It was at a “pyrohy” dinner and dance at a Ukrainian Greek Orthodox church hall, either in a small town or in the countryside. These dinner and dances were fundraising events, usually held twice a year before each lent.
They were community events and attended by most everyone in the community, town officials, the few business people and professionals in the area, and of course the farmers. They attracted young and old, Ukrainians and non-Ukrainians, the better off and the less fortunate.
These events offered a time to share news with extended family, friends, and neighbours, and to exchange views on municipal, county, provincial and national goings-on. They offered a time to mingle and mix, to reconnect with those who are not often seen and to meet new people. They were a time for laughter and lightheartedness.
People maneuvered between the tables, the dance floor and the small groups standing at the back of the wood hall.
At one point after dinner, I found myself at a table with a couple of friends, my Mom, a couple of town’s people who my parents came to know quite well over the years, and my English teacher who knew most everyone who had or had had children in high school over the last decade or so. My English teacher was a well-put-together woman, who always paid meticulous attention to not only her English class instruction but to her fitness, dress and grooming. One would say that she worked hard at presenting a role model of a professional to this small rural community.
At these events, my Mom and Dad, always had dinner together, sharing a table with others who they knew well, and they always had the token dance or two together. Then, they separated to enjoy the company of others, but they always seemed to seek each other out every so often throughout the evening to check in with one another, to share some bit of information or to reassure each other.
Our table was fully engaged with several conversations going on at once when my Dad spied my Mom, briskly walked over and slid in next to her. My English teacher was seated across the table from him and I was seated next to my teacher. As my Dad reached for the pitcher of water and a glass, located at the centre of the table, my English teacher exclaimed, “John, what beautiful hands you have. They don’t look like the hands of a farmer.” My Dad’s hands were clean, his nails were manicured with no hang nails, and they did not have any bruises or blisters.
My Dad wore leather gloves when he worked. In fact, he had gloves for working, gloves for going to town, and his best gloves for special occasions.
The comment must have struck both my Mom and Dad in the same way because they turned to each other, and after their eyes met ever so briefly, my Dad turned back to my teacher across the table and responded without a pause, “And what should a farmer’s hands look like?”
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