BAD HANDS

Hello:  You got a truncated message yesterday because my arthritic, numb and dumb fingers hit the wrong key.  Happens to me a lot.  Not to worry, dear ones, it's not your fault.  It's arithmetic catching up to me.  If you want to know how it feels, wait until your hands have worked for you for 27,300 days like these poor appendages have done faithfully for me.
These guys have been through a lot.  I remember the summer when I was digging a ditch for a friend of my father's.  This guy was a combination auto-body fixer upper and a mechanic and a painter all at the same time.  He was alone in his shack of an office that sheltered (somewhat) his enterprise.  It happened to be on the river side of South Main street, in South Hadley Falls, Massachusetts.  Polish guy he was.  There was a small rivulet of a stream down the embankment behind the shack.  That's where all the "Hazardous waste" went.  Of course, I use quotes because you all know that were no "hazardous wastes" 60 years ago.  So, anyway, I got the job, one Summer, of cleaning out the rivulet.  It was a slow moving and sluggish "body of water."  Well, I think it was water, somewhat, I guess.  There were a lot of weeds along the sides [banks?  hardly] and I had to make sure that this rivulet was cleared and looked spiffy so that everyone would think of it as scenery rather than sluice juice gone wild.  So, on the appointed day I went to Ted's auto shop and reported to work.  My first paying job.  I was but 12 years old, so needless to say I didn't get paid much.  Anyone want to venture a guess?  No?  I don't blame you.  $0.25 per hour.  Yep.  I kid you not. It took me three weeks to finish the job according to Ted's tastes.  I was in there pulling weeds, hacking away with the "D" handled shovel.  Barehanded, of course.  The first money I got was a whopping $5.25.  You've never seen anyone so happy over that kind of money.  Had I decided to get my hands examined by the corner doc, he would perhaps have told me to quit.  No way was I taking that chance.  So I persevered.  I can't remember how much I made, total, but it doesn't matter.  That was my first test.  It was also just the beginning of torture for my hands.  Still to come along the way was the molten lead, the filter-bed filter cleaning with razor blades, the unloading of box cars full of filter bed sand, plucking chickens eight hours a day for three days straight, tobacco farm suckering and picking, hockey rink snow shoveling, underwater boat dock assembling.  Six hours a day for three straight days...all of them underwater.  I got to the point that I could stay under for over a minute and a half.  I was like a prune for a week after.  My fingers didn't work for a long time.  I mean, they were curled up all the time.  Just the right size to slip a can of Bud into the curve, though.  I'll never forget that Summer.  Bud and uncooked hot dogs every night for the week that we were setting up the water front for the Summer camp.  I wonder if that helped to get my hands to the point they are now.
Actually, I have to confess that after the age of about 19 or 20 my hands went on vacation.  Until I started to drive professionally, that is.  Airport shuttles.  Luggage, in, luggage, out, 30 miles on city roads and start over again.  I did a lot of professional driving.  I think that's why my fingers are still curled up and won't get straight any more.  The worst of it is that they don't work on the Bud can any more...nor on the floppy, slippery hot dog.  Man, you might as well stick a fork in me, I'm done!
Before I leave, I have to tell you that the job where I had to work with molten lead was the toughest one on my hands.  My hands got so tough from handling the hot molded lead plates that we were making,  I could pick up hot platters and pans that were out of the kitchen oven for only about 5 or 6 minutes.  I'll never forget that.  I had to throw that in here.  The more I think of it the more I am amazed.
Anyway, pity me for my stiff, numb, almost no feeling left, hands.  If that's all I ever have to complain about, I don't want any of you crying at my funeral... Not that you would any way :-)