Cat's Meow

I have been kind of Jealous of my friend, Cindy’s, cat stories. First there was Milo and all his cute little kitty ways. Then there was the appropriately named Thor. And pictures.

I wanted them to be my kitties. I miss the purring, the cuddling, the antics, and all the funny ways of a cat.

Then I thought I would focus my thoughts on imagining a cat coming to me, like a kitty magnet. {Mentally sitting in a lotus position, quietly humming – maybe even purring – and viola, the Kitty God would smile upon me and a potty-trained kitty would knock on my door.}

I have tried this mental exercise for two, three years. How old is Milo, anyway?

So, I came home from doing laundry Sunday afternoon and hear this meowing. I meow back.

Meow!

Meow.

And then appears before my wondering eyes, a little fluffy black kitty. And she LOVES me! Right off the bat. Love at first sight.

I brought her in and she made herself comfortable on the couch. Then on a chair. Then on Mechanic Man – and like Goldilocks, she found the most comfortable place. Snuggled right up to Mechanic Man’s neck, purring quietly, as if she has always been there.

Her name is Gracie (named by Mechanic Man, who adamantly stated that we had no room for a cat).

I must get a digital camera and post competitive shots of MY kitty.

Single Moms, Hear Them Roar

Nothing has incurred my wrath as much as the latest, absolutely ridiculous, bill being proposed in Wisconsin that would make it "almost" illegal to be a single mother. Slapping my face ala Home Alone's Macaulay Culkin.

I was browsing Yahoo tonight and this is what I found! Wisconsin Bill Claims Single Moms Cause Child Abuse

Ask me how irritated I am with that headline. . . . No, don't ask.

I am a single mother, having raised my sons since they were 2 and 3 years old. They are 38 and 39 now. Mature, happy, content, and unscathed by the absence of their father, who paid them no mind until they were adults. The boys have grown into healthy young men and their father missed out on a LOT. His loss, I'm sorry to say.

However, I have no regrets in any of the hundreds of days I had with two beautiful little boys, through grade school, through middle school (probably the war zone of parenting, whether it's one parent or two, or a whole village), high school, college, military, and marriage. I did it alone and I had my moments of angst - but never, ever did I feel we were less a family because their father wasn't in the picture, nor were either boy abused by having one parent.

Republican Senator Glenn Grothman should be ashamed of himself. Not only that - but he's never been married and doesn't have any children. How can he be so amazingly dense???

Maybe Mr. Grothman should spend some time with a single mother. He wouldn't be able to keep up with our very busy calendar - driving kids to school, driving kids to sports events, driving kids to doctor and dentist appointments, driving kids to karate class, taking crash courses in some higher form of math just to help with homework, tending little injuries, soothing fears, reading favorite stories, playing Yahtzee and giggling until our sides hurt, going for drives, going on picnics, riding our bikes together. I could go on and on. In the end, though, the boys turned out quite nicely for me abusing them with my lack of a husband. Thank you very much.

And what about single Dads???? I know several. You mean to say that children of single Dads are safe from the "abuse" factor because their Dads are macho males vs. children of single Moms who are weak submissive females? I could go on. . . The whole idea is just silly

Work! Work! Work!

I am employed!

After two years, and four months (but who is counting besides me), I am employed! And through a blog friend, no less. So, blogging at the speed of sound or light is not just a frivolous activity that screams Get A Life!

I have been floundering around here for way too long. I tried to call it retirement. But retirement isn't all it's cracked up to be.

I'd volunteer to take up my idle time, but I couldn't afford the gas in my car. Now I will have a little income, but not too much, to offset the low income I get from disability.

Plus, somehow being employed makes me feel like I'm worth something. I don't know what. But I'm better than being a lump sitting on the couch.

Hallelujah!

And, now I will have a little mad money for my two grandchildren, due in August. I can hardly stand myself. O the things I will buy. Toys. Clothes. Pampers. Formula. Toys. Digital camera. Toys.

Ok, you get the idea.

The Transplant Call

It happens when you least expect it. The call. The magical call in the middle of the night, where a voice says, "We have a match."

Oh, not to me. I'm still waiting. But it's magical, nonetheless. Two of my people have received the call in the last couple of weeks. By "my people" I mean, my dialysis roommates. We are regulars, meeting at the same hour in the still-dark morning, greeting each other like we're at a party. One of them calls it "the pool." As in, I'm laying around at "the pool." (I am at the mini-spa thinking that someday one of the techs will finally do my nails.)

