We hold hands for a variety of reasons: security, relaxation, show respect, connect with others, and as a sign of affection. I’m sure there are others, but I think number one is security. Touching someone in such a manner has a calming effect.
When we’re young we hold hands with our parents when we cross the street. When we’re old we hold our children’s hands too for the same reason. We’re looking out for one another, just from the other end of life. Security is important. It’s important to feel safe no matter where you stand in life’s line.
When a baby’s born, they hold your finger. For me, that’s one of the best feelings in the world. David, Elizabeth, Michael, Brady, Eva and Young Jackson James have taken turns holding my finger. Although the holds fell years apart, my joy was just the same. That time in a child’s live flies by so we’ve got to soak it in while we have the opportunity.
My dad died on June 27th in 1999. My mom held his hand as he passed. She sat for hours just letting him know she was there. I felt some comfort while watching them touch. The image is still with me.
Ruth and I held hands. Not every day, but every time we did, I felt safe and secure.
On September 3,2011, Ruth and I were on a flight from Las Vegas to Los Angeles. I’ve written about flight 245 before. As our plane began down the runway, a female passenger started screaming and tried to get assistance from the flight attendants. A call came over the PA from the male flight attendant who was sitting directly in front and facing Ruth and me. He told the distressed passenger that we were underway and that the attendants would not be able to assist her until we were airborne. He also asked neighboring passengers to assist the distressed passenger if they could. They couldn’t. As we started down the runway, the man sitting next to the lady yelled “Allah Akbar. I have a bomb!” Ruth and I didn’t hear the words as they were yelled, but several others did. This set off a series of memorable events.
We were up and back down in a manner of a few minutes. Ruth and I held hands and remained very calm. I said something like, “If this is it, we’ve had a good life.” Neither of us joined the tears or cries for help that others let out. We just sat, holding each other’s hand, perhaps said a silent prayer, but most importantly, we just touched. It helped us both.
We frequented casinos from time to time. Each time we did, and I mean every time, she held her hand behind her back, wiggled her fingers, and waited until I joined the playful exchange. We were wishing each other good luck. It seldom made a financial difference but always made an emotional one.
Her fingers were long and slender. She took care of her nails, sometimes opting for polish and sometimes going polish free. She used them to inspect my clothes before we entered a room. She frequently found a piece of lint or a stray mustache hair. She removed them all before we made our appearance. I remember thinking more than once that I wished she’d stop. Now that she has, I do my best to clean up myself but miss her meticulous inspection.
She used her hands to be creative. She painted, drew pictures, and still colored in a coloring book. She used them to decorate our homes and help the kids with theirs. She could do with her hands what she saw with her eyes. It was a gift and she shared it freely.
We held hands in movie theatres, walking through airports, down unfamiliar streets, and sometimes in bed. It meant we were there, in the moment, and although we may not have known it at the time, each moment was special.