A few years ago, an elderly friend, of mine, gave me a stack of vintage ladies handkerchiefs. They are so beautiful and delicate. I would never dream of actually using one to blow my nose, even though I do use cloth hankies. They are just too pretty. Those beautiful handkerchiefs have been stored away in my dresser drawer until this morning. I took them out, spread them over the bed and began to wonder about the ladies who owned them before myself.
Who were these ladies? Were the handkerchiefs used for their intended purpose or simply as a stylish accessory? Which one was tucked up into a sleeve, as was the way back in the day, waiting for the lady to take it out to dry an eye? How many Sunday sermons have these handkerchiefs heard? What about that precious little lace handkerchief? So delicate, I can't imagine it being used on a runny nose! I bet it was one that was dropped, "accidentally", to get the attention of a handsome young man.
Each handkerchief has it's own story. Whether it is something like a wedding, used by the Mother of the Bride, to dab happy tears, or a funeral of a beloved family member, where tears of grief flowed uncontrollably, each handkerchief has a story to tell.
I decided the handkerchiefs need to be displayed so they can share their beauty and perhaps, a silent story. I starched and ironed each one. Ironing always takes me back to simpler days and this time was no different. As I stood there ironing and listening to old Southern Gospel on the radio, I imagined my great-grandmother - a true woman of God - doing her weekly chore of laundry, by hand, hanging it on the clothesline and once dry, standing for hours ironing. So much work but done with such love for her family. I imagined, she would pick up one of her pretty handkerchiefs - not her every day handkerchief that she used to wipe snotty noses and skinned knees. No not those. Although, those were beautiful as well as sturdy, the one she picked up was the special one. The one reserved for Sunday School. The only one worthy of being used in the house of the Lord. The one that matches her only Sunday dress. The one her Mama gave to her on her wedding day. I imagined that she would lay in out on the ironing board, sprinkle it with water, and gently iron the wrinkles out. Perhaps, while she ironed, she too thought back to times gone by. Maybe she remembered the day she got married or the day her sweet Mama was laid to rest. Or she might have been thinking about the coming Sunday, when there would be a potluck dinner on the church grounds. As her thoughts flooded her mind, she would fold the delicate square of fabric and place it in the top drawer of her bureau, where it would rest until the next Church service or special occasion.
As I daydreamed, all the handkerchiefs were ironed but I didn't fold them. I laid them out, in a pleasing pattern, and began sewing them together. Not machine sewing. Only sewing them by hand would do. Partly because of their age and delicate fabric but mostly because that is how it would have been done when the handkerchiefs were brand new. These precious pieces deserved the gentlest stitches. Maybe not the straightest or the smallest but hand sewn, none the less. Before long, I had just what I intended.
A pretty little table topper for my small bathroom table. Each handkerchief showing off her pretty colors. Some practically brand new while some a bit more stained and tattered.
As I sat on the floor, admiring these pretty ladies of the past, I bid my nostalgic daydream, goodbye. Who knows where the next one will lead. Or what will trigger the memory. Perhaps, the next time I will embark on an adventurous daydream or maybe I will slip off, back to those simple times, once again. Wherever I go, I will be sure to share the journey.
Grace & Peace,
Pam
