You Should Carry a Handkerchief

John-John had a smile for everyone.

That’s why he was a natural church greeter. He would ask your name when he met you at the door and handed you the church bulletin. What’s more, he would greet you by name the next time he saw you. If he met your family, he would ask about each of them as well. He never forgot.

He was impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit, with a bright satin tie to match the season. He always carried a snowy white handkerchief in his left hand because he used his right hand for shaking hands with parishioners.

His radiant smile required some attention, however. He had a tendency to drool when he got engaged in conversation. That handkerchief was to wipe his mouth when he got reminded.

During the coffee hour after church, I’d see his father, Dr. England, murmur his name and make a sipping sound. John would comply and wipe his mouth with his handkerchief.

Considering how social John-John was, I wondered how that handkerchief remained so pristine.

The Handkerchiefs

I got my answer when I saw his father pull another handkerchief from the breast pocket of his own suit. He handed it to John-John and said, “Pocket.” The used one would go into the teenager’s trouser pocket. I wondered how many spares were ready for a day’s outing.

When a child is born with special needs, it’s easy to discount the other gifts they inherit. John-John’s incredible memory for names was one of them.

His grandfather had been a minister, and his dad a doctor of internal medicine. John-John had an incredible bedside manner and a keen eye for detail. He could record the sights, sounds, and tastes of any moment he had witnessed.

15 Years Later

I saw John-John and his father years later at a church gathering. I think we had an evening lesson where we sang as well. I had joined a different church by then, and our two Episcopal churches were feeling the effects of our dwindling congregations (St. Philips and St. Pauls on the Hill).

Since this was a casual meeting, father and son wore patterned sweaters against the winter chill.

John-John recognized me immediately and greeted me by name. “Margie, How are you doing?”

After saying a brief hello, his father floated away to talk to other parishioners.

“I’m okay, John-John. It so great to see you. How are you?”

“Fine, fine. What have you been doing?”

“Well, I got married. I’ve got two kids now. I’m still in the choir, like your dad.”

He had bits of gray in his hair, but I would have recognized his smile anywhere. He still held a white handkerchief in his hand and another peeked out from his front pocket.

He asked about my mother and my sisters who he knew, but not my brothers that he had never seen. I filled him in on the details to keep the conversation going.

“John-John, I am so surprised you remember me. It’s been years.”

He got really excited when I said this, which meant that a story was coming.

“The last time I saw you was at the St. Philips ice cream social.”

The Ice Cream Social

“Oh yes. It was so hot.” I’d forgotten that.

The entire afternoon came back. A humid summer day. The gypsy fortune teller wilting in her tent.

“We ate an ice cream cone together,” John-John reminded me.

“That’s right, we did. I remember the vanilla. What was the other flavor?”

“Strawberry. You asked me to help you because it was melting.”

The elderly woman serving ice cream was drenched with sweat. She asked me if I would like some ice cream and told me if I just said yes, she could clean up and go. She’d been at her station the whole afternoon and was down to the last two 5-gallon buckets.

I got a quadruple scoop of ice cream goop. I did my best, but the ice cream was running down my elbows.

“Help. I can’t eat all this,” I called out. Only John-John came to my rescue.

I moved us off the sidewalk and onto the grass. He slurped that mess down to nothing. I remember squealing in surprise when his tongue reached around the corner and slid all the way up.

“We finished it. That was so much fun.” He said each word with punctuation.

His dad had come over with a fresh handkerchief and wiped his son down. He took the one John-John had loaned me and stuffed it in that front trouser pocket. I wanted to go inside and rinse, but his father had it all in hand.

Pockets of Precious Recollections

Eating that cone took less than five minutes, but it was a precious recollection that would have been lost to me, had I not seen John-John again.

““John-John, that is so incredible that can you remember all that?”

“You remember everything. Don’t you, son?” Dr. England had come back as seamlessly as he had left.

“Yes,” John-John said with pride.

“Dr. England, I’ve never had anyone remember me like that.”

“It’s his special gift, isn’t John-John?”

“Yup.”

John-John was his own kind of healer.

“Let’s go visit the other people. Nice to see you again. God be with you.”

I probably responded, “and God be with you, as well,” but I don’t recall.

I had just received spiritual surgery and Dr. England was checking my vitals before returning to his rounds with the other patients. He was a man of deep faith, who had found a niche for his special needs son to use his unique gift.

The reassurance that I was not forgotten filled me with gratitude that winter evening. How absurdly wonderful that a melting ice cream cone would restore my faith of my place in the world.

And remind me that handkerchiefs aren’t just for tears.

***

Margie Pearl writes memoir and fiction. This is her recollection of the remarkable parishioners of St. Philips Black Episcopal Church.