You might wonder how on earth a handkerchief story can be interesting. How can a square of cotton cloth used to blow one’s nose have any significance? Yet, I’ve found my childhood, and even grown up stories, to hold memories in their crimps and creases.
When I was a youngster on the farm, in a family of ten, we used cloth hankies. Later, in my teens, Mom started purchasing store bought tissues. Even though we had this disposable alternative, we were still to use cut up rags for runny noses, because they were cheaper.
Even Pop obeyed Mom’s rule on rag hankies. He could always be seen with a large rag dangling out of the back pocket of his bib overalls. Mom did purchase a few of those large blue or red plaid cloth hankies for him. Sundays Mom allowed him to use a “good” cloth hanky for church. Pop always made such a loud roar when he blew his nose. I think this nose blowing roar was passed on to all males!
Our mail was not delivered to our farm house. I had to “fetch” the mail, which was about a mile away in the village of Monterey. I was about eight to nine years old and was scared to death on this lonely country trek by myself. I always had our St. Bernard dog accompany me to protect me. In order to suppress my fear, I’d take my hanky and wad the whole thing in my mouth. I’d chew on this until I returned home. In my case it was “bite the hanky” not the bullet. Even though I was young, I’m assuming I used a clean hanky!
As a kid I liked to snoop in Mom’s dresser drawers. On the bottom of clothes I found a gift box of beautiful flowered hankies. They were never used. I know now the Pennsylvania Dutch culture was not to use some things, but to keep them for “nice.”
Mom also had creative ideas to keep us youngsters quiet in church. She’d fold a hanky to look like a baby wrapped in a blanket. As children, we were content with a simple hanky baby – at least through most of the sermon.
I don’t think any of us children will forget our offerings for Sunday School. Mom wrapped pennies in a hanky and knotted it. She gave each of us one for our Sunday School offering. She still had another hanky of pennies which she passed down to us in the church pew. A few years ago, as adults, my siblings and I attended confirmation at our home church. One “smarty pants” sister, before the offering plate came around, handed us a hanky filled with pennies. It was hard for any of us to suppress our giggles.
Mom also had the talent of tatting around cloth hankies. I have no idea how she even had time to tat, as a farmer’s wife, with ten children. My sister, Jannetta, is the only daughter who learned the craft of tatting. In later years, my sister, Gladys, used her talent to craft tatted hankies, from yard sales, into Hanky Angels.
I also recall an icky story Mom told us. Before her marriage, she did housekeeping for a doctor uncle. One of her chores was to wash the doctor’s hankies on a wash board. It was the job she hated most. I never did ask her how she compared that job to changing the diapers of ten children and washing them.
Another icky story is about my father’s twin brother. I don’t mind telling this story since he passed away and had no children. He was in his 80s when he invited my five sisters and myself to fly to Indianapolis for a weekend. The first day we visited his apartment, for some idiosyncratic reason, after our uncle used his hanky, he laid it on the arm of his chair. We never said anything about this habit, but we made sure we never sat on his favorite chair!
I have my own idiosyncracies. To this day, I love store-bought tissues. I keep them in my pockets or purse at all times. It really gripes me if I don’t have a pocket on my clothes. If I don’t have a pocket I stuff a tissue in my bra or a rolled up sleeve. Then it gripes me even more when it all comes out in the wash!
The last story I have about Mom is in her 80s. She had a stroke and became child-like. The children set up a system of care-giving for her. She had been bedridden for months after her stroke. We slept on a cot in her room next to her hospital bed. As she became stronger, she’d take her nightgown off, her sheet off, and her pillow case off. She just couldn’t be still and rest at night. My sister, Dorothy, decided to try a hanky experiment to keep Mom’s hands occupied. She found dozens of cloth hankies in her dresser drawer and tied them on the railing of the hospital bed. At first, my sister hadn’t knotted them tight enough. They were all on the floor when she woke up. Dorothy learned fast. She knotted them “really” tight on the railing the next night. Mom couldn’t loosen them and played with them at night so we could get some sleep.
I even have a hanky story with my husband. When we take walks on cold, wintry days he usually forgets to take his own tissues. I get irritated, because I not only have to take my gloves off to blow my own nose, I have to take my gloves off again to dig up a clean tissue for him. And it’s cold out there with no gloves!
I’m truly grateful for these paper tissues by Kleenex, but I’m also grateful for those cloth tissues, which in their crimps and creases, gave me some wonderful nose-blowing memories.
Carole Christman Koch grew up in Berks County and has been published in numerous publications. She has a passion for writing and has many stories from growing up on a farm to raising children to humorous stories about her and her husband to everyday stories to season stories and more.
