PRESSED BETWEEN THE PAGES
DeAnn (Wolkow) Kruempel
You Never Know When You Might Need One
In case of emergency, I keep one in my purse. Something may need to be dried or wiped or held together. I may run out of the throw-away kind, or not be able to find one. Just in case, there is a pretty handkerchief stowed in the far reaches of my purse.
When we were growing up, handkerchiefs were a necessity, especially for adult women. Mom kept several in her purse--various flowery prints or plain ones with lacy, crocheted edges.
Aprons and dresses always had pockets. Pockets’ purpose? To hold hankies, of course! I cannot remember a time when our mother did not have a hankie handy.
Funny thing is, with all this brain-strain, I cannot remember her ever using it on her own nose! The lovely linen or cotton folds appeared like magic when my siblings and I needed mopping up. Kool-Aid mustache at church potluck? Ice cream cone meltdown? That annoying scab that needed removal?
Mom brandished a handkerchief! Often, she discreetly applied a dab of saliva to the cloth. Remember when we learned in science class that water is the universal solvent? Wrong! Nothing cleans more effectively than a mother’s spit!
Those soft squares were also useful for holding important things. Once, when Mom and I were walking from Ward’s store to Peschl’s meat market, my beloved, beautiful bracelet of “pearls” broke. Little white balls bounced on the sidewalk. Mom may have wiped my tears first, but what I remember is bundling every little bead we could find into her hankie before she tied it shut and tucked it in her purse. “We can fix it.”
Every Sunday Mom gave me a dime for my Sunday School offering. “Wrap it in your hankie so you don’t lose it.” Pressed between the pages of my mind are memories of getting my very own Valentine or birthday card in the mail from a sister or aunt. Sometimes the card held a small printed child-sized handkerchief. One had a little rabbit on it. One sported a lovely crocheted edge.
The history of hankies overflows with fascinating facts. Ancients used them for hygiene. Later they became status symbols and romantic devices. A lady didn’t text the hot guy in the jewelry store; she dropped her pretty hankie to show she was interested.
All that excitement went poof when disposable tissues were invented. In 1924, facial tissues were introduced by Kimberly-Clark. Their original purpose was to remove cold cream. In early advertisements, movie stars used Kleenex to remove their theatrical makeup. Consumers huffed and puffed and devised practical uses that were nothing to sneeze at. They kept their noses clean with Kleenex: cough catching, sniffle stopping and booger banning.
Yes, hankies have taken a nose dive, dropped into desolation—that is, except for the ones that still fill my bottom dresser drawer. I know, I know, I need to put my nose to the grindstone, get rid of unnecessary stuff or my kids will kill me when I die. Twice I have opened this drawer. Started removing those small folded squares. Suddenly a cute rabbit gazes up at me. Lovely crocheted edges and prints with purple pansies emerge. Some are the same that wiped our tears or cleaned our sticky faces so many years ago.
With a sniffle and a smile, I tuck them back into the drawer. After all, it’s just a small drawer. And besides, one never knows when one might need a hankie!
The author’s column appears in a growing number of Midwest newspapers. Kruempel compiles and publishes the column stories every year. She has also published a historical fiction series, “Promises to Keep.” Her ten books are available on Amazon. Signed copies may be purchased at the Harrison County Welcome Center. Contact Kruempel at deannkruempelauthor@gmail.com.