I've come to really enjoy my companions. We have a LOT in common. Dialysis is a firm constant in our lives, and with it comes all the variables. Each day brings new adventures that our friends and family don't really hear about because it is utterly boring. Did we gain too much weight; carry too much fluid; will our blood pressure crash; will the needles "take" (and if they don't, THAT is another problem); is the flow too low; too high; will we be able to hold off the sites afterwards for just ten minutes; or will we not be able to clot and have to hold off even more (like I do frequently); aud nauseum. (Boring boring boring)

We are very fond of each other and we relate on so many levels. Yet, if one of us ends up in the hospital, we are the last to know - if ever. HIPAA laws prohibit the staff from telling us anything about the others. Yet, we talk to each other all the time and know intimate details about our families, our friends, our bodies. So, when "the call" comes to one of us, that person simply disappears. One day you are breezing in to your "chair" and saying hi to the guy sitting by his imaginary pool, and the next time, he's not there. You ask where he is - and the answer is "I have no idea."

I got that answer a couple weeks ago - and no amount of squinty-eyed looks would break the tech. Four techs in a room full of 20 people (well, now 19), and she doesn't have a clue. Give me a break.

It was only later, when I was leaving with one of my other cohorts, when he told me that the pool lounger got "the call."

Now - why does THAT information have to be so top secret?

I suppose the center is trying to "spare our feelings." Hearing the news that someone received a new kidney has mixed responses. You are happy for them. And immediately sad for yourself. And then you feel guilty about feeling sorry for yourself. And then you close your eyes so nobody can see the sudden tear that slips out. It's a conundrum.

And then some new person arrives and sits in Pool Man's chair. Scared out of their mind. Until you say hi, welcome to my mini-spa.

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Looking Through the Mirror

I am looking to my children, watching as they experience the thrill and excitement and pure happiness at expecting two babies in six months. I remember the days, when I carried this son, my second pregnancy. The thrill when I felt the first kick. The moments when I was washed over with speechless awe that a LIFE was growing inside me. I am almost envious. There are things that you permanently give up when you age - being pregnant is one. Carrying inside you a miracle; total and absolute proof of God. I always felt sorry for men when I was pregnant. They have no clue what that is like, only on our word.

I am watching my 30-year-old niece, as she spends her second trip to the island of St. John, temporarily trying out living and working in the island paradise until June. How exciting that is! Isn't it wonderful to have such freedom and spirit as a young woman without hindering yourself with a husband and children. I'm a little envious of her, too.

No - I wouldn't give up my two sweet babies, now men in their 30s. I wouldn't ever give up the miracles I carried.

I "borrowed" my niece just before her 13th birthday and took her to the Oregon coast for a week. My sons were grown and out of the house. She was the daughter I never had. She turned 13 while in my care - my brother kind of sweated that one - afraid I'd return with a yucky snotty Teenager. No matter how I influenced her, she grew into a remarkable young woman, very independent, with goals and dreams and wishes.

I want to live vicariously in both my daughter-in-law and my niece - two young women I love with all my heart. I also want to hold them high, applaud the Heavens for creating such beautiful creatures. Thank you, God, for life, children, adventures, living.

I am looking in the mirror at laugh lines, crinkles, and creases. Signs that I have lived somewhat a happy life. I'd like to do it again. I can't call it a "do over" because I just want to do it again! Maybe I'd put a summer island in there somewhere but I'd also include the wonderful days of new motherhood. It never, never leaves you. They are always my babies.

Being Outrageous!

We need more fun in our lives. I keep wanting to do something silly and outrageous. Like, skip down the sidewalk. Can you imagine? Picture driving down the street and then glancing over at a gray-haired woman, skipping and laughing beside you. I wonder if I can do it.

Or, hanging your head out the window while you are driving - grinning like a happy puppy basking in the breeze.

Then there is my friend's granddaughter who "flies" to grandma's house from the back seat of the car.

A few weeks ago, I went for a walk with the Spokesman Review's (Spokesman-Review)Paul Turner and we greeted people, all strangers. Their reactions varied from suspicious caution to total I-don't-see-any-strange-weird-people avoidance of eye-contact to hesitant greetings back. It was fun. We got a lot of smiles back but generally everyone was self-aware, looking at their cell phones, looking at the space in front of their shoes, concentrating on their navels.

