When the mighty oak sheds its last leaf and I have to use a scraper to remove frost from my windshield that can mean only one thing — flu season is in full swing. And what a bang it’s made in the media this fall. Swine flu is pandemic. Athletes and boards of directors jumping the queue for inoculation. Strident voices screaming at politicians for botching the emergency measures supposedly in place to protect us citizens.

But I can handle all of it, even the politicians. What I can’t take, however, is a message that I keep hearing pushed by Health Canada. It’s a reflection of all the other half-assed solutions I have come to expect from government. You’ve seen the message if you own a television set. It’s the one that tells you if you are going to cough or sneeze, do it into your sleeve.

How delightful! You’re riding on the subway. People around you blithely sneezing all over their sleeves. Or, if seized by a coughing fit, they alternate between one arm and the other just in case the material on one of their arms starts to drip from their violent discharges. And you, compressed tightly in the standing crowd rub arms with them as Toronto’s ‘Better Way’ burps, bumps and lurches from station to station.

There is a more sanitary device to address this problem. Anybody raised in the ’40s and ‘50s, like myself, knows all about it. It’s called a handkerchief. Generally, about fourteen inches square for men, this handy device can be purchased for a modest sum unless your delicate proboscis demands the softness of a fine, Egyptian cotton.

As a kid, I always carried one in my pocket. Some of my friends then could be forgiven for using Kleenex®, since Kimberly-Clark was the only industry that kept our home town alive. In those days, we were taught not even to spit — use your handkerchief instead. I’ve always assumed this bit of wisdom was a carry-over from the days of the Spanish flu when Canadians died by the thousands. People tried desperately then to stop its spread any way they could.

Aside from the use for which the handkerchief was designed, I would like to give you a few other reasons for carrying one if you don’t do so already. First, for the outdoorsman, a hankie is a great protection from biting insects. Simply knot two adjacent corners of your handkerchief together and place the loop formed on top of your head and under your hat. (If you’re in insect country, you will be wearing a hat.) This action will make you look exactly like a member of the French Foreign Legion with the back and sides of your head and neck protected from both mosquitoes and the sun. If your handkerchief is on the small side, tuck the bottom edge under your collar. Spraying or soaking the handkerchief first in bug repellent is the pièce de résistance. Nothing will come close, not even your friends.

A handkerchief is great for medical emergencies. One weekend when I was about 10 years old, I was given my first jack knife. The condition that my father set down was that under no circumstances was I to take it to school. In those days you weren’t strip-searched and handcuffed if the teacher discovered you were carrying a knife — my father just wanted to keep an eye on me for safety’s sake. Naturally, on Monday morning I sneaked the jack knife into my pocket. Opening and closing the blade as I walked to school, I got only a few blocks from home before I accidentally closed the blade over my left forefinger. (I still have the scar.) Blood poured out of the cut but fortunately I was able to get it stopped before I got to school by tightly wrapping my handkerchief around the cut.

“Child’s play,” you say. OK, how about this? One summer I had a college friend home for a fishing trip. Miles up the Kenogami River, we were dragging our canoe over a logging boom when the outboard motor which I had raised out of the water to clear the boom, dropped. My finger was under the motor’s mount which acted as a guillotine for one of my fingers. Fortunately, the bone stopped this appendage from being completely severed. As I steered the canoe back to town, I never did completely stop the bleeding with my handkerchief. That took our local doctor and four or five stitches.

No, I’m not prone to cutting myself with sharp objects. I have handled axes all my life and to this day I still thank my lucky stars that, touch wood, I still haven’t buried the blade into my leg or foot. (One friend of mine buried a hatchet blade into his knee cap.) I’m afraid handkerchiefs won’t work for those sorts of accidents. A shirt or light jacket is needed.

Finally, for all you Young Turks who might be reading this post, a handkerchief is a wonderful opportunity to display your chivalry. For this to happen you must always keep your handkerchief neatly folded in your pocket. In fact, your handkerchief must be kept pristine, so on any given day if you think you might use it yourself, keep a second one handy in your other pocket. This event will only happen, at most, a few times in your life so be ready.

The day will come whether you’re riding public transportation, walking in the park, dining at a restaurant, or at work when you will encounter a gorgeous young woman alone and quietly sobbing to herself. The kleenex clutched in her fingers will be a sodden mass. Approach her slowly and quietly extend your pristine handkerchief to her. If at first she declines to take it, gently insist that she can keep it or return it to you later.

Now, the main reason gorgeous young women sob to themselves in public places is because of a broken romance. When she finally returns your handkerchief, cleaned and pressed, you will never have a better opportunity to talk or ask her out. If my fading recall is correct, this has happened to me only once and that was a lifetime ago. The young lady had recovered when she returned my handkerchief and she turned out to be wonderful but I’m afraid I’m not willing to share those details.