Handkerchief

Handkerchief

by | Jun 18, 2022 | Thoughts

My father had a sneeze that would wake the dead.

You could hear it from a quarter mile away on a clear day, and if you happened to be indoors in the same room–say, church or a crowded restaurant–people jumped, waiters startled, and small children clung to their mama’s necks at the sound. He used to joke that he tried to keep it in once, but it blew his eyeballs out, which was what enabled him to do his favorite dad illusion of popping an eye out, swishing it around in his mouth and popping it back in, a feat that equally fascinated and horrified his grandchildren. “Do it again!” they’d cry, trying to ferret out the trick.

He was liberal with the black pepper, which would reliably get him going with at least three or four deafening AAAA-chooo!!’s in a row. Alert family members could see it coming, like the slight tremors before a richter-scale quake. He’d pat his pockets, tilting in his seat for better reach, remove his glasses, and finally, with a flourish, whip out a handkerchief to try to contain the blast.

That handkerchief was one of the staples of my father’s wardrobe. He’d grown up in the 40’s and 50’s, when adults still wore hats to go into town and women dressed like Jackie O for an afternoon of bridge. Back then, it was common for young men to carry a handkerchief. Manners mattered, and sniffles, sneezes, or coughs were not meant to be shared with your neighbor. Also, if you happened to be a gentleman, it behooved you to have one on hand to offer a lady, should she cry in your presence (or, heaven forbid, because of it).

My father’s was a plain white cotton Fruit of the Loom variety, nothing fancy. I, of course, didn’t know him in the days before his fatherhood, so I can’t vouch for his use of it in wooing the fairer sex. As a father of five, however, uses for his handkerchief were endless. It became like Hogwarts’ Room of Requirement, materializing for whatever need arose, and there were many.

He used it for wiping toddlers’ tears and held it over our drippy noses, teaching us how to blow. He brandished it when we’d fall off a bike or out of a tree, a dampened corner dabbing at scrapes and scratches. It was handy for fishing: with fingers slippery from handling worms, a handkerchief in your grip helped remove a hook from the mouth of a crappie or bluegill. Once, when I stepped barefoot on a rusty nail protruding from a discarded board, the handkerchief staunched my blood en route to get a tetanus shot.

He worked his way through stacks of them. They started crisp and white, creased from the package, and by the time they were retired, they were marked with all manner of stains, likely riddled with holes, and sported more of a chalky gray hue. Stacked in a section of his sock drawer, they were arranged according to use: those decent enough for church, work, or more formal occasions, a used but not yet decrepit section, and then those on their way out, one oil change away from the trash bin.

I remember my father mowing the lawn on sweltering summer afternoons, pushing the old red mower in tidy rows back and forth across the St. Augustine grass. He’d pause every three or four passes and his right hand would whip a handkerchief out of his back pocket. He’d mop the sweat from his neck and face and soldier on. It would come out again when trimming the shrubs, leaning over a car engine, or painting a deck. Any outside activity was a surefire case for a handkerchief. If sawdust from a building project wasn’t generating that frightful sneeze, he could always use it to doctor the constant nicks and injuries from keeping a house and yard in tip-top shape.

If we ever found ourselves in want of a last-minute gift for a birthday or father’s day, the standby was a package of pressed handkerchiefs, monogrammed or plain, from the nearest men’s department. The shelves were always stocked full of them. I imagine they weren’t so much in demand as they once were in his day, times giving way to less practical things like silk pocket squares whose only use is to match a fancy necktie.

As I got older and moved out, I saw my father’s handkerchief less often, but in the days after my mother’s funeral, it was a constant presence. Home for that week, I’d look out behind the house to find my father walking out into the trees, a flash of white catching my eye as he hung his head and wiped his eyes, his grief a private thing with the woods his only audience. He’d straighten up and take a big breath before heading back towards the house, busy with people and casseroles, tucking his handkerchief back in its rightful place, no one, he thought, the wiser. What that simple piece of cloth must have witnessed, what depths of emotion it must have absorbed.

As the years passed, I’m certain he had more moments like those, hidden tears that come with the scourges of age: loss, worry, pain. The ultimate honor for a gentleman’s handkerchief, however, is not in service to self, but in offering aid to others. He used it to quickly catch a grandchild’s spit up and clean little fingers sticky from a popsicle. When collecting acorns or hickory nuts, it made a handy apron for a small child to carry treasures. It was ideal for wiping a damp golf cart seat to let a grandkid slide in beside him.

In the past couple of years, when I’d stop by his house to do my father’s laundry, I marveled at the number of handkerchiefs he still had. He’d been steadily giving away items for some time, downsizing to the essentials. His drawer still had unopened packages of new handkerchiefs. In his 80’s, he didn’t go through them as fast as he used to, fewer home projects, little grandkids all grown. Before his funeral, I raided my father’s handkerchief drawer. Each of his children and grandchildren, brothers, nieces, and nephews all held one during our last goodbyes. It seemed appropriate somehow, his last gentlemanly act of generosity for us all. Familiar with the fickle ways of grief, it felt to me he’d known how tears can arise at the oddest moments and had kept on hand the faithful squares to proffer.

I’ve kept that handkerchief nearby for the past seven months. I had it on hand a lot at first, like a security blanket, when bursting into tears at Costco, canceling a magazine subscription, or finding yet another piece of mail addressed to him in my mailbox. It definitely came in handy recently at my daughter’s graduation, my son’s wedding, and after receiving copies of my recently published book in the mail, all milestones I wish he’d been here to see.

This Father’s Day will be the first without my father, and I’m keeping his handkerchief in my pocket. You never know when a whiff of pepper might set you off, and I’m kind of partial to my eyeballs.

