My glasses were dirty, they’re always dirty, and I was in a parking lot rummaging around in my ridiculously giant pocketbook for the little blue microfiber cloth, which should be where it belongs in the zipper part of my bag, but never is. That’s when my uncle, whom I went to visit last week in Florida and whose car I was driving, handed me a handkerchief.

He pulled it out of his pants’ pocket and smiled.

“You have a handkerchief?” I asked, as surprised as if he had pulled a coin out of his ear.

“I always carry a handkerchief,” he said. “I put a fresh one in my pocket every day.”