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How men control the fate of women and girls, and what women can do about it. .
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My favorite purse of all time has given out after five years of faithful service. The inside pocket tore out two years ago. The piping has badly frayed. The strap has been shredding for months. Finally the fabric forming the closure totally wore away.
It spent more time on my shoulder than any one of my kids did.
A woman’s purse tells a lot about her. A man’s too, I suppose, but I’m not going there. Is her widdle purse just precious? She does not have children who hand her things at school, at church, in the store, etc. to “hold this for me, Mom.”
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Is her purse a darling, trendy fabric? It’s not had ketchup packets squirted on it at McDonalds, and I’ll bet no one has thrown up in it, either.
Is it free of scuffs and tears? It’s not been clipped into umpteen grocery carts, kicked under church pews or dragged on the driveway.
Does it not contain a half-used packet of Kleenex, plus several shredded tissues stuck to half-sticks of gum? She is wiping no nose other than her own.
Does her purse hold a billfold or card case? She is likely hauling insurance cards, orthodontic reminders, a Blockbuster card, frequent buyer cards, the latest school pictures and—yes!—return address labels.
Does she change purses with every outfit? She has a life outside of the perpetual school-church-HEB-office-orthodontist-Costco circuit.
Is her purse the size of a Samsonite rolling bag? Then it belongs to my sister Judy, who totes enough gear for a third world nation at all times. |
I paid $20 for my wonderful purse in Laredo in 2002, a real bargain compared to the “best price for you, Miss” $35 asking price. It’s driven roundtrip to Mexico a few times. It’s ridden trains in Russia and Austin. It’s plummeted down Bug’s Whitewater Rapids, and soared up to Indianapolis and Chicago. Like me—it’s been around. And up. And sometimes down.
This purse was so darned practical. I could carry it in my hand, sling it on my shoulder or use it as a backpack. It was plain. Solid black wipe-off fabric, no weirdness, nothing fussy to break off or tear away. It was good-sized—big enough to hold all I needed and more than I wanted. It had hidden depths. An inside pocket for keys; bottom zippered cache for those pesky reading glasses; exterior pockets for my ever-ready cell phone and always-needed Kleenex.
Practical. Plain. Good-sized. Hidden depth. And often worse for wear.
Yep. You can tell a lot about a woman by the purse she carries. Especially this woman.
The Truth about Becky
Becky used to baby sit my two children. (That was after her mom, Wyoming, had somewhat trained them in the church nursery school they attended under ‘Wy’s’ watchful eyes.) When the kids started regular school (and mainly because the nursery school was closed after 6:00 PM sharp and on weekends, leaving me at the mercy of my long phone list of possible replacements for sitters), Becky, ‘inherited’ them from her mom when they were about six and eight years old.
At first, I had the guilty mom jitters, and asked myself and those who knew Becky if she was reliable, trustworthy, and capable of caring for two rambunctious youngsters while I escaped to run errands, or spent the day fishing with my spouse. Now I know why they just grinned and said, “Of course she is.”
It only took one or two times of her tending my children to know that she was probably more capable of mothering than I. She was a good student (qualified for Mensa) and could help them with their homework. She was always on time, and went right to work keeping them entertained while I finalized my preparations to leave.
Thanks to Wy, Becky was a good cook, and could please their appetites with the food they loved, like macaroni and cheese. Luckily, our house was right behind a grocery store and a heavenly barbecue restaurant, so I knew they’d not go hungry. From the occasional evidence in the trash can, they even had salad and stuffed baked potatoes once in a while.
Becky had lots of friends, but I knew she’d not throw any wild parties in our absence, nor would she sneak in any boyfriends. And in case of emergency, she could rush the children to the hospital in her yellow Volkswagen bug that she had saved money for and bought herself.
During our relationship as employer-employee, I learned how and why Becky had become so mature and so responsible. Wyoming, single mother of three, not only worked full time and did her share of volunteering for school, church, and community functions, she also was rearing a severely handicapped—but otherwise totally normal—son.
John David was born a quadriplegic as a result, they think, of thalidomide, a drug included in some medications prescribed for pregnant women in the late 50s before its effects were known. His father soon abandoned the family, subsequently re-married, and moved far away. Older sister Judy was entering her last years of high school and would soon enter college, which left Becky to fill in the gaps as a pre-teen middle child.
Determined that John David would fit into society, his female caretakers, each in their own way, taught him everything he wouldn’t learn in school or from his father: how to take care of himself, how to relate with others, how to appreciate what he had (including his artificial legs), how to ride a bicycle, how to compete in sports and careers, and how to be happy regardless of his physical or familial circumstances.
Wyoming was a brilliant woman in her own right, and wrote humorous Christmas letters to her Indiana family members each year to bring them up to date on the Texas family. Her numerous siblings were named for the state in which they were born, and I remember Becky’s many references to “Aunt Nevada” or “Aunt Arizona” (they called her Aunt Zoom), and many others. I’ve kept most, if not all, Wy’s holiday letters and she inspired my current zeal for writing.
During one of John David’s frequent hospital stays (he had numerous), I was sympathizing with Becky that she surely was missing him and couldn’t wait for his return. She just laughed and didn’t hesitate to quip, “Heck no, I get the bathroom all to myself.” That unforgettable line made me realize that I was the handicapped person, and they all were totally blessed in having each other to lean on when needed.
During and after college, Becky worked for the business my spouse and I had started years earlier. I have many fond memories of her perky but never insubordinate comments, unexpected acts of kindness, and insatiable desire to learn all she could from the lowest rung on the corporate ladder.
After many promotions and her unblemished performance on our behalf, she left the company for a career with an international corporation, and is still going strong. She married a wonderful man, and until recently they had three daughters.
In 2006, the family decided to adopt a six-year old girl from Russia. Without doubt, she, like her sisters, will be smothered in love, wrapped in understanding, and championed to be the best Tex-Russkie on the planet. Lucky for her, her future is “in the bag,” no matter what may transpire! And lucky for me and my children, we got to know, and came to love her Texas mom!
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