Jenny Klein

I have delightful childhood memories of Christmas –  big tasks such as helping my dad to choose and decorate the tree and set up outdoor lights and serving as Mom’s sous chef when baking cookies. But I recall certain small details as well. Every year Mom would dig through the heavy drawer in the stuffed buffet in the dining room and pull out holiday linens including these stitched hand towels. I don’t know their history. She would hand them to me to take to the first floor half bath near the back door and hang them side by side on one of the two towel bars. The other bar had the usual terry cloth towel.

Our house was the hangout for my teenage brothers’ friends and their point of entry was the backdoor. And yes, the first floor bath was at their disposal. Despite the heavy usage of the ‘boys’ bathroom’, the two towels were left untouched. No teenage boy dared to dry his hands on anything but the terry cloth. As a little girl who also used the same bathroom, it pleased me to see that the two remained intact.

Look closely, the Snowman and the Santa-in-the-box are both immaculate showing no stains, no pulled stitches, no loss of color. Pretty good shape for being at least 60 years old.

Today, these two spend the year in my own linen drawer. But I don’t hang them because my half bath only has a towel ring and from it hangs a terry towel. It’s not the lack of a straight bar but the wish to preserve a memory that stops me from hanging the towels pressed so long ago by my mother’s iron.