happy 50th birthday, Gido!

My Gido had badger hands. Covered in liver spots, with long, thick nails caked with the clay that is Saskatchewan topsoil, Gido's hands were the only part of his body you would have to look at to know he was a farmer, and a good one at that. Never mind that his occupation could be divined by a quick look down at jeans always stained with tractor oil, or up to a cap soaked in sweat not twenty minutes after it was given to him free from the local implements dealer. Forget too that his skin was dusted with the dirt that was displaced into the air whenever Baba swept the kitchen floor (which was twice a day at least, if she wanted to keep the house at least presentable for the bevvy of visitors who would stop by for coffee while driving past on their way to the field. Tidiness at the farm was no small task for Baba, let me tell you, especially since none of those boys of hers ever took their shoes off when they ran into the house quickly for some such or other, like a bathroom break, or - if they were lucky - one of the homemade cinnamon buns she sometimes treated them to.) You could ignore all these things, and just focus on the hands. Gido's hands were what gave him away, and he never complained once (at least, not that I heard) when they eventually turned arthritic, and chapped from more years of back-breaking labour under the glaring heat of the sun than you or I will ever know, or can probably even imagine.

And so in addition to purchasing a new brand of shampoo and conditioner every time she went into Yorkton, Baba never forgot to bring home hand lotion for Gido. One week it would be Extra Aloe in a blue pump bottle, the next it would be a nail and cuticle formula in white, but unfailingly it was always Vaseline. After my bath, I would slather some on from a new bottle every time, testing out the claims made by each - anti-rash, ultra-sensitive, original - but I would always smell the same. Like Vaseline.

Like Gido.

Last night after my shower before bed I coated my hands with a Vaseline that promises to strengthen my nails and repair any damaged cuticles I might have. We'll see. Though the bottle label warns that apparently it's such a strong product I should probably limit use to my hands and nails, I've been lately also using this lotion for my legs in an effort to save money by not having to buy another brand. Far from making me feel deprived, this frugality has filled my bedroom for the last number of nights with a scent that immediately takes me back to the blue farm house, and I am a ten-year-old girl again, in a towel after her bath, standing in front of the shelf that sits atop the toilet, inspecting each and every bottle of Gido's Vaseline before deciding which one will suitably soften my skin that night.

He's been gone almost four years, my Gido, but I can still smell him. He surrounds me.