There’s one story that I remember whenever I wash my hands – which means it crosses my mind a number of times in a day. Well, maybe not every time, but quite a lot – especially when there is or isn’t hot water available (sometimes an issue in my work building). In seventh grade we had an art teacher, Mr. Griffith, who peppered his teachings with a couple of personal stories. I loved art class – it came toward the end of the day, and was in a large, expansive second floor room lit brightly by a bank of long windows. We had space to spread out, at big white drawing tables, and it was a relief to focus on being creative rather than studious. I also got to sit next to my new friend Ann, who would prove to be a lifesaver in years to come. On the day that I’m remembering, we were nearing the end of class. Students were packing up, and Mr. Griffith was washing his hands. I don’t think anyone else was paying much attention to his murmuring, but he started talking about a girl who liked to wash her hands. He said she would stand at the sink and just let the water run over them, taking her time and being completely thorough and fastidious about the whole process. One day he asked her why she spent so much time and care washing like that. She answered that she didn’t have hot water at home, and liked the way it felt. He paused in his story, then said it was something that always stuck with him. Since that day, it has stuck with me too. It’s something I cannot forget, and I’m better for it.
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