My Father’s Hands

The first time I remember being aware of my father’s hands was when I was three. I wasn’t very tall, nor powerful. Standing on a main street of Juneau for the first time in 1962. The “Big City” life bustling around this small Little Norway-born boy. Before me loomed a large theater marquee that demanded I see “Hatari!” and the posted billboard showed John Wayne screaming at me to do so. I was terrified. So many people. So many lights. Too many days away from our own Mitkof Island home. Then my father’s large hand swallowed my tiny feeble one. Its warmth flowed down my arm to my torso and into my tiny black rubber boots. Looking up I could only see his hand. >click to read< 07:55 By Klas Stolpe

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