But wouldn't it be fun to wave at people, while you are at the light, acting like the person on the other side is your long lost best friend from First Grade, and then greeting them with "It's Great to See You!" and smile big, and keep on walking. I might get more reaction.

I've got to go - I'm going to take my car through the car wash and then scream like a wild woman when the spidery webs wash over my windshield. YaHOOOOOOOOO.

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Life! What a Roller Coaster Ride!

A good family friend called me this morning to tell us her husband had a severe stroke yesterday. My heart just broke. Bud and Lucy are Mechanic Man's parents' best friends. They became our surrogate parents when his mother had a very similar stroke. My first thought when Lucy called was suddenly filled with images of nurses, doctors, hospitals, nursing homes, pneumonia every other day, lost weight, lost spirit, the total devastation and sorrow and tragedy. It was overwhelming.

I hate to think of Bud being incapacitated. He's such a goofy, free-spirited guy. They have been selling antiques at swap meets and antique shows for years. He's been famous for setting up their table and then wandering around the other vendors and coming back with four or five items to re-sell. Half the time, they would load up more than they brought with them.

At the same time, I am gearing up to welcome my first grandchildren into the world. Life. It's a ride. You go up and down - but you go!
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Is Your Spouse a Strange Bedfellow????

Just curious. Are you sleeping with a politician??? Haven't you been warned about how "politicians make strange bedfellows"?

I for one think I'd kick him out of the bed.

Take our former Mayor of Spokane, for instance. Please take her. Queen Mary [Verner] defines a strange bedfellow. What's that??? My definition of a Strange Bedfellow is a greedy, slimy, snake that is selfish, egotistical, smug, snobbish, money-grubbing (literally money grabbing) and hulks around like a vulture, feeding off the poor and meek.

If I were her spouse - I'd kick her out of my bed!

Why would you even want to go into politics if the prerequisite (it appears) is to be a Strange Bedfellow?

I think they (and specifically HER) should go lay in the bed they made and close the door! Forever!

We village people have much more integrity in each of our humble homes than all the strange bedrooms combined. We'll take care of our country just fine, thank you.

Now go back to your coma.

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Live, Life, Love

There are so many reasons I am looking forward to 2012 - don't worry! It isn't going to end! I have too many reasons to have 2012 be the best year ever in this century.

For one thing, I have had about 12 years of loss. Little losses. Big losses. But losses, nonetheless. My firm lost one of its big money-maker attorneys, when he left just before the end of the year, in a huff, taking several attorneys with him along with million-dollar clients. The first year following this event saw several losses - of coworkers who had become friends - of clients that I had become attached to - of a whole branch office in Moses Lake, where I had most of my work, along with more friends and beloved clients. By the end of that first twelve months, we had lost over 30% of our people.

Then Mechanic Man's mother had a stroke - and for three years, she was here but she was not. Another loss. More poignant than all the others because we MISSED her while we cared for her. Living, but not living, personality lost, wit lost, spirit lost, heart lost.

A year after that my own mother suddenly became ill and at only 79 she lost her will to live and died three weeks after being told she had cancer. Double loss. Having her just quit, just give up, was another loss, followed by the very real loss at her death.

Then back home to taking care of the shell of the woman who was my "other" mother.

Followed quickly and overwhelmingly by the loss of my kidneys.

The recession.

Continuation of the consequences of failed kidneys, dialysis, losing my job, which was everything to me.

Now we reach a new year and with it the great news that I will become a grandmother for the first time.

The wheel of life turns, and makes a full circle! Life is coming!

Hallelujah! A New Year Approacheth!

I am so excited to have a New Year unfolding!

• I didn't do anything extraordinary to even warrant a Christmas letter (Hi, I did dialysis 1,068 times (oops, 1,069 because one day it didn't work and I had to come back the next day) and went to about 4,000 yard sales);
  
• I avoided being filmed by "Hoarders" (note sentence just above) only because I kept my curtains closed;
  
• Thanksgiving sucked because for the first time in my sons' lives (37 & 38 years), neither one of them were here (sob);
  
• Christmas ads started before Halloween and were just plain annoying!
  
