"Ukrainian Mitts"

A Creative Writing Assignment on something familiar to you

My dad comes in from outside, the time is 10:34 pm. He smells of hard work in the garage, gasoline and dust. The familiar lined face looks a bit tired as he smiles at me.

His massive hands, often referred to as “Ukrainian mitts,” reach out and take hold of each of my shoulders. His hands are a dark brown, deeply lined rough skin that gets snagged on clothing and is never without a cut or a bruise. They are stained with the grease he works with everyday.

I am helpless between his two hands and try to squirm out of his grasp. He shakes me violently back and forth and then pulls me in for a bone crunching bear hug. I can barely breathe for a second or two, it’s like he has to show me how much he loves me by the strength of his hug.

The strong hands then tell me to straighten up by pulling my shoulders upwards. Pummelling my back he says that I’m “so tense!” as I squeal and scream because it is nothing like a relaxing massage, it is more of beating. But I still smile, as I try to give him a pounding back. It is to be expected that he would cause so much pain in a simple hug.


It is strange, this interaction between father and daughter.  But it’s the only way we have ever embraced; as far back as I can remember. My father’s hands are like no one else’s, too strong for his own good. He isn’t a large man only average height and weight, but through his hands a sense of who he is can be found.

He is a carpenter by day and everything else man by night. He fixes things for everyone around him. From a broken bed frame to a leaky roof- he can do it. It never surprises me when I go outside and hear the sound of a drill or a mightier saw. It just tells me my dad is home. The puppy we got last year used to cower when he heard the sound of power tools but I noticed this summer he has grown accustomed to it.

The garage which houses all of these power tools reminds me of when I was younger. I would spend plenty of time playing on the blackened concrete, the smell of welding and engine oil filling my nostrils. I would watch my dad work, as he welded a trailer together I would know when to turn and look away, right as he slid the welding mask over his face.

I was used to the scratches and calluses that forever covered those working hands of his. I would turn them over and over in my own young, soft hands and tell him that he need to “moisturize”, of which he would reply that they would just get worn again with the next day’s work.