ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times
DATE: Sunday, May 12, 1996 TAG: 9605100100
SECTION: EDITORIAL PAGE: 3 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: LAUREL N. HOLDER
MY BOSS AND I recently had a luncheon meeting scheduled with one of our vendors. Before leaving the office, I said, "Wait a minute ... let me get my pocketbook."
He looked surprised, then laughed as he said, "Did you say 'pocketbook'?"
"Yes," I responded. "What did you want me to say?"
"It's a purse,'' he answered. "Pocketbook is a '50s term." Continuing to laugh, he added, "I bet your mother called it a pocketbook."
Sensing myself on the defensive, I retaliated, "Yes, she did!"
This conversation ultimately led to an ad hoc survey, determining how each of the women in our office referred to this very important accessory. The results were mixed. The three good-ole-girl Southern types favored "pocketbook"; our three Northern counterparts favored "purse"; and one European native favored the more literal term "handbag." Just as my boss had predicted, each of us referred to it by the same term our mothers had used.
Our discussion and survey prompted me to reflect upon my mother's pocketbooks. She had three that I specifically recall. There was a smooth, satin-like, beige-toned clutch that she carried to church during the spring and summer. There was a similar black-patent style that she carried to church during the colder months. Lastly, there was a brown vinyl bag that she carried everywhere else - all year round.
That pocketbook was huge. At capacity, it held about 15 pounds worth of necessities: lipstick, compact, checkbook, Kleenex, letters, recipes, medicine, snacks, etc. It was more of an emergency kit than a fashion accessory. Yes, that brown bag was the workhorse of my mother's wardrobe.
Pondering the days of the brown pocketbook, I remembered our lives as hectic - even with the comparatively slower pace of the '60s. Two working parents, four children, and five cats. And Momma was never on time. I remember how we would hurry out the door, late - as usual - for a doctor's appointment. Maneuvering the Ford Fairlane through traffic on the way to Children's Clinic, Momma would say, "Hand me my pocketbook."
She then performed one of those acts busy mothers seem to master with time. With her eyes on the road and her left hand on the wheel, she would fumble through that brown bag with her right hand until she located the lipstick she had forgotten to apply before we left. She typically kept four tubes of lipstick in that pocketbook, all shades of deep pink. To me, those tubes all looked - and felt - exactly alike, but she had a way of feeling through the darkened depths of that bag and putting her fingers on the one tube she knew would best accent her outfit.
I was impressed.
My mother wasn't a fashion plate. She did not buy dresses from a department store unless they were marked down at least 25 percent. Instead, she chose to make most of her own dresses. She never had a dishwasher. Instead, she spent night after night with hands in hot, sudsy dishwater. The cracked, reddened skin that resulted left her reluctant to wear nail polish or bracelets ... anything that might draw attention to her hands.
But Momma did take pride in her appearance. She wanted her lipstick to complement her dress. And she knew "Blushing Berry" from "Passionate Pink," just by the touch.
Yes, my mother - like all mothers - had a special touch. Whether groping for that one tube of lipstick or grasping my hand as we waited to see the doctor, that touch was like no other.
Momma passed away in 1985, two weeks before my son (her first grandchild) was born. At the time of her death, I found in her pocketbook a shopping list of baby gifts she planned to purchase for my shower. She'd be happy to know that I did receive all those things she wanted me to have.
Over time, we sorted through and distributed all of her things. Some we kept; some we gave away. I remember packing that brown vinyl bag into a box for Goodwill. Void of its contents, the pocketbook still faintly bore the scent of her Avon perfume.
As for that very important accessory I carry wherever I go? I'll always call it a "pocketbook" ... as will my children.
Laurel N. Holder of Roanoke is a marketing-communication manager at a local manufacturing firm.
LENGTH: Medium: 78 linesby CNB