“You will have to manage without pocket-handkerchiefs, and a good many other things, before you get to the journey’s end.” — The Hobbit
It’s funny, the things one holds dear after a loved one dies. Pictures immortalize our loved ones for sure, but sometimes it’s those little random items that fill us with their memory most of all. Maybe it’s the person’s favorite coffee cup, or an article of clothing that they always wore. In my case, it is my dad’s cloth handkerchiefs.
Back in January, I took a trip to Louisiana to attend the wedding of a close friend. Having never been to Louisiana, I relished in the opportunity to explore an unfamiliar state, drink in new sights during the 3-hour drive to her hometown, and to spend one night in New Orleans before heading back to California. I’ve been a fan of New Orleans jazz for as long as I can remember, and I had always been fascinated by the town, with its rich history, fabulous cuisine, and dynamic musical culture.
I’m no stranger to traveling on my own, and I’m a pretty fearless traveler. However, after hearing some rather unsavory stories, along with the particularly high crime rate in New Orleans, I decided to increase my homework to prepare for the journey ahead. I learned the common hustles and scams (“I bet I can tell where you got them shoes!”), I studied the streets to steer clear of (don’t go north of Rampart after dark), and I planned to fully avoid the common “I’m a total tourist” giveaways for those who preyed on the vulnerable. Yet no matter how much research I did, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen, something inevitable. It was a vivid sensation that dampened my usual pre-travel enthusiasm.
After the wedding, having spent a glorious couple days celebrating with my friend and her lovely family, and exploring the back roads of the area, I headed toward New Orleans. My friend and her new husband were also staying in New Orleans for the night, and after we each got settled into our various hotels in the French Quarter, we planned to meet up for a night on the town. Hailing originally from Louisiana, my friend’s presence was a welcome one, as she knew the town’s ins and outs, and I felt safer knowing I would be in the presence of a native.
Alone in my hotel room, as I was getting ready for the evening, I started feeling nervous again. I had planned to bring a purse, but what about all those stories of women getting robbed? Paranoia was really getting the better of me, so it was then that I devised a foolproof way to protect the two things I needed most to travel – my money and my I.D. My plan involved two other things – my cowboy boots, and one of my dad’s handkerchiefs.
For as long as I can remember, my dad carried a handkerchief, a folded square of soft cotton that could be counted on to be in his pocket whenever he or any of his kids had a need for it. With the advent of tissues, sporting a handkerchief has become a somewhat old-fashioned thing to do, but my father always had one with him, without fail. After he died, I found 5 freshly washed handkerchiefs folded neatly in his drawer, and those 5 pieces of cloth became dearly treasured items, valuable beyond measure. I associate my dad with his handkerchiefs so much that carrying one has helped me feel like I carry his memory as well, especially when I travel. This trip was no different.
That night, I decided to wear my cowboy boots as a way to cleverly disguise an envelope containing my drivers license, credit card, and cash. I would further hide those items by them placing inside one of my knee-high socks, where I could remove them easily when needed, while concealing them from any would-be thief on the street. Since wearing a folded envelope against my calf was rather scratchy, I decide to wrap it in one of the cloth handkerchiefs. Perfection.
I left the hotel and walked to the historic Napoleon House to meet my friends for a drink and some appetizers. Our plan was to spend the evening exploring the best of all the French Quarter had to offer, so we headed north toward Bourbon Street in search of some authentic New Orleans Jazz. We hit gold soon after, and for the next 30 minutes I lived in a brass instrument-induced bliss.
For our next stop, my friend recommended Frenchman’s Street, a mellow neighborhood in the Quarter filled with blues bars and street art, as opposed to the much rowdier Bourbon Street. In the interest of time and safety, we hailed a cab and 10 minutes later arrived at what seemed to be the Haight Street of Louisiana. I felt right at home.
Before heading to our first Blues bar, we wandered through the art stalls. I paused to admire a print where one of the vendors had morphed Elvis’ head onto Han Solo’s body. Then I saw another piece with a quote from the novel Dune that went through me like an arrow. “I must not fear,” it read. “Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”
I desperately needed a reminder like this in my life. 15 bucks for some serious wisdom and an original piece of street art from New Orleans seemed like quite the bargain. So I reached into my sock to pull out my cash, and that’s when it hit me – the envelope was there, but the handkerchief was gone. My stomach sank. I hurriedly finished my purchase, looked around on the ground, went back to the street where the cab had dropped us off. It wasn’t there either. Where had I lost it? Was in it the cab, when I pulled out money for the fare? Was it at that last bar with the live music, where I’d pulled out money for the tip jar? I would have rather lost all of my cash and then some, than lose one of my dad’s few remaining handkerchiefs. I was devastated.
