Baby boomers will be the
last to mourn the death of the hanky. Our kids and grandkids will think of the hanky
only as a disgusting relic of a time past when mothers and fathers were unaware
of the best science on germ transfer. Too bad for them, because although
hankies surely were an effective vehicle of transmission for all things germy
and yucky, they were so much more.
They were a symbol of a father’s
love, sacrifice, presence—and a kind of paternal dignity.
Even those pre-Phil Donahue,
pre-Oprah fathers who found it difficult or unseemly to express verbally their
love and willingness to sacrifice for their children were willing to have their
omnipresent hankies filled with the blood, sweat, tears, and snot of their
children. Their hankies, kept always close to their hearts, were brought out
during times of trial.
When a feverish little girl sneezed
out a germ-infested glob of snot, Dad didn’t recoil in revulsion. In a
nanosecond, his hanky was there wiping away all signs of illness.
When an uncoordinated daughter stood
waiting for the high fly pitch, linguini arms extended for an eternity, only to
have the ball defy the laws of physics and land unceremoniously on her head,
Dad had his hanky ready to wipe away tears of humiliation.
When an adventurous daughter
face-planted during a bench-hopping race in Yellowstone Park at 6:00 a.m. one
summer morning, Dad scooped her up, covered her bloody face with his hanky, and
walked a block whistling the ear-piercing emergency whistle that only dads can
do, hoping that Mom would understand and come screeching back with the car.
And when his beloved wife—my
mom--died far too young, his hanky was there to wipe my tears—and his own.
So integral have hankies been in his
life that at 87 years old, he just had a hanky-related epiphany. Recovering
from a bad cold, he told me in a voice tinged with shame and amusement that he
had run out of both clean hankies and that poor substitute, Kleenex, and had
used toilet paper to wipe his nose. He laughed at the absurd image.
Don’t tell him, but I cried. My dad
and his hanky won’t always be here.
