When I was a kid, the men in my family had calloused hands and Daddy had a row of callouses on the palms of each hand from continually gripping things, especially a shovel, or axe. Back then, callouses were evidence of hard work.
I was grateful for the winter to wear long sleeves, but now that the temperatures are rising my sleeves are thinner and, on some days, shorter. They’ve protected my callouses and I’ve been mindful to keep lotion on them during the winter, but this morning I can feel them coming back. That’s the thing about callouses, they don’t forget where they last resided, nor what caused them. Having calloused skin means having skin made tough and thick through continual wear, so there’s no surprise when I noticed that my elbows have become calloused.
While writing, the elbows are a part of the process. I prop them while thinking and gazing out the window, or they rest on the wooden table while typing. Some days they help hold me up just to get the job done, but I wouldn’t be able to write without them. I remember the flannel shirts with thick elbow patches worn years ago and can see them being worn by writers.
This post is the last of my drafts and I couldn’t decide whether to even publish it, but I promised myself the draft folder would be empty and now it is, all but one, but that’s a story for another time. As I pause from typing to gaze out the window, I see a bird enjoying the birdbath and am propped on my elbows. It’s an automatic position for this writer and I’m at ease with knowing all the words these elbows help spill, so my heart isn’t in any danger of becoming calloused.
Photo by Austin Ban on Unsplash
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