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Kickass Phone Rates from 3U
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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. |
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