
digits, almost instantly filling in the ridges of flesh, the prints, wrinkles,
and creases of joints.
My hand jerks back as electrical signals bounce between fingertip and spinal
cord. Giving the knob a small, experimental twist, I test the fluid again, and
the reaction is less severe. Another adjustment, and another try; an agreeable
temperature is finally achieved.
Both hands slip underneath the rushing water and allow the cascade to pour
over, leaving the skin with a shiny, liquid sheen. Bubbles tickle the crevices
as they brush past, chortling with their fellows on the surface. Rivulets
stream down the outside of my cupped fingers, bouncing along each rounded stair
and diving off the edge into the porcelain basin below. Water swirls and whirls
in a complicated dance of tributaries around the gaping steel hole before
throwing itself over the edge with a soft gurgle and down into the endless dark.
My fingers commence a hunt for the soap along the edge of the sink and
return, triumphant, with a solid bar in tow. Already the wetness of my skin has
transformed the surface of the block, changing once solid-sticky substance into
liquid-slippery cream. My index and pinkie head off the wild slab and contain
it within the corral of my hand as it bucks and slides in an effort to ski
around the ceramic slopes below, wet with the freshness of new-fallen water.
The touch of this soap is unlike that of my grandfather's. It was under his
gentle example that I learned the true nature of washing hands.
As a child, the act of cleansing one's hands was a trivial, almost
non-existent performance. Icy-cold water and soap residue on a finger swiped
across the mud-streaked bar combined with a shake sending droplets everywhere
completed the few seconds of sanitation. A slap of the thighs of my jeans to
leave the required dark-stained patches and it was off to the table for
much-needed refueling. In the eyes of a growing boy, dirt was only another
flowerpot for the vine of imagination.
My grandfather and I shared an adoration that was quite mutual. Whether
playing his shadow as we did errands or lending a grubby hand to the cultivation
of his plentiful garden, we enjoyed the pleasure of each other's company -- a
gentle, soft-spoken gentlemen with time for a curious, inquisitive young boy, a
combination that fostered fun and learning, mostly by example and calm, patient
explanations.
Upon returning to the house from our outside adventures, we would make a stop
in the utility room just inside from the sunny porch. As much as my grandmother
loved him, I believe the line would have been drawn at dirty marks getting
anywhere on her spotless house -- or her. And so, with steady determination,
Grandpa would set to reasoning with the grime on his hands.
To this day I am not entirely sure why he always went first, but memory
recalls seeing him before me at the sink almost every time. A period of
negotiations with the faucet and its square, burnished knobs would commence as
the liquid streamed from the high-slung faucet in a translucent, bubbly column
into the brushed steel of the large sink, eventually to wash over the sieve
and sink into the nether land of the drain. Once satisfied with the
temperature and speed of the torrent, my grandfather would grasp the slab of
soap and set to his appendages with resolve.
The soap Grandpa used was Lava. With my small hands and youthful complexion,
I was sure that scrubbing with gravel itself would have been a more pleasant
experience than rasping that hard, rough block against my skin. He would lather
up with the lump of slick cleanser and pulverized concrete, tendrils of soap and
bubbles and water intermixing on his thick, strong hands, and then set to
scrubbing. I remember watching with fascination the care and thoroughness with
which he tended to his soiled fingers, using one hand as a cloth for the other,
the grit and chemicals of the soap releasing the dirt from its death grip on the
surface of his skin. My grandfather put as much care into cleansing his hands
as he put into getting them dirty by the care and maintenance of his garden,
tools, and home -- the same attention and dedication he put into the
relationships of his friends, family, children, and wife.
Although the soap he used was (in my youthful opinion) surely comprised of
sand and glass shards, his hands were always soft and warm; a touch from my
grandfather was one that was calming, serene, and yet at the same time powerful
and strong. Many times I have been told that my hands are like his in that they
are soft and warm; I can only hope that they always act, like his did, as
transmitters for the warmth of my heart.
Next it would be my turn at the sink to partake in the ritual. I was always
under strict orders to take all care to prevent water droplets launching of
their own accord onto the mirror, the cupboards, or the floor, as Grandma would
certainly be displeased at the idea. With this in mind, I encouraged them to
remain within the confines of their sink playground for the duration of my stay.
The water was always warm in a way I could never concoct as a boy. The mix
was just right; warm enough to be comforting and inviting, cold enough so as to
let a good scrubbing session commence. I was continually in awe at his prowess
in steering the gleaming silver knobs like a seaworthy captain to this temperate
destination.
It was also from my grandfather that I learned the trick of cupping my hands
underneath the stream of water and letting the clear fluid collect between my
fingers. Much practice was required before I was able to emulate this skill.
Once I had this small pool of warmth captured, I could then dash this upon my
face, up a gritty arm, or simply let it roll between the gaps in my digits, the
soap washed away in a soft wave.
After a longer-than-necessary time of cleaning my hands, I would be urged to
finish up and dry off. The towel was thick and warm, fuzzy and comforting over
my dripping hands, red from the sauna of water. Each little fuzzy string on the
towel did its appropriate job and siphoned the water from my palms and in
between my fingers until rendered dry. Then with a smile and an encouraging
word, it was off to the culinary delights of my grandmother -- cookies and
roasts and casseroles and love.
That was long ago and now, in my first few years of being an adult, I have
come to love this daily ritual and try to take time to savor it when I can. It
is often amazing to me how some of the simplest tasks in life, ones that become
daily habit over time and are often taken for granted, can be some of the most
powerful experiences in your memories. I am often reminded of the care and
attention one needs to pay in life to that which matters, from the smallest to
the greatest; for forever I shall have in my mind the image of my grandfather,
strong and gentle, calm and thorough, dedicated and loving, standing at the sink
and washing his hands.
This page and all content (C)2002-2004 Nathan E. Pralle.
www.nathanpralle.com
Unauthorized distribution is prohibited except with written permission of the author.