• After two years on Unemployment after losing my precious job - even Unemployment ended;
  
• Maybe I can make bag-loads of money selling all my yard sale stuff on Craig's List;
  
• Maybe I can have Mechanic Man build shelf-units in the walls, which would do double-duty as storage for all my stuff AND insulation for the house!
  
• A New Year means a new slate!
  
• Maybe instead of a job, I'll do fascinating volunteer work and have something to write about other than I'm terrified that "Hoarders" will find me;
  
• Finally, it will be such a fantastic New Year because I just found out I'm going to be a GRANDMOTHER!
  
  

Happy New Year everyone! Now, I'm going to crochet about 30 baby blankets, shop for a car seat for my car so I can drive my grandbaby around to show off, sign up for the Gerber College Fund, get a new digital camera for pictures, collect ribbons and buttons and sequins and stars for the 5,000 page scrapbook I'm going to make for my grandbaby, generally go wacko on baby clothes, purchase a year's supply of Pampers, spoil, spoil, spoil my new grandbaby. See ya later!
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Joining the Unemployed

I am curious - when someone who makes a LOT of money, like WSU Coach Paul Wulff, and is fired from his job - does he go on unemployment??? And how does he do a job search? I mean, are there a lot of college coach positions open in the Eastern Washington area? Does he go through depression like a lot of the newly unemployed? Will he be unemployed for over two years, like me? Just wondering.

Confessions of a HoarderCollector

I am a collector. I collect tea sets. Santas. Snow Globes. Christmas decorations. Glass animals. Duncan Miller glassware. Stationary. Window box displays. Scrapbook supplies. Books.

And I have embellished on what I collect. Like the tea sets. I actually started by collecting vintage 50’s children’s porcelain tea sets, like what I had when I was a little girl. Three pieces of my tea set survived my childhood and sat on a desk at my mother’s house. When she told me I couldn’t have them returned to me until she died, because she didn’t trust me with them (at the age of 50 years old, let alone when I was 5), I started collecting that set. And then, when I couldn’t find the whole set, I started collecting tea pots. And then I started collecting tea cups and saucers. And then I started collecting adult-sized tea cups and saucers. Or, like the scrapbook supplies. I collected paper. Then I collected ribbon. Buttons. Lace. Doilies. Glitter. Sparkles. Sprinkles. Ink.

And I put these collections in little piles. Cups in cups in cups. Saucers on saucers on doilies. Little boxes with little drawers stacked on top of one another. A stack of books with about 50 books in a column, five columns so far.

Let's just say that I am super easy to shop for.

Oh.My.God!!!!!

I think the film crew from “Hoarders” just knocked on my door! Film rolling!

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Bake a Cake, Win a Turkey, or Starve!

Thanksgiving was just around the corner, years ago, when my sons were 8 and 9. I worried about Thanksgiving, coming and going, without a turkey. It was going to be a pretty grim Thanksgiving; I was eyeballing chickens and wondering how fooled the boys would be.

The boys participated in the Boy Scouts Bake Sale the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. The prize was a turkey dinner, complete with potatoes, gravy mix, sweet potatoes, and pumpkin pie. With $6.00 to my name, I knew this was my only chance. That, or we'd have to settle for chicken.

The scouts were supposed to make their own cake. Home made by the boys. My mind slithered back to the soap box derby earlier that year, where the boys were supposed to make a screaming racing car out of a block of wood, *by*themselves* There was a family at the bake sale that evening - affluent, intelligent, and beautiful parents with equally beautiful twin boys, age 9. The twins showed up at the derby with a cherry-red, cherried-out, speed demon race car that won hands down! My son showed up with a hand carved by him (with a little inadequate help from me), lemon colored (for a reason) obviously home-made car that wouldn't even roll an inch without help.


Now my mind came back to the night before Thanksgiving, and there on the table of 20 cakes was the twins' cake, stunning in its beauty, of course, an absolutely beautiful beehive cake with yellow and white striped icing, and little furry bees on toothpicks "hovering" over the beehive, every detail finely etched as if it were created by some elite French chef. And our cake, Mr. Happy Face, which was bumpy and wavy, black frosting smeared into a crude half circle with a crooked little smile and two globs for eyes – the saddest cake I have ever seen. (But hand-made by my son!)

I grumbled to myself. I had decided I was going to have to buy the cake back for $2.00, leaving me $4.00. I could still get that damned chicken.

