Dainty, feminine handkerchiefs are a thing of the past, except perhaps for collectors. Count me in that number. I love them. I have a lovely red lacquered box where they are all carefully layered, waiting for the next use.
Old ones are such fragile bits of art. Handmade with lace. Or hand painted with intricate designs. Embroidered with flowers. Linen ones from Ireland. Silk from China. And plain soft cotton.
Dropping a hankie was a tool of flirtation, where one hoped the right man would catch it and return it. Wedding handkerchiefs may have been for collecting the happy tears of the bride. Black handkerchiefs were for mourning.
I have a lovely soft black lawn hankie with red roses petit-pointed in the corner; it was my grandmother Sylvia’s, and she carried it at the funeral of my grandfather Dow in 1934 in Eldorado, Kansas. It laid on the piano bench beside me as I played at my own father’s funeral. I carry it with me when I play for the funerals of all family sages, out of reverence for my beloved granny and the grandfather I never knew.
Antique handkerchief celebrating Arizona
Some of my favorite are state hankies, like this one from Arizona (which is not yet in my collection!). I have Texas, New Mexico and Oklahoma — states where my ancestors pioneered. It’s nice to tuck the Texas one, resplendent with bluebonnets, into my pocket as I start my way there for a visit. Likewise with Oklahoma and New Mexico.
Long ago, my father took me to Earl Abel’s restaurant in San Antonio. I was fascinated with the ‘corsages’ that all waitresses wore. They were colorfully patterned starched hankies folded into intricate flower shapes — pinned to the shoulder of their crispy white uniforms.
Once my aunt, the lovely Marguerite Montier Matthews, told me about care of handkerchiefs in the old days. On Saturdays, her grandmother would have the girls hand wash all of the hankies and smooth them (still damp) against the glass window panes to dry. That way, they dried perfectly smoothly and required no ironing. I was delighted to come home and try this! Alas, it brought to my attention the necessity of washing one’s windows regularly.
Drying tears. Catching sniffles. Flirting. Embellishing. Ah, the life of a hankie.
The drive up to Abilene (or Dumas, Dalhart, Amarillo and other parts north) was long — around 12-14 hours in those days. Backroads across Texas. My mother would have our little car (I remember a green Studebaker) packed, and we’d pick up my father at his jewelry shop around 5 o’clock in the evening on Friday of the holiday weekend. My brother and I would be in the back seat, squabbling over who controlled the most territory with books and feet and such. My parents in the front; my mother smoking her incescent cigarettes.
We’d make it to Austin where my father stopped at the Toddle House for one of his favorite dinners — steak and eggs. The cafe was on 19th street, just a block off Guadalupe (The Drag) and only a short few blocks were I would be “born” at the University of Texas just a few years later. It was a mile-marker on the trip, because after dinner, my mother would get in the back seat and I would be in the front with my father for the rest of our long journey. Ten+ hours of having my father all to myself, while the rest of the family slept in the back seat.
From Brownwood to Rising Star. There we would turn west to Cross Plains, and on to Abilene. It would be almost dawn when we arrived. And my grandmother was always up waiting for us. Her tiny little home was shining with happy light as we rounded the corner and drove up the alley way to park. It smelled like fresh baked cookies and bowls of flowers from her garden. Little tins of the cookies were beside our beds, along with tiny leaded crystal glasses of cold lemonade.
The holiday would be full of food and fun. Baked glazed hams, platters of fried chicken (the kind that had gizzards in the mix), huge crocks of potato salad, fresh tomatoes just out of the garden, jars of sauerkraut salad, cheese bread, homemade carrot pickles, and more. The table would groan with the pleasure of it.
Sometimes we’d go to a concert in the park, where the local musicians would be playing rousing patriotic tunes like “I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy” and “You’re a Grand Old Flag”, along with John Phillip Sousa marches. We’d always have those little flags to wave! My father was terribly patriotic. He was so respectful of our flag. When I see the closing scene in the Yankee Doodle Dandy movie, where Jimmy Cagney steps out into the parade to march beside the soldiers, I always think of my father as a young soldier. (Folks said my dad looked like Caglney