It appears I jumped the gun when I submitted my column about handkerchiefs two weeks ago. There is much more to say about the subject. You may recall I wrote about purchasing so many cellophane-wrapped hankies, my husband had rolled his eyes. Some had Get Well or Happy Birthday embroidered on them, but he knew most were to be included in sympathy cards and was worried we would have occasion to use all of them.
     My husband must have been psychic. Only two days later, we received a call from his uncle. I thought he was calling about our upcoming trip to Florida when we were to visit him and his wife Mary. Alas, Uncle Bob was calling with bad news. Mary had passed away.
     Thanks to the good folks at Northwest Airlines, we were able to change our flight and arrive in time for the memorial service. "Don’t forget to bring your handkerchief," a friend had reminded me before I left home. I grabbed a couple for Mary’s daughters, plus a few extras for her daughter-in-law and granddaughters.
     At the church, I gave each of them a flowered hankie, telling them the story of how my friend had done the same for me at my own mother’s funeral.
     Mom, a handkerchief devotee, would have been pleased I remembered to pack one of the birthday hankies, too. Another reason for our trip to Florida was to have dinner with my youngest sister, honoring her 50th birthday.
     When we finished celebrating the life of my husband’s aunt and my sister’s big day, we relaxed at a hotel on Marco Island—the first time in over 10 years we had nothing to do but rest and eat. And eat we did. Every night we perched on stools at a granite-topped counter skirting the kitchen of our hotel’s swanky restaurant. From our front row seats, we were privy to every chop, sauté and flourish. We were even able to talk with the food staff. One of the chefs shared with me that he has carried a handkerchief in his pocket for over 15 years. You see, the subject of the fine cotton square is one of never-ending proportion and knows no geographic boundary.
     It continued after I returned home. Waiting in my mailbox was an email from a Town Pages reader, Mr. Hal Haley, another person in our little city who has embraced the art of the handkerchief. Mr. Haley charmed me with the story of his first grade teacher, Mrs. Button, who conducted daily inspections to ensure the boys in her class had clean fingernails and clean handkerchiefs.
     Seventy-five years later, Mr. Haley still carries a handkerchief in his pocket. He prefers ones with color which are so hard to find, he wrote, he has to buy them on the Internet. I checked out the website, www.giftwagon.com. The company offers one type embroidered with the user’s initial. They wouldn’t suit Mr. Haley, though: too boring. I’ll bet he appreciates the plaid variety.
     Those are the ones I should buy for my husband. He doesn’t fancy any of the freshly laundered, nicely ironed, plain white pocket squares I’ve piled in his dresser drawer. Maybe he wants something with a little pizzazz, too.
     Thanks for the heads-up, Mr. Haley. Stay tuned—I don’t think we’ve heard the end of the handkerchief story.