It was getting darned close to disaster time in my family as our misshapen cake, made totally by my son (did I say that already?), was sitting forlorn and lonely as all the other cakes were being raffled off – it was down to the beehive cake or the happy face cake.

Bee Family bought my cake AND theirs!

I felt a strange twisting in my gut – I was bitter and angry and jealous and peeved and crabby. They could have bought all 20 cakes! And of course, Bee Family won the turkey dinner. It was a test for me to practice sweetness in the face of total disaster. Now, I had no turkey dinner. And I had no cake!

I told myself that this was a good thing. I still had SIX dollars to buy my "chicken" dinner. And spare change to get two ice cream cones for two pretty sad little boys.

We got to our car and I was loading the kids in, when Mr. Bee came up to me with this HUGE box, the hump of a gigantic turkey peering over the edge; potatoes, stuffing, Pumpkin Pie, the WORKS. "We've already got our turkey – this would just go to waste – would you mind taking it off our hands?"

Well, I tell ya, I could hardly talk to him as I choked up and teared up and tried to stuff all the guilt I was feeling for, well, for feeling cheated, and poor, and pathetic!

There is always something to be thankful for. If you find yourself in a downward spiral, something will come along to lift you out of that hole. I am ever thankful for this family's gift to my family.

May I be able to pay it forward in every moment where I can pass along a kindness or a gentle touch. Hoping everyone finds abundant reasons for being thankful.

Wearing the Suit of Professionalism

I loved Doug Clark’s take on the Karl Thompson/Otto Zehm issue here in Spokane. It was contrary to his usual funny, witty, and sarcastic commentaries – it was serious, eloquent, and on the mark for the truth that is going on with our police department.

He mentioned the police department’s guide for being a good police officer. (And mind you, most of our police officers follow the guideline; it is the few that are marring the reputation of the whole.)

Ten years ago, I started a chapter of a legal association in Spokane for legal secretaries and paralegals, NALS of Spokane. (NALS is a national association for the education and professionalism of non-attorney law firm personnel.) We have a series of tests we take covering laws, regulations, ethics, and skill sets that guide us in our jobs – even though we are low man on the totem pole, so to speak. A quarter of our eight-hour test covers two Code of Ethics manuals, one for attorneys and one for judges. Secretaries and paralegals follow the same principles as attorneys and judges – we follow, in fact, their Manuals. (The "Model Rules of Professional Conduct" for attorneys was created to resolve issues, like the Watergate scandal.) When I read both manuals (just as long in length as for police officers), I was struck by how it affected me. I wanted to wear the values and philosophy like a suit. I mean that I wore professionalism, integrity, ethics, high ideals, and moral fortitude. I held myself to a high standard, and my actions influenced all the staff around me, and even the attorneys. My attitude held weight for my entire firm – little old me.

When I read Clark’s article, my mind went back to the day I passed my certification test – I thought to myself that the manual police officers follow is the crux of everything wrong with the police department. They are not reading the manual. If a small peg on the board of a whole bunch of holes can read the manual and carry a whole law firm, then a police officer should be able to do it, too.

Conundrum

Is it too late to do Spring Cleaning??? You never hear about Fall Cleaning. I'm just wondering. I had so many nice days to do Spring cleaning but there were yard sales to go to, friends to visit, scrapbooks to scrap together, puzzles to assemble, games to play. Now that we have a record-breaking Fall (instead of the usual two little days of autumn colors before ten feet of snow clouds our vision), you think today would be too late to do my Spring Cleaning?

Unemployment Blues

Today I opened my last unemployment check.

[Ominous drum roll]

It had a note at the bottom to the affect: Good luck in your job search and your future life that will not be what you have been accustomed to.

Um, there ain't no job in my future unless it is Tuesdays and Thursdays, pays well enough to feed me and not too well to impinge on my meager social security disability - which is paltry to the point, I should be eligible for food stamps. Yikes. Oh, and also, the job should be glamorous, fun, self-fulfilling, self-gratifying, and - oh, what? You mean I should have a dreary dull job just like the rest of you? Filing files, filing data cards, filing taxes, filing my nails.

Then the news came on - and I was featured!!!! Well, not me specifically, but they talked about the fact that "54% of Americans are unemployed." That is an outrageous number. For me, it has been two years of unemployment. They featured two different women, however, who have been unemployed for three years and are not covered by health insurance (or unemployment insurance).

