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The magic of a mother's purse
Every now and then, something triggers a memory about how I viewed the world when I was a girl. It's often a memory of an important adult in my life, someone I looked up to. I was cleaning out my purse the other day when it happened again. Lugging a purse around seems like a nuisance now, but I remember how fascinated I was by the purse my mother carried. It seemed so deliciously heavy, not like the plastic purses in my toy box. When my mother unzipped it, everything inside smelled of Dentyne gum and her particular brand of hand lotion.
The pockets were filled with treasures, mysterious and potent symbols of adulthood. The checkbook was there, magically allowing my family to buy things without money. (Or so I thought at the time.)
The driver's license my mother carried looked as official to me as any foreign passport. And somewhere, tucked in a side pocket or a small cosmetic case, was her lipstick.
Driving to town, she'd often untwist the sleek tube and dab on the creamy red color while waiting for traffic at a stop sign. She'd look in the rear view mirror and rub her lips together. Then she'd pull out a tissue, already covered with pretty red lip prints, and use it to blot the lipstick before pulling onto the highway.
I was enthralled by the grown-up ritual. I remember being short enough to stand on the front seat and look into the rear view mirror with her. I inspected my little-girl lips and compared them to hers. I longed for the day when I could wear lipstick.
Other times, something triggers a memory of my grandpa. He always smelled of Black Jack gum. He kept a package in his shirt pocket, and he offered me a piece whenever I saw him. In my opinion, it was a flavor only adults could love. I think I tried it once.
Still, it intrigued me. I wondered how grown-ups could enjoy things like Black Jack gum, or horseradish, or broccoli and asparagus. Now that I'm older, I enjoy some of those things myself, although I still feel the same about Black Jack gum. Sometimes I'm reminded of how my dad and my grandpa carried change in their pockets. They jingled it while they stood and visited. I envied their good fortune, always having so much money.
I remember begging my father for change to buy candy and soda, when I went with him to the bowling alley on league night. He'd reach into his pocket and pull out the quarters, dimes or nickels. Just like with my mother's purse, they felt heavy in my hand.
I clicked them together on my way to the candy counter. I got cola in a glass bottle from the pop machine. I was happy, grown-up enough to have my own money to buy my own things.
Car keys were another symbol of the mysterious privileges possessed by adults. Newspapers qualified too. I watched while my father read the paper and wondered what he found so interesting in the row upon row of typewritten words.
On Sundays, I tried to read the funnies to understand why he was laughing. For a long time I didn't get the jokes, but that didn't stop me from trying.
I recall those childhood feelings as strangely reassuring. I looked up to the adults who were in charge of my world. I admired them. I couldn't wait to be like them. It's funny what you think about, when you're cleaning out your purse.