It’s the little things in life …
There is no International “Day of the Handkerchief” and, after all the good they provide, perhaps it’s about time we change that
Many years ago, I was introduced to handkerchiefs by a good friend of mine. For me, a child of the 90s, they were a relic of the past along with corduroy pants and the wool berets of “old-fashioned people” (that is, people over 75). Point in case, my friend (the handkerchief fan) was a WW II kid who was eager to preach their usefulness. Instead of using commercial paper tissue that destroys the planet (and your wallet), “you blow your nose and then put it back in your sleeve,” he said, demonstrating, with the red cotton piece hanging off of his wrist.
Despite my strong convictions to do the right thing for the environment, I remained skeptical of handkerchiefs, thinking they were things out of Charles Dickens’ stories—until about a decade ago when a toilet-paper drama morphed into a lesson in humility.
A group of paddler friends and myself were at the Bettles Ranger Station and Visitor Center in the Gates of the Arctic National Park and Preserve, in Alaska, about to embark on a month-long canoe trip. We were summoned to a backcountry orientation session (all of us experienced trippers). The park ranger, assisted by educational slides, lectured us about the animals and plants we would surely encounter during our trip—bears, birds and bull moose.
The dutiful young woman “pushed it” with one slide, illustrating the correct way to poop in the park: you must fully squat and bury the offending material. She then handed us various promotional knick–knacks. At that point, she was severely testing everyone’s patience. I grabbed one of the knick-knacks (a sticker of some sort) and left the building. It’s only while we were all walking away from the visitor centre that I noticed others with their new orange hankies. This was one of the knick-knacks I had turned up my nose at.
On the very first day of the trip, I came down with a benign cold that turned my nostrils into Niagara Falls. With a foggy brain, I went for my toilet-paper stash, having nothing else to blow my nose into. After a few days of this arrangement, my toilet-paper stash was not only depleted, but it would also not last the entire trip (uh-oh!). Because the trip was long (four weeks) and remarkably remote, we had a satellite phone with us, to stay in touch with loved ones. We had set-up a system where we would phone one person, once a week, who, in turn, would relay our news to our contact person. For me, this was my dad.
So when it came to our weekly call, I joked with our call person—a friend’s wife—about asking my dad for a toilet-paper airdrop. The message was relayed. A few days later, on the river, a float plane approached our group, circling above us at a low altitude for several minutes. Eventually, the pilot landed the plane about 200 metres from us, on the river.
“Someone died,” muttered my paddling partner. As we paddled closer, the pilot got out on the plane pontoon, struck a pose and waited for us.
“My dad sent toilet paper,” I whispered to myself, speculating and flabbergasted at the possibility of it all.
“Are you the overdue group?” asked the pilot, now within earshot. No we weren’t, and nobody was dead. Nor was this a toilet-paper delivery. Although we were concerned people might be missing on the river, the pilot was optimistic that he would spot them later. Before he departed, a friend asked (to spare me the embarrassment) if he had toilet paper in his plane. “Oh yeah, I sure do,” he said as he pulled out two full rolls.
At that moment, I realized two things: you can rely on bush pilots for toilet paper, and a certain orange handkerchief would have prevented this pickle.
From that trip onward, I never travelled without a handkerchief. In the wilderness of the Yukon, they clean my face and remove sunscreen from my skin. In hot climates, they get soaked in cold water and cool down my head. Even on a recent trip to Montreal, having caught the “flight flu,” my handkerchief saved me from carrying two metric tonnes of paper tissue in my carry-on.
There is no International “Day of the Handkerchief” and, after all the good they provide, perhaps it’s about time we change that.
