Memories in a Pocketbook 1999

It was an article in a recent magazine that started me thinking about when had I ever cleaned out the innermost pockets of my purse — not only the one I carry every day, but others I never carry any more.  In the beginning of this undertaking I discovered a virtual time capsule.  This quote was in the article I read: “What’s in a purse?  Often, not ever the women who carry them know for sure.”  How true, how true.

In one old bag I had not picked up in years I found a folder we get at the funeral home when we go there to pay our last respects.  Marybelle was the very best friend anyone could ever have.  Just holding the piece of paper in my hand brought back memories that caused the tears to flow freely and unashamedly.

We had been born the same year, though miles apart; and it took years for us to discover each other, but when we did we made so many pleasant memories.  After we moved here, often times I would look out the window to see the big rust-colored Cadillac coming down our road.  Marybelle’s husband was a shoe salesman and lots of times when Harry  would go out of town my friend would head  for Sand Mountain and a visit at the Windy Knoll.  Shoes — worn out shoes — in my closet are yet another of the many reminders of this gentle lady, but I can’t bring myself to dispose of them. I’ll leave that for somebody else to do.

In one satchel’s inside pocket I found stubs of tickets to the Atlanta  Braves game given me for a birthday gift some years ago.  Strange I would find them now as this is birthday time again.  In this same pocket I found a long-lost pair of small Gingher scissors, to say nothing of a little pocket knife I carried for eons.

Then as I turned one bag upside down and shook it, out dropped a very old picture of our deceased granddaughter as she gleefully romped through our Georgia shade garden. Talk about memories and tears.  I wondered why I ever start this job in the first place?

As I leafed through an old address book — long ago having  been replaced — I was reminded over and over of old friends and acquaintances — some no longer living and some, I must admit, I can no longer remember.  It took me over an hour to empty this collection of pocketbooks. It was indeed like an archeological dig — they represented years of living, traveling, exciting moments, sad times and commonplace happenings.

I had to caress the black pocketbook where I discovered the handkerchief I received one time as  a gift and then I made the tatting and put on the edge.  This one is so special — it needs to be passed down to future generations.  I crocheted this pocketbook in 1948 for my mother and I have in recent years carried it as my   “best” purse and received compliments.

I discarded a handful of Walmart receipts, receipts where I had purchased various kinds of plants, expired coupons, an assortment of business cards, political handouts such as emery boards and shopping lists of different kinds.  But the things I found it necessary to hold onto  made a small mound on the floor and these I sacked up and stuck in a drawer to be gone through again some time in the future or left for another to discard.

There are numerous other drawers and sacks of saved items in this house that comprise more archeological digs for me to plunder through, but I’ll put that off for another time.  Such is country living.