I have a drawer full of mens' handkerchiefs that belonged to my father, whom I lovingly called "Pop." He died when I was twenty-four, and I was not ready for him to leave my life. I had only discovered, really, how wonderfully marvelous he was, with his quiet yet humorous demeanor, so unlike that of my mother. He had made an art-form of peaceful resistance, and I had just realized the power that he held. I lost him to heart failure on a cold February day, a sunny day, the first snowfall of the season. That was the day I began to learn about loss.
When I was little, my "chore," was ironing. For some unknown reason, I was good at it. I imagine I got this job because nobody else wanted it. I had burns on my hands and wrists, but I didn't mind. The ironing board, which Pop installed in our family room wall was close to the TV, so I was not bored.
I got paid to do this work: ten cents for a shirt or blouse, twenty cents for a bed sheet, and a whopping nickel for every two of Pop's handkerchiefs ironed. That's two-and-a-half-cents per handkerchief, for those of us non-math majors.
I loved to iron the handkerchiefs. They were smaller than a bed sheet, by a long shot, and the fabric was thin enough that a steam iron could whip those little hankies into flat squares in no time. I'd iron the whole thing, then fold them over once, iron, then fold once more, and VOILA! Ready to use, done! And I was half a nickel richer with each hot little square that topped the pile.
I'd stack them up and "see my work, " which is a really good thing to be able to do when you are working and want to see what you've done. Then I'd count how many I had ironed, write it down on my "bill," and carry the load of cleanly washed, ironed, and lovingly folded hankies to Pop's bedroom.
I was being a "contributing member of the household." I also had enough money to go to Woolworth's for a bagful of sugar-babies.
On that very cold February morning, when I was twenty-four and Pop left this earth, I held on to his silver and turquoise bolo tie. He had worn it almost daily. I wrapped the leather strands of his tie around my fingers, held on to it, as I wanted to hold on to him, and realized that I could not.
The things I have today that were my father's are this bolo tie, which I wear as a pendant, his ring, which I hope will someday be a treasure for my son, a cereal bowl that is broken past use, his feet, his laugh, his facial structure, and that drawer full of handkerchiefs which I refused to allow to be donated or given to "needy folks."
Pop has been with me every day of my life, whispering in my ear the right things to do. I cannot count the number of times I've turned to my right shoulder and said, aloud and clearly, "I hear you, Pop," when he counseled me, led me, or especially when I have heard his very words come out of my own mouth. I hear his phraseology, his Iowa verbiage or quips:"Purd n'ear," or, "Tend to your own knittin'!" (And when I know I have done a wrong thing, I've heard him whisper,"I am ashamed of you, Kimmy.") "I hear you, Pop," I say to him, no matter what I've heard him say.
I also know he is near when he comforts me. He left me his handkerchiefs, just for that purpose, after all.
Most of the hankies are white, some stained, some plaid, some have the letter P or N embroidered in a corner, and some are just thinly worn-out. The pile probably counts to twenty, and during sieges of flu or colds, that pile has shown up in its entirety in my laundry room.
I have a special drawer for Pop's hankies, and when the wash comes up all clean and shiny, those hankies are placed, "rotating stock," back into that drawer. They have to last me for a lifetime, you see.
Yesterday Randy and I took a hike in our Metro Parks. As we were a fourth of the way into our one-mile walk, I reached into my coat pocket for Pop's hankie, and it was missing. Without skipping a beat, I did an about-face and walked at break-neck speed, retracing our steps, back to the car where the missing hankie turned up. All the while I was saying "I cannot lose Pop's hankie." I continued my breathless trot with poor Randy following along, redoing his hiking challenge steps to appease his idiosyncratic wife.
The value of the handkerchief, sentimentally, became obvious to my husband, and also worth mentioning, and here you are, now, knowing this!
How alone I would have felt, without Pop's handkerchiefs! As I raised my children and worried over them, the hankies wiped fevers and tied back my hair on truly overwrought days. Soaked in cold water and tied to my wrists on summer days in a home with no air conditioning, they cooled my blood and let me keep on with housework. They dried my nose for a thousand cold and allergy attacks. Stuffed under my pillow or in my bathrobe pocket, they were the most dependable comfort, and the best dryer-of- tears I had.
Over the past four and a half years since my much-loved son, only thirty, died, those handkerchiefs have been well-used, well-washed, reused, returned to the drawer, "rotated stock," recycled, rewashed, reused, and re-rotated-stock many times over. I have felt them to represent the caring, very present, comforting "hands" of my much-loved father, wiping my tears and guiding me through this hideous path of grief.
"Thanks, Pop," I 've said, too many times to count, as the hankies have been dropped down the laundry chute or stuffed back into a pocket.
Love never dies, I've learned. Neither, really, do the loved ones. Sometimes the love comes as a thought in my head, or a fragrance in the air. Sometimes it's in the patient listening of a friend. Sometimes love shows up in the form of an old worn handkerchief.
copyright: KP Gillenwater
