The Pocketbook, Transplanted and Still Blooming, Cinthia Milner

The Pocketbook

My mom, Frankie Ann, was the worst gift-giver.

I’d tell her exactly what to get–say a new book. I’d give her the title, the author, the date of publication, and I’d go by the store–the one that wasn’t “weird with no parking”–and tell the salesclerk to hold it for Mom. Her one task? To pick it up and pay for it.  Then gift day rolled around, and she’d proudly hand me some useless kitchen gadget. I don’t cook. And no, it wasn’t a hint to start cooking. She didn’t cook, either. She just tanked at giving gifts, and seriously there was no following her thinking on this, though she had a thought behind it. It was always a puzzlement to me. But, I did inherit this trait. My gifts are always last minute and so lackluster. (To all my dear friends, I apologize.)

But, Frankie Ann was stylish. One day we were having lunch at a favorite spot, having what she called, “our expensive salads,”  and she randomly pulled out a new pocketbook and said, “I can’t stand that purse you’re carrying, here I got you this one.” It rocked. A hot, little neon-blue number that I got a billion compliments on.

Thus, began the years of the purse-gift. From that day on, the only gift mom was allowed to give me was a pocketbook.

Solved her problem of tanking at gifts, and my problem of picking out ridiculous and cheap pocketbooks. (I hate dropping cash on a purse. I’ll spend whatever on shoes or a shirt, but a pocketbook? I’m always like, don’t you have one for $10? No. Of course, they don’t.)

The purse-gift became famous with my friends. When they saw the edgy-cute camo bag from Charming Charlie’s hanging over my shoulder, they said, “Frankie Ann?”  Yep.

We kept the purse-gift up for about a decade. Then she died on July 28 last year, very unexpectedly, and when fall came, I didn’t know what to do. I stood in Kohl’s just staring at the pocketbooks.

I dug out an old one and carried it–seams torn, and straps unraveling. (I’m pretty hard on a purse.)

Skip ahead to April 4, my birthday, and yet another pocketbook dilemma. My birthdays aren’t much fun anymore. One, I’m getting way too old way too fast. Two, my kids aren’t around to help celebrate. Three, mom isn’t here and, you know, when the other person who was there with you on the actual day of is gone, it’s just wrong.

But friends help, and plenty of mine showed up to wow the day. My friend Debbie and I share what I call the birthday week, meaning we can technically celebrate all week, if we want. I’m the 4th, she’s the 10th. I made the dinner reservations. She drove. The minute I got in the car, and saw the gift bag, I knew I’d been up-gifted.

She said she tried to channel Mom to give me just the right gift. You’d think I would have figured that out immediately, but I didn’t and was curious if I was going to get another useless kitchen gadget. (Channeling can go so wrong.) But Frankie Ann showed up in the channeling, and I got my birthday purse. The best, most thoughtful gift ever. Mom would’ve approved.

The Pocketbook, Transplanted and Still Blooming, Cinthia Milner

Love the color. It’s smiling because it found it’s happy home.

 

I often say, because my mom’s death was so sudden, that I feel as though someone opened a door and pushed her through it. My granddaughter, who loved her Maurme (Frankie Ann), asked, “When is Maurme coming back?” Oh my. I keep asking the same thing. Will someone please open that door and push my mother back through?

But for that moment, in the gift of the pocketbook, Mom did come back. Debbie did channel mom, though maybe not as she thought, by picking out the coolest purse ever. She channeled her because she did something only moms do. She remembered.

5 thoughts on “The Pocketbook

  1. Beautifully written – and I can just see Frankie sitting there, legs crossed, glass of wine in her hand, rolling her eyes as you describe her as a bad gift giver! Wonderful to have close friends to help fill the holes, isn’t it?

  2. You’re killing me with this one! For me, it was the gift I gave her – every Christmas for decades. A wall calendar. She never kept a personal type calendar, just her wall one. It had to be big enough for those squares to hold her schedule; not hard, cause she was a simple gal. And she loved the full sized pictures on the upper half. I can’t remember exactly when I started this tradition, but it was way back before I got married and we’re celebrating number 32 this month. I can tell you that the first Christmas after she headed out, I stood in Staples and cried when I saw the calendar stand and it smacked me in the heart that I would not be buying Beaner (Rubena) a calendar with butterflies (her fav), or quilts, or landscapes, or I Love Lucy, or Psalms with stunning backgrounds, or an update of one I custom made with pics of my two girls as toddlers years ago. So, I repeat – you’re killing me! Kleenex, please.

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