The Purse...

Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for.   -- Epicurus

 

I'd like to say I was just a tiny tyke, not old enough to know better, when The Great Purse Affair happened.

But that would be a lie.

It was a lean Christmas for my family. Financially, that is. 1960-something. At the time, Daddy worked two jobs. By day, he was a postal carrier (pre-government postal service) bringing in a whopping $2.15 an hour. Nights, he pushed a broom as a janitor at Jackson Intermediate School.

In my kid mind, Daddy's long hours meant nothing to me. It was just what fathers were supposed to do. I mean, what did I know of employment, supporting a family—feeding them, clothing them, the roofs over their heads and all that stuff? In that clueless brain of mine, it was all just…there. And that was the good thing about families who loved us. It was just there, always, and we never worried because parents did all the things they were supposed to do to make sure of that.   

Even though I had no allowance like some children, even though my only spending money came from scouting for empty coke bottles and cashing in the deposits for pennies and nickels, I still had no concept of all that income-to-debt ratio crap. Like I said, my parents kept me fed, kept clothes on my back, and life was as is should have been.

One year my coat was a fabulous red leather number that had been an item getting ready to be disposed of from the school's Lost and Found. The jacket was magnificent, and it didn't dawn on me to be embarrassed of its origin. Nobody else knew where it came from. It was pretty. It looked cool on me. No worries.

But, like with everything else in my young-and-oblivious-to-financial-things life, I still had no clue as to how difficult it must have been for my parents to supply even the simplest basics of their children's needs.

Never did it occur to me to wonder what must have been going through their minds. That maybe it bothered them to not be able to afford expensive gifts like our friends were going to get. Or that, while our pals would wake up to a living room full of goodies, we would wake up to one gift each.

If only I had been able to see into their parental minds. If only. 

This particular Christmas morning, my sister, brother and I woke up to find one gift for each under the tree. 

I can't even remember what my little brother received from 'Santa', I only remember what my sister and I received. 

Purses.

And, you know, those pretty handbags were very nice. Looking back, I realize they hadn't been cheap.

Even though only one gift each, the purses still had been a sacrifice for my parents.

Through the years, I've agonized over that Christmas morning and the way it went down.

More times than I can count, I’ve tortured myself over the fact that I saw the happiness, the pride in my parent's eyes when we spotted our purses under the tree. I saw the expectant smiles on their faces.

I saw all this. 

I saw it and yet...

My sister's purse was bigger than mine. Much bigger. 

She was older than me, she had already started high school. Girls her age carried big bags. The large purse was the style. It was suitable for her.

I, who was still in middle school, was given a much smaller purse. More suitable for a girl my age. A lovely purse it was. Brown leather. 

But it was smaller than my sister's. It was a kid-sized purse, and hers was so sophisticated, elegant. Her purse was more mature. 

Now here is where I'm ashamed to tell more. But, to say it out loud, I find some sort of reconciling for my heart. Accountability, maybe.

What did I do when I saw my purse? I cried. Damn. Like a spoiled, immature brat, I cried.

How many times I’ve prayed for a time machine to take me back to that moment between my mother's happy smile and my ugly tears! To please, please, please let me do it again! To do it right.

Yes, I actually pitched a pure-d hissy fit. If I remember correctly, I even said I hated my purse. I was so overcome with jealousy. I wanted a purse just like my sister's.I ruined that beautiful moment—the pride that came with my parent's sacrifice—by being jealous. 

I threw such a tantrum that my mother promised to take me to the store after Christmas to exchange my kiddie bag for a more mature, giant bag like my sister's.

 And she did.

I returned to school with that huge purse and I was happy that I had won, right?

No.

How stupid I looked, dragging that monster bag around the halls of San Jacinto Intermediate School! Of course, I didn't realize that at the time. Only later, years later, imagining the silly little girl with the enormous purse. Oh, hell, it was probably one hundred times too big for the miniscule amount of junk I toted.

The funny thing?

My mother didn’t really remember the incident at all. In my overwhelming guilt, I reminded her of it years later. Even when I reminded her, she laughed. And, for years, she thought of it with humor. I do, too. Sort of. But another part of me aches horribly every time I recall the shock, followed by disappointment, on her face when I turned on the waterworks that Christmas.

So why am I telling this now? Is there a point to this?

I guess. I don’t know. Maybe that, since that holiday so, so long ago, I’ve lost so many family members. I’ve lost my parents, I’ve lost my own child, I’ve lost the sister who got the big-girl purse, and my younger brother.

And I see how very unimportant the gifting part of life really is.

The Great Purse Affair has tormented me all these years. That longing to re-do moments in time, to have known what I know now—having been a parent myself—about love and sacrifice and appreciation. I would love to say that the purse meltdown was the only time I ever pitched a jealous fit or was childishly unhappy over anything I didn’t like. It wasn’t, though.

I can't undo the horrible reaction to the purse or the tantrums over disappointments in my life when I was too young to understand the sacrifices behind them. And maybe I don't really want to. As long as I feel that moment and feel the big wrongness of that long-ago reaction, I'll mentally tag myself to always be grateful for those who love me.