While dipping my hands into the cold water of the small mountain lake at Beehive Basin last week it dawned on me how many bodies of water this pair of extremities had been in. That led to thinking about the history of my hands and after much thought I’ve come to this conclusion; these hands get around and have quite the history. So in conjunction with my mind (always a dicey co-conspirator) here’s a cursory history of my Bucklin hands-

These hands have cooled my face with water from the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans. Had the warm waters of the Gulf of Mexico, Persian Gulf, and Gulf of California run through its fingers. Felt the coolness of the North Sea and splashed in the Sea of Japan. Touched the salty waters of the Great Salt Lake, stirred in the crispness of Montana’s vast number of mountain lakes, soaked in three of the four Great Lakes, and marinated in the murky waters of Texas’ reservoirs. Touched the flow of the mighty Mississippi, gauged the temperature of the winding Missouri, and paddled furiously while tubing down the Guadalupe. Caught crawdads in the creeks of a Houston suburb and skipped rocks in many boyhood ponds.  Soused about in more rivers, lakes, pools, and streams than I can remember.

Sand from Saudi Arabia has sifted through its fingers. These hands have plucked cherry blossoms during springtime in Tokyo and thrown cow paddies at a small town Iowa farm festival.  Held a pint in Dublin and soju in Korea. Toasted friends on New Year’s Eve in Denton and held a cold PBR around an intimate campfire at San Onofre. Touched ice in Iceland, steered a race car in Germany, and played Whitesnake on a jukebox in Wales (you had to be there).

They have held the only two women I have fallen in love with. Ran through the hair of lovers, held the hands of sweethearts, and do-si-doed with strangers. Grasped firmly the small of a woman’s back and gently caressed the tender spot on the back of her neck. They have slowly unbuttoned a blouse and ripped off a t-shirt. They have been on the front lines with every woman I have ever been with.

My hands have shot thousands of basketballs, swung a golf club (more horribly than correctly), paddled to catch waves, and intercepted the pass that won the eighth grade flag football semi-final. Written love letters, typed half a novel, put lyrics on a napkin, and OMG, how many texts? The have played bass onstage, held a microphone while telling a story to strangers, and waved in the air like the just didn’t care.

They have forged a report card, stolen a bag of M&Ms, thrown a rock at a nemesis, and spray painted the name of a favorite punk band.  Changed the tire of a complete stranger, passed out sandwiches to the homeless, and opened doors for little old ladies. They have pushed in anger, pulled in panic, and been frozen, burnt, stabbed, bit, bludgeoned, cut, smashed in doors, and ran over by a car (surprisingly my mind freaked out more than it hurt my hand).

They have wiped my tears, stopped the bleeding, and sacrificed themselves over the rest of my body in many a fall. When I have gone down on a motorcycle, wrecked a car, careened down a hill, slipped on ice, tripped on an extension cord, fallen off a second story roof, been in a fight, or that one time my feet didn’t wake up with the rest of my body, my hands selflessly extended themselves to protect me. They haven’t soberly failed me once.

I could go on and on. My hands have one helluva past, and they’re not done yet.

Look at your hands. What’s their story?