Bloggin' Umholtz

Handy Man

         Okay, it’s time for me to come clean. I’ve been dreading this moment for a long time but down at group therapy, they said it would really help in my recovery if I told the whole story, so here goes.

         Yours truly, the man of many words, the man of many stories (some of which are even true) can’t…gulp…can’t…t-y-p-e.

         There I said it, or rather I spelled it or rather I typed it which really is kind of ironic isn’t it?

         I can see I must clarify. At the end of my two arms, are hands. They each have four fingers and a thumb. YES, they’re opposable! Give me a break already. These hands can do many wonderful things. When I think back, they’ve been used to fix motors, paint houses, build furniture, garages and etc. Though the etc didn’t turn out very well.

         They can cook, they can clean, and they can do laundry and sew. On occasion I can even use them to get dressed unassisted. I will admit, there have been times, eons ago, when they were used to pummel sense into people and they have even been used to perform autopsies on unsuspecting creatures, both in biology lab and out. They can, in keeping with the fishing theme of late, cast a lure with deadly accuracy and speaking of accuracy they have developed a fair prowess with firearms and other weapons over the years.

         They can turn the pages in a book, even the ones with no pictures. They can scratch where it isn’t polite to scratch and pick what you shouldn’t pick. They can and have signaled appropriate greetings to other people including the one finger salute and they have even played the clarinet.

         So you see they are multi-functional and I am quite proud of them. However, even with a typing course they have never been able to master a keyboard. I am a closet two-finger typist. A quite proficient one I might add. They make fun of me at work, this younger generation that was born holding a computer keyboard and with a pair of earphones surgically attached to their ears. They watch as “the old man muddles through” beating the keys with one finger on each hand. I have this ergonomically designed keyboard which really doesn’t lend itself to my style of typing but it’s wireless and I love the freedom. I can easily use it to crack the “younger generation" over the head when they’re not looking.

         I cannot type. Sigh. I shall never be able to type and for that I am shamed, outcast, set adrift upon an ocean of endless keyboards being tapped incessantly by a multitude of unseen hands. (Has a nice ring to it doesn’t it?) But I do not despair, because these hands can do many other things.

         Yes, they are calloused, arthritic and scarred. They’ve been burned, cut, stung, crushed and broken. But they are still here, still mostly functional, though of late, I noticed they don’t scratch and pick as well as they used to.

         They have picked up a crying child or two and held them gently until the sobs subside. They have firmly grasped Pop’s hand in an exchange of mutual respect and hugged all my family with love. They have reached out and protected others from harm and will no doubt do so again. They have been clasped in prayer and stung with the sound of applause. They have wiped tears from my eyes and have respectfully born the weight of a number of coffins.

         But the best, the absolute best, which allows me to forgive their one shortcoming, is; they softly caress my sleeping wife’s cheek as I kiss her goodbye when I leave for work. The soft warm feel of her skin beneath my fingers is true magic for my soul. It is magic that sticks with me all day long and makes me look forward to coming home at the end of the day.

         So what if I can’t t-y-p-e. My penmanship is even worse.