My Father's Hands

I wrote about my Dad, Curtis Henry Cline, in his early years a few weeks ago.  I want to reflect on him as a father today.  My father was physically strong due to working with his hands.  I loved my Father’s hands.  They were large, strong and tough from hard work.  On the emotional side, he was a tender-hearted man.  He used to read the Herald Of Holiness magazine from our church and tears would run down his eyes when he read of the needs throughout the world, or of an uplifting article.  He often picked me up in his arms and toted me around with him, when I was small, and I could feel the love he felt for me. I was a lucky child. I remember wanting a swing when I was about five years old.   I kept asking him to build me one in my sweetest voice. I knew he worked from sun up to sun down, but I was sure he could squeeze in time to make my swing.  He had a welding shop behind our home, and I guess I thought he would make it there.  One day he kneeled down on his knee to my level and with tears in his eyes said “Margaret if you want a swing as badly as you say I will build you one tomorrow.”  And he did!  He welded a metal bar across the top from our shed to another bar he buried next to our fence.  He hung log chains down from the cross bar to a wooden seat he made for me.  I thought my Dad was wonderful back when I was a little girl, and that he could do anything and continued to think so until he died December 21, 2002, at the age of ninety-one.  Curtis Henry Cline was my first hero.

Another time, I moved to St. Louis, Missouri and rented a small apartment on the third floor of the building.  Needing furniture, I asked Mom and Dad to let me use some of their extra furniture.  They agreed to help me and Dad loaded some furniture in his truck and drove from Sikeston, Missouri to my Aunt Beulah and Uncle Orville’s house where I was staying until I had furniture for the apartment.  He arrived about 10:00 am and we drove from the suburbs to St. Louis where my apartment was located.  I tried to help him move as much as possible, but it seems I was more in his way, with the furniture than a help.  Therefore, he strapped the dresser on his back and walked the three flights of steps to my new place.  He did the same thing with more furniture.  I carried the boxes and bedding.  When he got to the top of the stairs with the last piece of furniture, he stopped and asked me, “how much less are the rooms on the third floor than the ones on the first floor?”  I told him they were $30 a month less.  He said he would pay the difference for me to live on the first floor when I moved again.  He never complained, he only let me know he wished it had been on the first floor.  Whenever I needed anything, he was there for me with his usual smile.  There are many more memories I want to write but I want to concentrate on his ethics and character in the next issue.