Read Online Hands of My Father: A Hearing Boy, His Deaf Parents, and the Language of Love by Myron Uhlberg - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Myron Uhlberg
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father’s indifferent God.
Memorabilia
Trains, Trains, Trains
T he day I turned seven my father came home from work carrying a large gaily wrapped box under his arm. It was a train set.
“This train,” his hands informed me, “is the Blue Comet!” Sitting on the floor, he assembled the tracks. Carefully he set the locomotive with its coal car and passenger cars on the track.
“The Blue Comet,” my father’s fingers spelled the name with exquisite care, “is ready to roll.”
At bedtime he took the tracks apart and put the train back in the box.
The next night he came home with yet another big box under his arm.
“This train,” he announced, finger-spelling the name, “is the Pennsylvania Flyer.”
Adding new sections of track to the old, he positioned the new train with its boxcars and caboose behind the Blue Comet. Placing an engineer’s cap on his head, he said, “Let ’er roll!”
It took quite some time that night to disassemble the tracks and store the trains under my bed.
The next day my father came home with another large box under his arm. He put on striped-gray engineer’s overalls and adjusted his engineer’s cap.
Sitting on the floor, he signed, “ALL ABOARD!” and sent the Blue Comet, the Pennsylvania Flyer, and the new Allegheny Express rushing after one another, clickety-clack, clickety-clack, down the tracks curled around my bedroom floor.
On Saturday my father brought home large panels of plywood and assorted packages in all shapes and sizes. He put his big saw and all his tools in my bedroom, closing the door behind him. On the door he had hung a Do Not Disturb sign. “This means YOU,” he boldly wrote across the sign. “Son Myron,” he added at the bottom, for perfect clarity.
That night he stood with me at my closed bedroom door.
“Close your eyes,” his hands commanded.
I did, and seconds later when he told me to open them again, I saw that my bedroom was now filled with a huge table. To make room, my father had pushed both my bed and my brother’s bed against the far wall. On the table there were train tracks going every which way, up and down, in and out, over and under, twisting and curving. Waiting on the track sat three locomotives, blue, red, and black. Coal cars, tenders, passenger cars, freight cars, flatcars, and three cabooses. A lone Heinz Pickle boxcar trailed behind them.
There were tunnels, bridges, houses, and stations. There were grass-covered hills over which miniature cows and a flock of tiny white sheep grazed. Between the hills rushed rivers and streams made of glass, telephone poles fashioned from pencils, and fences made of toothpicks. Toy cars sat in arrested motion on blacktopped roads lined with perfect little streetlamps.
And everywhere I looked there were little people, frozen in midmotion. My father was good with his hands. He spoke with his hands in more ways than one.
As I stood there by his side, gazing in astonished wonder at the scene spread out before me, he turned off the ceiling light and went to the control panel he had built into the exact center of the table. Suddenly the table burst into light. Every tiny bulb behind every wax-paper window in every miniature house blazed on; all the perfect little streetlamps sprinkled perfect specks of light on the black road below; the signals at track crossings began to insistently blink yellow, then red; bridges wore necklaces trimmed in light, and the train sheds, no longer dark, displayed their illuminated cardboard nooks and crannies.
As I stared, my hands forgotten at my sides, unable to sign a single word, my father put the engineer’s cap on my head, signing, “You take over, chief. Happy birthday!”
I don’t think I slept a wink that night. And I never for a moment thought of taking off my engineer’s cap.
When my brother turned four, among his many presents was a smaller version of my engineer’s hat. Up until then I had strictly forbidden him to touch the
Memorabilia
Trains, Trains, Trains
T he day I turned seven my father came home from work carrying a large gaily wrapped box under his arm. It was a train set.
“This train,” his hands informed me, “is the Blue Comet!” Sitting on the floor, he assembled the tracks. Carefully he set the locomotive with its coal car and passenger cars on the track.
“The Blue Comet,” my father’s fingers spelled the name with exquisite care, “is ready to roll.”
At bedtime he took the tracks apart and put the train back in the box.
The next night he came home with yet another big box under his arm.
“This train,” he announced, finger-spelling the name, “is the Pennsylvania Flyer.”
Adding new sections of track to the old, he positioned the new train with its boxcars and caboose behind the Blue Comet. Placing an engineer’s cap on his head, he said, “Let ’er roll!”
It took quite some time that night to disassemble the tracks and store the trains under my bed.
The next day my father came home with another large box under his arm. He put on striped-gray engineer’s overalls and adjusted his engineer’s cap.
Sitting on the floor, he signed, “ALL ABOARD!” and sent the Blue Comet, the Pennsylvania Flyer, and the new Allegheny Express rushing after one another, clickety-clack, clickety-clack, down the tracks curled around my bedroom floor.
On Saturday my father brought home large panels of plywood and assorted packages in all shapes and sizes. He put his big saw and all his tools in my bedroom, closing the door behind him. On the door he had hung a Do Not Disturb sign. “This means YOU,” he boldly wrote across the sign. “Son Myron,” he added at the bottom, for perfect clarity.
That night he stood with me at my closed bedroom door.
“Close your eyes,” his hands commanded.
I did, and seconds later when he told me to open them again, I saw that my bedroom was now filled with a huge table. To make room, my father had pushed both my bed and my brother’s bed against the far wall. On the table there were train tracks going every which way, up and down, in and out, over and under, twisting and curving. Waiting on the track sat three locomotives, blue, red, and black. Coal cars, tenders, passenger cars, freight cars, flatcars, and three cabooses. A lone Heinz Pickle boxcar trailed behind them.
There were tunnels, bridges, houses, and stations. There were grass-covered hills over which miniature cows and a flock of tiny white sheep grazed. Between the hills rushed rivers and streams made of glass, telephone poles fashioned from pencils, and fences made of toothpicks. Toy cars sat in arrested motion on blacktopped roads lined with perfect little streetlamps.
And everywhere I looked there were little people, frozen in midmotion. My father was good with his hands. He spoke with his hands in more ways than one.
As I stood there by his side, gazing in astonished wonder at the scene spread out before me, he turned off the ceiling light and went to the control panel he had built into the exact center of the table. Suddenly the table burst into light. Every tiny bulb behind every wax-paper window in every miniature house blazed on; all the perfect little streetlamps sprinkled perfect specks of light on the black road below; the signals at track crossings began to insistently blink yellow, then red; bridges wore necklaces trimmed in light, and the train sheds, no longer dark, displayed their illuminated cardboard nooks and crannies.
As I stared, my hands forgotten at my sides, unable to sign a single word, my father put the engineer’s cap on my head, signing, “You take over, chief. Happy birthday!”
I don’t think I slept a wink that night. And I never for a moment thought of taking off my engineer’s cap.
When my brother turned four, among his many presents was a smaller version of my engineer’s hat. Up until then I had strictly forbidden him to touch the
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