You'll never let go of that first hand
- Brett Hiner: A Work in Progress
- May 9, 2024
- 506
When I read, I tend to underline memorable and/or meaningful lines from books — sentences that are just so eloquently written I feel the need to remember them long after the book has been put on my shelf, lent to a friend, left in my classroom library or taken downtown to Books-n-Stock.
When I read Stephen King’s book, “Just After Sunset,” I was stunned by this gem:
“As infants, our first victory comes in grasping some bit of the world, usually our mother's fingers. Later we discover that the world, and the things of the world, are grasping us, and have been all along.”
There is both security and horror in that line, written with a truth on which Stephen King has built a career. He is at his absolute best when he connects the experienced human condition to the terrors, real and imagined, that float across our paths.
Thankfully, I have yet to encounter a possessed 1958 Plymouth Fury, a rabid St. Bernard or a seemingly innocuous clown waving to me while holding a few red balloons.
But the line did make me think of my youth and the time spent holding the hand of my mother (and father) as we ventured out into the world. I wish I could recall specific moments where the need to hold my mother’s hand was apparent, but those moments, which I am sure were often, have long since fled the memory banks.
Knowing what frightened me as a kid, I would wager my annual salary she had to hold my hand as I ventured into the doctor’s office on visits where I knew a shot was coming or as I headed into the hospital to have tubes placed in the ole eardrums, yet again.
Crossing the street? Likely.
Navigating an area heavily trafficked by others? Assuredly.
I do remember running to her in tears after my two older brothers duped me into thinking there was something “fun” about being taken through a “funhouse” at Geneva-on-the-Lake.
When telling that story to their nieces and nephew, aka my kids, my brothers insist I was 14 when it happened and that I begged them to take me — always better to go for the laugh in the story than the facts, I guess. It was a momentous occasion when, years later, during one of our annual family reunion visits, that funhouse no longer existed.
The protectiveness in a mother’s hand is certainly not unique to my mother and me. I have mental snapshots of our own children holding my wife’s hand, walking through the Columbus Zoo, strolling along a stretch of sandy beach as the waves lap in and carry away their stamped, child-sized footprints, and walking from our home to what was Blockbuster Video to snag some popcorn and the latest Disney rental for family movie night.
Driving along Burbank Road a few evenings ago, a soccer ball came soaring across the street, leading the cautious drivers to creep to a crawl. “Stop!” bellowed a mother as her anxious preschooler attempted to beat her friend to the runaway ball. Sure enough, only after Mom grabbed her hand did they begin to make their way across Burbank to Imgard Street, serving as the unheralded hero of all youth sports: the out-of-play ball retriever.
On a recent school trip to New York City, the Drama Club was making its way to Times Square via the subway when I noticed a studious young man hopping on the 1 Train. With a “Bluey” Backpack rightfully in place and glasses safely secured on his face, his left hand held the closest pole like a seasoned subway rider while his right-hand fingers were interlocked with Mom’s. He caught me admiring his bravery and gave me a quick wave (with his left hand, mind you).
At some point in our youth, most likely around the time our years go from the single to the double digits, the need to hold that hand disappears. It becomes unnecessary, maybe even embarrassing for the preteen. Later, out of habit, it is often the adult who reaches out to grab the hand of their child only to be shaken off, like a pitcher calling for a different sign from their catcher.
There is certainly a bittersweet feeling that comes with that moment: a sign that a child has reached a level of security and independence they can begin to walk their own path, made aware of always looking out for soccer balls on streets and foul balls in parking lots and the danger they elicit. Again, as Mr. King so perfectly wrote, “Later we discover that the world, and the things of the world, are grasping us, and have been all along.”
But my mother recently reminded me the need for holding a hand never really goes away — that the space is just taken up by the touch of others. Sometimes, however, the hand-holding journey between mother and child becomes circular.
When she visited her mother in the hospital shortly before her death in May 1983, my mom gathered with her siblings, all sharing a final moment with the woman who started all eight of them on their own paths. Like mothers do, upon seeing her own ailing mom in a hospital bed, she instinctively reached out to her. “(The hand) is the first thing you grab,” she shared.
As sad as that goodbye was, it also is a beautiful reminder, especially as we celebrate Mother’s Day, that of all necessary things in our world, the good found within it is best shared when holding the hand of someone else. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.
Brett Hiner is in his 27th year teaching English/language arts at Wooster High School, where he also serves as yearbook adviser and Drama Club adviser/director. When writing, he enjoys connecting cultural experiences, pop and otherwise to everyday life. He can be emailed at workinprogressWWN@gmail.com.