It is a hankie, not a tissue

My maternal grandmother was a big believer in handkerchiefs. She

had dozens stored away in the drawers of her dressing bureau. I

remember when circumstances called for a wipe of the eyes or nose, a

hankie was always at hand.

When we moved my grandmother from her home to her apartment, all

the hankies went with her. When we moved her from her apartment to a

nursing home, she took along the bare necessities and when we finally

said our last good-byes, there were a few items that I couldn’t part

with. Her drawers full of hankies were among them.

There were not too many personal items left to covet when I gave

her my final good-bye kiss. The furniture had long been divided up.

Her jewelry had found other fingers to grace. But the hankies were

one of the forgotten treasures, at least in my eyes.

I guess the grandsons had no need for them and the only other

granddaughter thought they were rather pointless. But since I was the

oldest of my generation, I have memories that the grandchildren that

followed never shared.

For me, my grandmother was not an older woman in failing health.

My grandmother was a vital Southern belle that taught me rules and

regulations of social appropriateness and hospitality. She was a

great cook, a great card player and a great gardener. She would spend

hours in the making of jam, pickles, pies and ice cream.

There was always a pitcher of iced tea at dinner (which was really

lunch) and at supper (which was really dinner). We used cloth

napkins. We hand-washed dishes. We set the breakfast table before we

went to bed.

There were always mints in the silver candy dish on the buffet in

the dining room. There were always African violets near the eastern

windows. There was never up, down, right or left. It was always

north, south, east and west.

The cities were the place to shop, but the country was the place

to live. Ladies always carried a pocketbook, not a purse. When it was

cold you wore a car coat, not a sweater or jacket. And a lady always

carried a hankie, not a tissue.

Her hankies were never plain, and you could tell the decade they

were purchased by the designs. The ‘40s versions had beautiful

hand-crocheted edges. The ‘50s had petite floral patterns and

embroidered flowers. The ‘60s boxes were filled with bright colors

and bold patterns.

The collection dwindled after that, probably because their general

popularity decreased. For most people, it was easier to use a tissue

once and then throw it away. But in my grandmother’s world, there was

always a hankie in her pocketbook.

As a life’s worth of belongings were doled out, I was the only one

that cared to take the drawer full of small cotton squares and

precious memories. Maybe it’s just a silly sentiment; maybe it’s

because I’m the only one with daughters of my own to pass them down

to. And maybe because I’m the only one who remembers her saying that

one of her many prayers for me, her first grandchild, was that my

life would be blessed enough that I could “always carry a hankie and

never have to use it.”

* KAREN WIGHT is a Newport Beach resident. Her column runs

Sundays.