Ah-CHOO!

 Facial tissues, Kleenexes—whatever you call those “soft, absorbent” paper-squares-in-a- box necessities—didn’t exist in my growing up years. We had handkerchiefs (hankies), square pieces of thin cloth that we kept in pockets or purses or tucked in under a cuff as first-aid against, particularly, runny noses. Most certainly, we didn’t throw our hankies away after a single use, as we do with tissues; we used them until we could no longer find a spot on them that wasn’t stiff with congealed mucus.  

I had occasion to look up the meaning and origin of handkerchief today. The kerchief part comes from the French couvre-chef, or “head covering.” That, too, would be a square of thin cloth and women then would, indeed, cover their heads by draping a cloth over them and tying the ends together under the chin. The dictionary tells me that kerchiefs are “...often being used as a Christian head covering by men and women of the Anabaptist, Eastern Orthodox and Plymouth Brethren denominations.” I’d dispute the inclusion of men using the kerchief except that I’ve seen tattooed men on motorcycles wearing head-kerchiefs.  

I wonder who was first to blow his/her/their nose into a kerchief, thereby raising the need for hand-kerchief to make sure the two would be kept separate. Words evolve haphazardly, and to language scholars, this one (handheadcovering) illustrates a semantic absurdity. To get past the problem, my urchin friends and I dubbed it a snotrag. But then, we never folded it neatly into a lapel-pocket accessory; that would have been a snobrag, I expect.  

Then there’s the neckerchief, more commonly called a bandana. It’s one of those entirely purposeless inventions we come up with in hopes it will make us a buck. Like the necktie or brooch.  

But I’m old now and have long since switched from snotrags, by whatever name, to tissues. Now I struggle with the ever-advancing progression of technologies. For instance, I asked AI Co-pilot to find me a poem about handkerchief. Here’s what it came up with: 

GRANDMA’S HANDKERCHIEF  

Now I hold and cherish my grandma's handkerchief, 

 It holds such loving memories and helps me through my grief;  

That little square of cotton trimmed with a bit of lace,  

Ironed and neatly folded, kept in a special place. 

 

I would have reached for my handkerchief—to wipe away tears after this reminder of the grandmother who kept a drawer full of hankies which she doled out to us at Christmas—but I don’t even own one anymore. Sad. Almost as sad as this bit of clumsy doggerel. That, too, could make an old, curmudgeonly English teacher weep.  

Pass the Kleenex box, please.