There are people out there, lots of them, that are far worse off than me. I can't whine about this. At least I have my disability check - and I know of people that need disability but aren't eligible because either they didn't pay into social security, or their ailment isn't "bad" enough to become a category.

This is a very scary road I'm starting to travel down.

Train Lullaby

We live next to a single train track that goes through Millwood.

I kind of worried when I first moved here, how that would be. Sometimes, it is so heavy and loud, that the pictures on the wall shake, the small bottles collected over 50 years ago, vibrate to the edge of their little shelves - and we unconsciously push them back as we walk by.

I try to guess which way the train is coming from - east? west? And then it appears in my kitchen window, the engineer so close I can see him smile at me, the engine so massive I am surprised at how small the engineer is, how he can control something so huge.

At night, it passes with a different sound - it is rhythmic, subtly clunk-a-clanging along, but muted - as if the night clouds buffer it somehow. If I am awake - I am soon lulled to sleep. In fact, if I am awake, and not able to ease into sleep - I wait for the train. It is faithful and timely. Soon - soon, it will come whispering by, and I will be asleep by the time the caboose comes through.

The Kissing Gate

When I was a teenager, we lived on a little farm just outside of Spokane, where my Dad practiced being a gentleman farmer while keeping his day job as a reporter for The Spokane Chronicle. He bought a beat up old tractor and drove it around the fields, plowing just to plow. With that tractor, he built a fairly large vegetable garden outside the back yard. To get to the garden, he built an old fashioned stile. Three steps up to a landing, three steps down to the peas, beets, carrots, beans, corn, tomatoes, lettuce. We had everything you would want for vegetables. It was a heady scent, to sit on the stile at night in the moonlight.

It was to the stile that I would take my date. First we had dinner with my family, then we went hand-in-hand to the stile (I thought everyone had a stile to the garden!), and we would sit on the top step and talk, maybe kiss, smell the tomatoes, until, invariably, the back screen door would whine open, and Dad’s voice would interrupt, only 15 feet away through the Locust trees, “You kids doing anything out there?” It wasn’t really a question. It was more interpreted by my dates as, “You kids are NOT doing anything out there!” And my date would surreptitiously slip away from me a couple inches – not even close enough for kissing.

I had three young suitors go through the dating ritual with me – one became an attorney and politician here in Spokane; one became a missionary and preacher; and I married the third, had two sons, and after seven years we parted.

There was Magic in the garden stile. It was safe and there was a special aura around it – as if little fairies would float up from the garden itself. My sister also “dated” at the garden stile. I’m fairly certain we were the last virgins in Spokane County and it’s probably because of the stile.

Or maybe it was my Dad. It’s kind of hard to fool around when your Dad keeps appearing on the back porch.

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The Rumors of My Death. . . .

I got home last night after being out of town for the weekend, with the first email being from someone I don't know, starting, "Remembering Art especially as the ski season approaches."

Art's dead? O my God! Art - who has been the token male in my women's dinner group for - well, since forever. He knew the rest of the gals way before me. Art - who met us at Disney World and was my personal driver to and from dialysis - where he would camp out in the lobby and visit with all the people coming in to wait for their turn on dialysis - for three and a half hours.

How could this be????

I started to weep, trying to dial one of the group - Kathy. And when I tried to subtlely find out what had happened, she was confused and said she didn't know anything. I sent her the strange email and she finally wrote back and said "I think she is trying to find Art."

This morning we all got an email from Art himself, alive and well, with a picture of him riding his motorcycle around Florida just for the heck of it, long white hair and beard blowing in the wind, and because 75 is NOT too old to have fun.

The rumor of his death is grossly exaggerated. Mark Twain was on to something there.

(Sigh)

His Hands

I love Mechanic Man's hands.

We were at a swap meet on the west side, and he stopped to check out some clunky big greasy car part, some part that is Greek to me. He placed his hands on it, like he was caressing a baby.

I thought, what beautiful hands. Big, powerful, beefy, strong. He swings a mighty sledge hammer with those hands.

He feels motor parts with those hands. He can tell the fitness of a part, feeling the strength, or the weakness, of some heavy metal car part.

He lifts engines and other heavy equipment with those hands.

He disassembles and puts back together in intricate detail, pieces and parts, with those hands.

Such powerful, beautiful hands.

He touches me gently with those hands.