Noses and handkerchiefs

I have her nose. Not a cute button nose but a prominent, slightly bulbous, utilitarian nose, designed to detect the ripeness of fresh fruit, the danger of rotten fish and the urgency of soiled diapers. That nose can catch of whiff of baking bread from the factory three miles away. It retains its ability to taste food during the worst colds.

It drips a lot.

Fluids gather from mysterious caves around and above the eyes and, like the shallow rivers of Flanders, make a slow continuous journey toward the outer edge of the nostril where they must be caught before falling onto our food, newspaper or - God forbid - the collection plate during Sunday service.

Margo always carried a large cotton handkerchief.

She kept a big stack of them, ironed and pressed in the small cabinet in a corner of the dining room. Every few years, she'd buy a new dozen from a linen salesman at the market, but I always liked the old handkerchiefs better. Worn to the thickness of tissue paper, they held the permanent scent of the laundry detergent that Margo used and they had become soft from many boilings in the Monday laundry (the day for whites).

For Margo, the handkerchief was an all purpose tool. Not only would it catch drips from her nose or any other family nose (she felt entitled to pinch any kid's nose at any moment and demand a strong blowing action), but it could also be used to spit-clean dirty faces, to bandage scraped knees, to protect from the sun (tied around the neck or worn over the head with a knot at each of the corners), to carry berries, leaves, flowers, rocks and assorted treasures gathered on family trips, to protect lunch from the filth of a public picnic table, to wipe soot, tears, grease, dirt, and anything else she deemed needed to be wiped away from this world.

I haven't used a cloth handkerchief in years. I don't even think I could find any in the US. The other day I wiped my nose on the sleeve of my T-shirt. A terrible thing to do. I could feel Margo frowning from above.