The Rag Hankie

 She had been at her mother's home for almost three weeks. She had cried and she had laughed. Some of the things her mother saved made her chuckle like roll after roll of toilet paper, but then others made her so very sad. Like when she found the shoes, socks and lunch pail of her five year old sister that she had never met all neatly stored in the back of a bottom cupboard. Her mother had fallen and was now in the nursing home where she worked. She had sorted her mother's things into a keep pile, a throw away pile and a sell pile. She hated to sell anything of her mother's, but she had no choice. Her brother was better and had been transferred to a condo near by the hospital where he was recuperating until the time where he could travel home by plane. She was still worried about him, but she knew he had good care. His daughter and wife were with him and they called on a regular basis. She thought of the last picture she had of her mother. It was on her 90th birthday celebration. Oh she loved the presents that day.

 She had made decision after decision with no sounding board other than talking to herself to see if she was making the right ones. She smiled a sad smile when she handed the keys to the man that had purchased her parents' home. As she walked out the door into the cold cold weather she saw the brown and barren looking rose garden of her mother's. Then she grinned remembering the day her dad had mowed off all of her rose bushes. "My goodness my mom could get noisy when she was upset," she thought. But all had turned out well when the next spring the roses had more than doubled in blooms. Dad was out of the doghouse once again.

As she got in her car to make the long trip to her own home the tears started as she knew they would. Her mother had lived in this mobile home for thirty years. So many memories. She reached into her sweater pocket and grabbed something to wipe away the tears. Then tears came streaming down her face. She had saved on purpose a "rag hankie" for a keepsake. Rag hankies were from the farm. For some reason her mother had saved some. These tears would probably be the last tears this little soft piece of material would dry, but she thought it was fitting. She smiled as she turned onto the interstate. She could just see her mama now tearing up those old sheets. Someday she would tell her children the story of before Kleenex, but she stored it in her mind for now. She had a family to get home to and a mother to check on. She was back to work in a couple of days. Work. "I wonder if any of my residents had rag hankies. I bet they did." She loved the folks that lived there. She would encourage her mother to attend a small group. Reminiscing was so much fun for both young and old. Maybe she would enjoy talking about the old days. She hoped so. 

She thought about those rag hankies and thought, "I have never torn up a sheet in my life. I've cut them for dust cloths at one time or another, but mom's sheets were absolutely beat to death on the clothes line nine months out of the year. She boiled water for her laundry. The white clothes came first and of course, in those days the sheets were always white. They were agitated in her old wringer washer that always leaked oil, then wrung out as dry as possible between two wringers. Then hung up outside where often the wind would beat the wrinkles almost out. They were never soft but were put in the "ironing basket" and ironed along with most other things.  In her mind's eye she could see the clothes pin bag on the line, her mother's mouth full of clothes pins and basket after basket of wet clothes waiting their turn to get hung on the line. In the winter time her dad hung clothes line rope in the dining room. On wash days we dodged the wet clothes. We always ate in the kitchen except when company came, so it wasn't a big deal, but with only a space heater in that room it took a long long time for those overalls to dry. "Rag hankies were the very first thing I ever got to iron on my little ironing board. I had a little iron that barely got warm. I soon graduated to ironing my dad's farm hankies then his going to church handkerchiefs. They had to be folded just right so they would fit in his suit jacket pocket.

"Oh, I remember learning how to hem material on those rag hankies. Yuk! I never had the patience or the mind set to do things perfectly like you mom. You always said, 'the underside has to look as good as the top side.' In my way of thinking who cares what the underneath looks like no one is ever going to see it. I made sure I told my mother it made no difference and she quickly changed my mind with "the look."  I think my mom learned that "look" from her father. My grandma was sweet and a tender loving woman. I wonder what wash days were like for her and her mother. I never heard any stories about that from Mom or Grandma. It was probably hard work; even harder than mom's wash days were. I can't even imagine.

This is the last picture of my mother. It was taken at Shalom in Overland Park, Kansas. The complex where I worked and watched over her. It was shortly after her 90th birthday. My brother and his wife, my daughter and I all got to help her celebrate. I'll never forget how much she enjoyed her gifts. When they had all been opened she turned to me and said "More?" That was the chuckle of the day. That was our mom and grandma forever in our hearts and memories.