After returning to my friend and her husband, I explained what had happened. There was nothing that could be done if I had dropped it in cab, but we decided to go back to Bourbon Street on the off chance that I had left it in the previous bar. My friends wanted to first visit the Blues Bar and pointed me toward our new location, and even though the music was beautiful, my heart wasn’t in it at all. A previously wonderful evening had been overshadowed by the loss of a small piece of precious cotton cloth.
As I tried unsuccessfully to focus on the music, all the sadness I felt about losing my dad washed back over me. In the months since his passing, I haven’t had a really good cry. My eyes will water, but mostly it gets stuck right in my heart, a dull ache that never fully dissipates. That night, the sensation of heartbreak was more palpable than ever. I could literally feel the aching in my chest, like someone was squeezing my heart, hard.
There was nothing I could do to make it go away. At that moment, I surrendered everything I was feeling, all of the sadness that was arising, and I offered up this prayer, “Please show me the greater reason for why this happened.” And then I let it go. I heard a voice in my head say, “This will be the only thing that you lose in New Orleans.” The voice was clear and powerful.
Shortly after, we took a cab back to the first bar as promised, and although I came out empty-handed, my prayer started getting answered soon after. My friends were craving oysters from a particular restaurant, and across the street was a small outdoor plaza, where the sweet sounds of Sinatra from a live band were spilling into the street. “I’m going to go there for a while,” I told them. “Go ahead to the restaurant, and I’ll come back in a bit.” We went our separate ways, and I walked through the gates of Musical Legends Park.
Walking into the Park after the party atmosphere of Bourbon Street was like finding a Zen garden in the middle of the Wild West. A small stage graced the middle of the plaza, surrounded by tables, creating an intimate and cozy rapport between musician and patron. The 5-piece band, whose lead singer had a raspy, angelic voice, had started singing Fred Astaire’s “The Way You Look Tonight”. I bought a drink and sat close to the stage. New Orleans was experiencing a rare freeze during my visit, and the musicians were bundled up in scarves and gloves.
After a few more songs, the band took a brief break. It was bitterly cold outside, and the lead singer’s nose was running. Just then, right before my very eyes, he reached into his pocket and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket that looked exactly like the one I had lost. Although I knew it couldn’t possibly be mine, the amount of comfort it brought me was immeasurable. It seemed to be a sign that everything was okay, like maybe that missing handkerchief ended up in the right hands. At that moment, I felt incredibly grateful for this man, and decided to purchase one of the CDs that the band had for sale on a small table near the stage. Since they were between songs, I also stopped to thank them for the beautiful music.
“Do you play an instrument?” the lead singer inquired kindly, as I was walking away. “I play the piano,” I replied, “but my favorite thing to do is sing.” He looked at me curiously. “Would you like to sing a song with us?” he asked.
Those who know me well know how much I love to sing. Singing is one of my greatest joys. Just a few years back, I had been singing in a band, but when the band went their separate ways, I put singing on the back burner. After not having sung for so long, I wasn’t sure if I should say yes to his offer. Would I be rusty? Would I sound okay? Then the quote I had read earlier flashed through my mind: “I must not fear.” Without further hesitation, I told him that I would love to sing a song with them.
In the blink of an eye, I was on the stage with the band. “What song would you like to sing with us?” they asked. In keeping with their genre, I decided to sing “Moon River” from the movie “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”, a tune that I loved and knew the words to by heart. The band began to play, I began to sing, people poured in off the street to listen, and the end of the song was met with cheers and applause.
After the song was over, I thanked the band and told them that I needed to get back to my friends. They invited me to come back and sing with them anytime, and asked where I was from. My current home town is a less familiar location to some, so I simply said “San Francisco”. The lead singer responded by belting out a verse from Tony Bennett’s “I Left My Heart in San Francisco”, which happens to be played in the Giants ballpark after every win and was also my father’s favorite song of all-time.
“That was my dad’s favorite song!” I told the band. “Then let’s play it for your dad,” the lead singer replied. They ended my visit with a jazzy 10-minute rendition of the tune that took my breath away. My visit with the band was one of the most beautiful experiences I’ve ever had, and I left Musical Legends Park on Cloud Nine, my heart filled with gratitude.
Maybe my dad really was looking out for me. If I hadn’t lost that handkerchief, I never would have had the evening that I did. That experience also reawakened a buried desire to start singing again, and within a few months, I was invited to join a new band. I adore my band mates, and I’ve gone from background vocals in my previous band to lead vocals in this one. Maybe this was the reason for the lost handkerchief. Who knows?
Last weekend, I was hanging up a sweater in the hall closet of my parent’s house, and I saw my dad’s old SF Giants jacket, the one that he wore to almost every game. The sight of that jacket filled me with a profound missing of him, and the ache in the heart grew strong again. Then something compelled me to check the pockets of his jacket to see if he had left anything inside. My hand closed on a piece of soft cloth, and out of that pocket came a handkerchief. I finally cried.