Most people who knew my father remember at least two things about him - his huge hands and his equally large heart! When I was dating, that was back when a young boy knocked on the door or rang the bell when he came to call on a girl. Then he was invited into the living room to be greeted by the family.
The conversation was pretty straight forward.
"Where are you going tonight?"
"To a party at Suzanne's."
"Don't be late."
"I won't."
After this, my dad would put out his hand and the date of the evening would reach out to grab Daddy's hand in return. There was always a silence when the young man realized that my father's hand could completely surround his. My father had a pituitary gland disease which caused his hands to grow, even after he had reached maturity. When I was about seven he went to Duke and they did an x-ray on his gland, which ceased the growth, but by then his ring was a size 18.
As we left the house and stepped out on the porch to head toward the car, I was always prepared for the words that would come next.
My date would say, "your daddy has the biggest hands I have ever seen!"
"...and don't you forget it", was my line.
The little town of Manito, where I've been visiting, is sort of like Raeford. It's a farming town. It was green bean season while I was there. Green beans pile into huge trucks just like watermelons and cotton here. I'll go into some of the things I did when I was away, but I want to tell you about a very special person I met in Manito...a man with hands like my father's.
While I was having my morning coffee the first day I got to my friends', I noticed a little carved tree. Its flowers were orange, and a small hummingbird sat on top. I commented on the delicate work it must have taken to create this art. My friend smiled and went to her desk and pulled out a newspaper photo and article about the artist.
The first thing that jumped out at me was the hands of the man. They were "my father's hands." This art was not by someone who had the petite hands it seemed would be necessary to do these delicate creations, but by someone who was a real giant of a man. I wanted to meet whoever did this work...
Helen, told me that George never sells his work. He gives it to someone who touches his heart. It seems that she and George had worked with the youngest group in Vacation Bible School a few years back. She told me of how he worked with the children who seemed like ants crawling all over him. They had a wonderful week "letting the little children come unto him" as the verse says about how Jesus was with the little ones. He had surprised her with her tree at the end of their time together.
He makes trees for silent auctions to raise money for someone who is sick, or for the library to buy books, or for anyone who touches his heart. His art may bring thousands of dollars, but it is never for money in his pocket. It is always from his hands and heart to someone else.
Helen made a call and we were invited to stop by to visit with George. As Helen and I sat in his little shop we listened to his stories. I could have listened for hours. He asked about my life. I told him of my life, my family, my teaching career... my cancers...my work as a Guardian ad Litem for children... elephants...turtles...my column. We listend to each other with our hearts.
Before I left, he carved a Santa face into a pencil for me, gave me one of the tiny flowers and a frog he folded in the ancient art of Origami. As I sensed the time to leave was coming, I asked him if he would hold my hand. I showed him the gold ring that was my father's that I wear around my neck. No one except you has hands like my father. He took my hand in his. He put his other hand on top and I stood there with a tear in my eye. I never thought I would feel "my father's hands" again.
We parted. I talked with my friend, Helen, for hours about this wonderful man. She just shook her hand and agreed that there is something really special about George Ginger.
Before I let Manito, Helen told me that George had called to tell me that he had something he wanted to show me before I left. We went to his house and both of us sat as he took out a binder and began to show how he records the data about each of the trees and birds he carves. He showed me the little tree that he was noting and how each work has a number and is different from every other.
Then he said, "I put the name of the person I give it to just under the number." I looked as he turned the book for me to read. It was my name, He had made a carving for me. This man who had hands like my daddy also had a heart like his. He found a place in his heart for me, I'll never forget George Ginger's hands or his heart.
I visited friends in Illinois while I have been away and not writing my columns. I guess I will just have to get a laptop, because I appreciate whoever it was who wrote Ken to see what had happened to my column, To the rest of you, I've been traveling for three weeks, in case you didn't notice,
Please remember the museum with your gifts of money or items of historical significance. Your will be proud to see your gift displayed and it is monetary donations that pay the bills for upkeep.
The author may be emailed at lilmarsue@charter.net. Type "Mirror" on the subject line.
