Grandma's Handkerchiefs

Back when I was a child, my mother would leave me with my Grandma from time to time, while she went to work. This was usually on the days when I was sick with a fever and couldn't go to the normal baby sitter's house because everyone else would have gotten sick. Sometimes, she just dropped me off at Grandma's so I could spend some time with her. Grandma was one of my favorite family members. She is the one who instilled in me a love for cooking. She raised a garden every year, canned all the time, baked every week, fried chicken on every Sunday and when she washed her clothes it was a rare thing to see them go into an electric dryer. It didn't matter how the weather was, Grandma hung her clothes out on the line.

From time to time, I tended to hang onto her apron a bit too much, sort of getting in the way when she was trying to cook and clean. She never fussed at me because Grandma had already raised 6 children of her own and she knew the gentler ways of quieting a child. Whenever I started getting into things or talking too much for her to focus on her recipes, she'd say come with Grandma, I have something for you to play with.

This is when she'd lead me to the large wardrobe in her bedroom and pull out a small brown paper sack. She'd hand me the sack and say, "Now, you go outside and sit on the front porch and play with these. Don't lose them and don't let them get dirty". I'd grin from ear to ear and take off skipping through her living room, out the front door and climb up into the old metal glider she kept on her front porch. I'd open the sack and one by one, I'd take out these small, thin, faded and very delicate handkerchiefs. Each had its own decoration. Some were hand sewn, some were printed, some cross stitched, some embroidered, some crocheted around the edges, some were just simply a beautiful crisp solid white.

I adored my grandma's handkerchiefs. They truly kept me off of her apron long enough for her to complete her chores and cooking. They fed my imagination with their imprinted images of wild flowers and roses.

Over the years, the gift of beautifully adorned handkerchiefs became obsolete, when at one time they were one of the most common gifts a lady would receive around any holiday or event. Times sure do change and they change quickly.

(A political thought, for just a moment - I continue to hear the candidates mention that we need change. It is sad if we look at the nation with total honesty. We've already had change, much more change than we needed. I think we actually need to make a major reversal of the change that has occurred over the years and bring our lifestyles and values back to those that our Grandparents held onto and remained secure in.)

Back to the thoughts of gift giving and handkerchiefs. Nowadays, ladies get gift cards and go buy the things they want. It has been deemed more convenient for both parties involved. I don't know. I think my grandmother enjoyed receiving these little handkerchiefs as gifts much more than she'd have enjoyed a few dollars to go pick out something. I feel this way because each handkerchief is an individualized piece of art. With so many of them hand embroidered, they are one of a kind gifts. These gifts being pieces of art had something special about them that made the buyer or gift giver think about my grandmother.

I always took great pleasure in playing with Grandma's handkerchiefs. Her front porch was cozy, the glider was comfy and the handkerchiefs always had the smell of Grandma's sweet perfume.

When Grandma died, on Mother's Day in 1993, it was like a piece of the world itself had simply vanished. I remember how much pain the entire family was in at her loss. I cried so much that I broke the little blood vessels on my eyelids. I use to wear a little extra foundation just to hide the tiny red grief induced speckles on my eyes. Now, I rarely wear any make up at all. I remember when my daddy came to visit after I got out of the hospital last June. He (for the first time) noticed those speckles on my eyes. He stepped closer, looked closer, and asked, "What's wrong with your eyes?" I simply replied, "Oh, those are Grandma's imprints." He looked a little puzzled, until I explained the grief and we shared some sweet memories of her which showed him I wasn't ashamed of my marks. Then he sat back on the swing and just looked a little bit proud for the moment.

A few days after Grandma's death the family gathered at her house and began taking things. I avoided the whole thing as much as I could. It's never pretty whether the family is getting along or not, to watch as someone's things are being distributed out, sold off, boxed up and donated to thrift stores, or thrown away entirely.

So, once it was all over my mother came to visit me. She had gotten some things and took them to her house (I now have everything my mother use to own, it is another very long story). But, Mom brought me a little brown paper sack. I opened it up to find, you guessed it, my grandma's handkerchiefs.

For a long time, I'd take them out and hold them and just remember myself pulling on her apron, sitting on her porch, playing with her hankies. And even though it is gone now, I still remember the sweet lingering smell of Grandma's perfume.

Grandma's Handkerchiefs: