Hands

 The hands.  They tell a lot about a person. You can see deep into the soul of someone just by looking at their hands. Soft, unlined hands, beautifully manicured nails can sell cosmetics and diamonds on tv.  But the hands before me could not sell a diamond.  In fact they hint at grit and coal and a well worn life.  Fingernails bitten down to the quick with ragged cuticals are on my counter, awaiting me to finish our banking transaction. Her face is a blank page, unsmiling but not unpleasant, but I find myself gazing at those hands wondering what story they would tell.  As I reach into my drawer full of money, I can feel her anxiousness, and somehow I know that every single dollar bill she is to receive is important and already has a purpose.  It's very cold out today, 22 degrees and falling and a moderate snowfall is forecast for this afternoon.  In anticipation school has already let out, the kids are in their big yellow school buses heading for home and an afternoon of video games and snowball fights and sledding.  Somehow I know within me that this woman has small mouths to feed, and with the economy as it is, this small amount of money will not last long.  My training has taught me to call customers by name as I have their information before me, and I notice her name: Wren.  What an unusual name, but it fits as my customer has the nervous energy of a small brown bird, her eyes darting about, freting about unseen troubles.  She has on a coat, but its much too thin for the whipping winds of winter, no gloves or hat.  Her hair is brown, about the color of a wren and dull and uncombed.  I'm tempted to guess that she is about 30 years old although I realize that people in Eastern Kentucky age quicker than expected, so she is likely younger than that.  "Wren, that's such a pretty name."  I tell her.   Shyly, almost at a whisper she mutters, "Thank you", her eyes averted downward.  "Are you from around here?", I ask.   Painfully she finally says, "Yes from Town Branch, across the bridge".  As I count back her money, $117.12, she watches each coin and bill.  Like a starving dog she reaches for it quickly, then recognizing my astonishment slows and relaxes.  I hear a muffled remark that I fail to understand, then she disappears out the door and is gone.  The bank is busy today, so she is easy to forget, just one of many customers of the day cashing checks and changing coins into bills.

A few days later, Wren reappears, I notice her standing in the lobby, waiting.  Her eyes again darting about, her fists shoved into the same worn coat and I notice a finger poking out.  I find myself wondering if she is part of the recent bank robberies in the area.  Other tellers notice her, and I hear remarks about her strangeness and ragged appearance.   Suddenly I see an expression of recognition and she hurries to my window.  I am handed a rusty dirty coffee can with a piece of tin foil covering the top.  "Hello", I say and I see just a hint of a small smile.  As I reach for the can I again notice her hands. They are not covered by gloves.  Black coal dust coat her hands slightly, but the soot cannot hide the redness of her skin from the cold.  It leaves me again with questions in my soul.  Inside the can are coins, pennies mainly, likely not more than a few dollars.  Totaling $4.13, I start to count out the money she is to received.  "No!", she says, louder I'm sure than she meant, "I need quarters."  I am very good with money, but hastily I give her a few more quarters than due, and I'm not sure why. "This is a whole handful of quarters, do you need a bag?" I ask.  I believe anything that she is given will surely be appreciated, so I turn to grab a bank bag.  In a flash though she is gone.  Into the cold wind and I can hear quarters jingling in her pockets as she flees.   The next morning there is a slight bit of warmth in the air.  Spring is still a distant friend but there is a least the attempt by Mother Nature to give us hope.  As I walk up to work, I see her again. This time she sees me and gives a slight wave of her hand.  She is seated on the steps of the bank, waiting for some unknown entity. Again I notice her hands for a different reason.  On her dirty well worn hands is a little ring.  A little pink ring, almost a child's play ring.  It sparkles against her skin that smells of wood burning and coal. Gathering up my courage, I ask, "Wren, are you ok?  I'm sorry I don't really know you, but you've been hanging out here for the past few days.  Is there some way that I can help you?" Her eyes fill with silent tears, brimming over and spilling down dirty cheeks.  This is the story she told to me. "My husband is a good, honest, hard working man.  He's worked in the mines since he quit high school when he was 15.  He never went much for the book learnin', he likes to work with his hands.   We ain't got no money to buy him any tools, so he can't fix cars.  We ain't got no flat land, so we can't farm.  Going to the mines was his only choice, so he did.  