Recently, I watched a man pull a nicely folded white handkerchief from his back pocket. I can’t remember what he used it for, but it impressed me. I shared the moment with my husband, who sees no reason to carry one of the nicely ironed white squares that languish in his sock drawer. He does not adhere to my belief that a gentleman carries a handkerchief.
     What if we want to sit on a park bench and smooch? Shouldn’t he lay down a clean handkerchief before I sit, in case there is dirt or a splinter? If we attend a funeral or wedding and I get misty-eyed, shouldn’t he offer a handkerchief so I may dab at my tears? Even better, he might gently pat away my sadness, all the while saying, "There, there, dearest."
     My mother never went anywhere without a handkerchief. Women of her generation believed no outfit was appropriately accessorized without a hankie. When Mom passed away, I inherited her collection. Some were bright colored geometric prints; many were white linen with pale flowers embroidered along the hem. Others had a
     long-stemmed flower or tiny bouquet in one corner.
     Mom purchased many hankies downtown at Young-Quinlan Department Store where a saleswoman stood behind the polished counter ready to display whichever one caught Mom’s fancy. I could never have chosen just one; they were the most beautiful pieces of fabric I had ever seen and I wanted every one for myself.
     Growing up Catholic in the 1950s and 60s, I was required to wear a hat, or some form of head covering, in church. Chapel veils were designed for this purpose. Made of white or black lace, the size of a yarmulke, the chapel veil counted as a hat. Many times I forgot my chapel veil and my mother would slip a hanky from her purse and bobby-pin it to the top of my head.
     I had forgotten about handkerchiefs until my mother passed away. At her funeral, I laid my purse in the pew and met my family in front for the closing of the casket. When I returned to my place, someone had left an envelope with my name on it. Inside was a sympathy card. And a handkerchief. One so pretty, Mom would have been pleased.
     Since then, more times than I want to remember, I have purchased handkerchiefs to enclose with sympathy cards. They are difficult to find, but the finest selection has been at Primrose gift shop right here in Rosemount. Some are embroidered with a lovely sentiment. Others are stitched with beautiful flowers.
     When a friend told me last week that Primrose will soon close, I made a beeline for the store and purchased most of the remaining handkerchiefs. I showed the neatly folded stack to my husband. He seemed surprised by how many I had bought and said he hopes I wouldn’t need them all.
     They’re not only for unhappiness, I said, proffering one with a "Happy Birthday" adornment. That’s the thing about tears, I explained. Whether they’re of sadness or joy, they require a hanky. Like the one my friend gave me for Mother’s Day. White linen edged with lovely lace, too pretty to get near a nose, it’s a perfect match for any outfit.
     It will come in handy when I mourn the loss of Primrose, a tiny treasure trove of gorgeous gifts. And perfect hankies.