I love dirty hands.

Deeply rooted in my love for dirty hands is my love for my father. His hands, even scoured, were callused and stained with the work that he did. With dirt embedded under his nails I can feel the rough thickness of his hands as I sit here and type. His hands are such a strong memory for me. The photograph I have of my hands holding his hands are the last picture I have of us together.

I pride myself in my own dirty hands. I have discovered that I love the creative process of gardening and one of the most wonderful side affects is having dirty hands. With dirt under my fingernails, and the callused roughness of dirty hands I feel at home. I feel connected with people who use their hands for work and I feel connected to my Dad.

Needless to say I don't want a manicure. I would rather soak my hands in the dirt.


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