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Granddaddy’s Hands

Audree Flynn

    Grandaddy quit school at 13 to work on his family’s farm; at 18 he came here from Ireland and worked hard in construction. Grandaddy worked hard at everything he did and used to say he could do what he damn well pleased, because he worked so hard. He raised his sons and daughters in a house he built himself; Grandaddy had a talent for working with his hands.
    The house Grandaddy built was in the country then; there were dogs and cats and chickens everywhere and he preferred his animals to most people. He was partial to his dogs and they were my favorite too---at one time it was fun to go see Grandaddy.
    Grandaddy ate bacon and eggs for breakfast every morning, and every morning after breakfast he smoked a big cigar, until the day he died. Grandaddy was handsome like a matinee idol, and his face was Irish-white, but his arms and hands were golden brown from working in the sun---Grandaddy found a certain satisfaction from working with his hands.
    I never knew my grandmother. Grandaddy married her when they were very young, they had 10 children in about as many years. My grandmother died not long after giving birth to her last child, and because he had 10 kids, Grandaddy soon re-married. But he slept in a big big bed, alone except for the dogs he was partial to, and never with his new wife.
    Grandaddy smoked cigars and worked hard all his life, he drank whiskey in his coffee and did what he damn well pleased. Grandaddy used to set me on his lap and say I was the spitting image of my grandmother, in breath that stunk of whiskeyed coffee and cigars--and alone in his big big bed except for the dogs he was partial to, and me, he seemed to find a certain satisfaction, with one languid hand trailing in my little-girl golden hair, the other hunting in a fever underneath my dress...at one time it was fun, to go see Grandaddy.



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