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A Teacher's Hands
I knew exactly what I would get for Mrs. Carter for
Christmas. My mother walked me into
McCall’s Pharmacy downtown, and my brown, leather shoes thumped quickly across
the wood floor. My knee socks started to
slide down. “Slow down, Virginia,” my
mother admonished.
I sighed heavily and heel-toed my way to the cosmetics
section. A shelf displayed large bottles
of scented hand lotions. The palette was
overwhelming, but all pastel. For every
fruit, flower, tree, or nut, there was a different color of lotion, and a
different picture on the bottle. I stood
before the pinks and chose the one with a rose on the label.
“That’s what you want to get her?” my mother
questioned. I nodded. Her curly red hair was unruly that day, and she
tucked it behind her ear. Checking the
price, she added, “Well, all right,” then handing it back, “Why this one?” I knew why, but I wasn’t sure how to
articulate it.
Mrs. Carter’s hands were always wrinkled and dry. It was probably from all the chalk dust. She would tappity-tap-tap down that
blackboard with little white crumbs flying in every direction. The eraser would make a soft pop, then swish
the dust back and forth at the front of the room.
Loose skin hung from Mrs. Carter’s “old lady” fingers, as I
thought of them, giving them a soft look, like milky velvet. But a white-knuckled grip forced the obstinate,
swollen, old windows in the classroom open on pleasant days and told of the
unbreakable strength in the bones underneath.
With a red pen, she graded our papers using perfect flourishes, angles
and loops typical of old-fashioned cursive.
The words she wrote had all the propriety and politeness of an
invitation to tea with the mayor’s wife.
Mrs. Carter’s fingernails were always manicured and neat,
but never too long. Great length would
not have been practical for a teacher charged with educating twenty-two fourth-graders. After all, those hands had to pat shoulders
under falling tears. They had to sew
buttons back onto a dress after a tree-climbing accident at recess. They had to steer dirty, sweaty necks to the
principal’s office. They had to shuffle
papers, carry books, slap a yardstick on a desk to get attention, move
thumbtacks on a bulletin board. Those
hands baked cupcakes and brought them to school once a month to celebrate
birthdays. They dialed a parent’s phone
number when a child seemed troubled or had slipping grades. They clapped at the conclusion of oral book
reports. They dug in the dirt and
captured small creatures in the name of science. Those were busy hands.
On her left hand through it all was Mrs. Carter’s thin,
tight wedding band. She had told us
during the first month of school that she never took it off, nor did her
husband remove his. I thought that was
wildly romantic and sweet, for a couple to be so deeply connected as to never
remove their wedding bands. When we were
practicing our long division one day in October, a delivery boy brought a
magnificent bouquet of pink roses into the classroom. It was an anniversary gift from Mr.
Carter. Pink roses were Mrs. Carter’s
favorite. She told us she thought they
were soft and ladylike, but with a strong stem not easily broken or bent.
So I tried to condense it all and answer my mother’s
question, “Why this one?” before we got
to the cash register. I finally looked
up at her as we got in line.
“Because,” I said simply, “she has beautiful hands.”
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