My earliest memories of my father are of his hands.

The hands of the working man.

When I was small, I remember oil-stained, grubby paws holding me, riding me on his knee when he got home from working at the gas station that he owned. I remember the smell of oil and grease that meant daddy. I remember how he would drive his old pickup truck, Red Bird or others that came after, and stop at the bottom of our (short) driveway and let all the neighborhood kids climb in the bed for a ride to the house.

I still love to ride on the tailgate of a pickup. It reminds me of those rides, of my dad.

My dad was one of those working men that the greats like Merle Haggard and today’s Zane Williams wrote songs about. They made their living with their backs and their hands, and in no small part their brains, fixing mechanical things and running small businesses while being the sole financial support for a family.

I think to my job today, working 7-4 in an air conditioned office, working on a computer. It’s labor of a sort.

The hands of The Tinker. I love these hands.

But the hands you see here, are the hands of my husband, The Tinker. He, like my father, makes his living with his hands, his back and in the day of computerized vehicles, in LARGE part his brain. He works in 100 degree heat, in 30 degree cold. He rises every morning for his job without fail barring near-death illness.

On the weekends, he works on our ranch. And today, Labor Day, a day he has “off”, these are his hands fixing one of our trucks. Sure, I’m helping, but these are the hands, the minds, the people of Labor Day.

Mike Rowe has wonderful things to say about those who choose to still pursue the trades. It’s shameful that these days being a mechanic or a plumber or a roofer is looked down upon, thought to be the occupation of those that couldn’t cut it in college. Some of that may be true. But these are the people that are doers, the fixers, the tinkerers that keep our homes, our lives, running.

So on this Labor Day, think of not just those who go to work, but those who truly Labor. Admire them. Respect them.

So to my father who taught me to love hands like these, to my husband who carries them on, thanks. I love you. Happy Labor Day.