High Dive

High Dive

by | Jun 13, 2017 | Thoughts

diving practice in the backyard

For a couple of magical years when I was very young, we had a house with a pool in Florida. I remember clear blue water and palm trees. My older sisters practiced diving off the board while I made up mermaid games in the shallow end and my toddler brother tried his hardest to drown. My father spent hours in the summer bobbing along the perimeter, sometimes in a mask and snorkel, scrubbing algae off the concrete sides. The family’s oasis, to him, was a chore-inducing money pit and he couldn’t wait to move.

After we changed addresses, summer in the mid-70’s meant casting our lot with the unwashed masses in the public pool where someone else was responsible for algae patrol. The older sisters still practiced diving, but now they sashayed to the board with groups of friends, laughing and glancing at the lifeguards. They most certainly did not want to entertain younger siblings and made sure to remain in the unapproachable deep end, beyond the dividing rope.

Mermaid games did not go as smoothly when strange kids were doing cannonballs right next to you or knocking you in the face with their water wings. Occasionally, my father would let my brother and me stand on his shoulders as a prelude to launching us airborne for a few breathless seconds as we screamed at mom “watch me! watch me!” He lured us into peeking inside his cupped hand to see a caught crab, before squeezing his palms shut and jetting water into our surprised faces. He’d tolerate us clambering on him like baby monkeys, clinging to his back and head, shrieking with laughter and trying to push one another off until one of us got hurt and went crying to mom.

Relaxing poolside did not come naturally to my father, who could not rid himself of the mental to-do list that went undone while time frittered away. He took his work and responsibilities with a seriousness that clung to him even on days off. Which is why the summer of his high dive remains clear as a bell.

My mother must have tired of his nail biting and glancing at the giant clock by the concession stand. She’d managed to finagle all five of us into swimsuits and sunscreen, pack all manner of snacks, shoes, towels, and toys into the station wagon, and park us in chairs strategically located near the restrooms. She was not about to leave early with her tired, hungry brood just because he needed to organize the garage. She must have sent him out to the deep end with exasperation to have some fun for crying out loud so she could read in peace.

Like my sisters, everyone at the pool watched the older boys jump off the high dive, trying to outdo each other with bravado. After a particularly fancy flip or an unfortunate slap of a belly landing, an audible gasp or appreciative “oooh” could be heard from the lounge chairs. This of course only egged them on. My father swam long, smooth laps in the deep end, his thin 6’1 frame cutting a handsome swath through the lane. Not so many years ago he would have been leading similar shenanigans with his friends, grinning at the girls in bikinis as he clowned and performed.

I watched as he pulled himself out of the pool by the metal ladder, made scalding hot by the summer sun. He adjusted his trunks and strolled casually towards the steps of the high dive. He glanced at my mother. Her head was bent over the latest Michener novel and her large dark glasses masked any indication that she was aware of his intent.

The crowd of teenage boys parted like the Red Sea as he approached, some fifteen years their senior.  A couple of them snickered behind his back as he started the climb.  Some kid kept dunking and retrieving his ball in front of my face until I finally grabbed it and threw it out onto the concrete. I searched for my trio of sisters, who had stopped giggling and stood aghast with their friends, eyes on the high dive.

He’d reached the top. The high dive was no man’s land for me. I was a good swimmer but could not abide the stares and comments from the gaping audience of the public pool. I was skinny and flat-chested and at that awkward stage where my face hadn’t yet caught up with my teeth. The limelight was off limits. I’d never seen my father up there before.

He took his time. The boys waiting at the bottom were all elbows and ribs, flipping their wet hair and breathing hard while my father stood at the edge of the board, his toes barely hanging off. Then he turned around. A back flip? Instead, he walked a few paces towards the ladder, and my heart sank. He’d chickened out and was heading for the exit. More snickers from the youth below.

He stopped and sat, his back to the water, and scooted backwards with his legs straight out in front of him until his backside just brushed the edge of the board.  Carefully, he rose, making sure his feet remained stationary.  Now he was standing with his back to the water, about halfway between the ladder and the board’s edge.  He glanced backwards a few times, straightening and adjusting his feet.

My mother had raised her head.  Michener’s pages lay in her lap, the edges soaking up the baby oil she used for tanning.

One of the older boys below grasped the ladder and goaded, “Come on!” Even from that height I could see the smirk on my father’s face as he let himself fall backwards.  He landed squarely on his backside, his legs straight and flat on the board. The board dipped with the force of his weight and he tipped backwards off the edge, flipping in a perfect 360-V before hitting the water.

He resurfaced to whoops and cheers from the chairs.  A ’10’ for originality! The boys at the foot of the ladder cheered the loudest and he gave them a casual salute while he tread water. They’d been shown up by someone’s dad.  Astonished, my mouth hung open.  When he ducked under the dividing rope, I latched onto him with the siren song of childhood:  do it again, Dad!  Do it again!

He shook his head and swam to the side with me hanging off his shoulders. My mother had taken off her glasses and looked at him in that way that I knew meant we would be having an early bedtime after dinner, blaming it on a “long day at the pool.”  Already, boys had ascended the ladder and were attempting to copy my father’s feat, arguing with each other over how to do it right. A few of them were talking to my sisters, who were now famous by association.

It wasn’t until years later that I discovered my father’s fear of heights. Why, then, did he climb the ladder that summer? Maybe to prove to himself he could still compete with the young bucks. Maybe to show off for his bride, who couldn’t resist his big wet grin. Whatever his motivation, the result was that we were the family with that guy for the rest of the summer at the public pool. It gave us all a little boost.

And in the eyes of an awkward, shy little girl who wished she could be a mermaid, it proved that superheroes could fly.  Or at least do amazing feats off the high dive.