Page 37 - Philly Girl

Philly Girl 21

My Mother’s Pocketbook

Esther had sunk to a new low. I never ever thought that she
would lose her purse—or “pocketbook,” as Philadelphians
call them. This was her last object of value, the only thing left
of the life that she knew as a working married woman with
a home, a husband, two children, a job, and a large savings
account. First, she left her job. This was quite a big deal as
she loved her job working for the city. She was proud of her
working woman’s wardrobe. The job was close to where she
lived. She walked to work almost every day just to save the
carfare. She brought her coworkers homemade muffins and
cake at least once a week. My father wanted her to retire
when he did, at 65, so that they could travel and do things
together. She reluctantly agreed. Her life definitely changed
after that—probably for the worse. She preferred working to
doing just about anything. But they flew to see their grand-
children and they traveled to London and Israel and San
Francisco many times. About 15 years after she retired, she
became a widow.
I noticed that the style of her purses changed over the
years. It was less about style and more about pragmatics—
being able to find her checkbook and keys easily. The purse
became her symbol of stability and self-care, and continuity.
She no longer had a husband, but she had a purse.
Selling the house was her next big loss. It was five years
into her widowhood. By the time she sold the house that I
grew up in, she had begun sleeping until 10 in the morn-
ing, bathing infrequently, taking all day to prepare and eat