We started dating when I was 14, we met up at the Church meeting.   I always liked school, I did my lessons and got all A's.  I even had a teacher once tell me I should go to college, that I actually could make a teacher myself.  I never missed school neither, mommy and daddy took me in the truck if the weather was bad, on account of that bad bus wreck years ago.  Jay and I started up and soon got married, had to I reckon.   So I figured I should just go ahead and quit school on account that them other girls would make fun of me.  Now, don't get me wrong, I love my children!  We want to do right by them.  We got a little house, I guess most folks would say it's a dump, but it's our home and I keep it as neat as a pin.   I help them with their lessons and I keep their clothes clean and I make sure that they are clean when they go to school.  We go to church on Sundays and I ask the Lord to help us and we were makin' it okay.  Then Jay got laid off.  They shut the mine down.  Said nobody wants that black stuff anymore, so he came on home.  They give him some money for a while, he went to that building down here in Prestonsburg, signed some papers.  Told him he had to try to find a job somewheres else.  He goes around and asks if he can get a job, but where can he work?  He ain't the kind of feller to work in a store, can't hardly read or write.  Now them checks they give him, they've stopped comin.  We got two little babies to feed, so I figure it's my turn.  I like to sew, my mammaw taught me when I was little.  I reckon I can turn out them hair bows that them cheerleaders wear in their hair.  But I gotta have some ribbon and hair pins to start with, so I took that money from that check and went to the Wal Mart.  I start making them bows and I take them around town but so far I can't find anyone who wants to buy them.  I guess they smell a little like smoke on account of the fire we have to use to heat the house.  That's what one woman told me anyways.  Well then Bubby come home from school the other day, he said they were having a store at school where kids could buy presents for their family.  He was so excited, he wanted to go so bad!  So I found an old coffee can and I walked all over town and found pennies along the streets, and some quarters.  When you gave me my quarter money, there was more than I thought there would be and I counted it as a miracle!   Bubby got to go to the store and look here, he bought me this pretty little ring.  He got sissy a little bracelet too.  He was so proud! Me and Jay have been takin' the truck along the cliffs and picking up pieces of coal to burn to heat the house on this little stove we got.  It takes the chill out of the air and I expect we'll make it till spring.  Then maybe we can plant a little garden, grow some taters and beans."   Wren tells me her story, and I watch her face.  And her hands.  Her voice is even and firm, though soft and quiet. She speaks with little emotion and her face is a tearless, blank page.  But her hands tell a different story.  Her hands are knotted like the vines of summer, twisted fingers, spinning that little ring on her bony knuckle.  You know a woman can will her face to lie but her hands will betray.  It's like she has so much resolve in her soul that she knows that whatever decisions she and Jay made they have had few options.  It's like their lives are on a train track with no way to turn around or go in a different direction.   We sit quietly on that concrete step that late winter morning, the birds chirping without a single care in the world.  I've known money during my lifetime but I've never had to worry about heat and food and clothing for my children.  I've always had options.   Wren and her family don't have options, they don't have a credit card, parents who can help, resources or savings for a rainy day.  I believe Wren's future will be full of rainy days and want and need.  For once in my life I have no words, no advice, no sunny side of the street.  And I feel empty.   Wren continues: "What I don't reckon I understand is this.  I ain't been out in this big world, hardly been out of the county.  I know Eastern Kentucky ain't got much to offer, but it's home, it's my home.  It's where my mommy and daddy are, where my mammaw and papaw are.  It's where my granddaddy's grave is.  They give us the little bit of land we got.  Ain't worth much to the world, but it means everything to me.  If we can't raise crops to sell, if we ain't got tools to work with, if our menfolk can't go to the mines anymore, what are we to do?  I may not have a college education but I'm smart, all my teachers told me so when I was a youngin.  And I can't figure it out, it troubles me at night.  I watch the tv and see the news about the government helping other places out, why can't we be helped?  We want to work, we want a better life for ourselves and for our kids.  Someone please tell me how to do it!" How indeed.  Our world is filled with Wrens and Jays and Robins who need a voice.  Eastern Kentucky is worth fighting for.