A Short Personal History of the Purse

Experts say the purse goes back almost as far as recorded human history.

For cavemen, purses were crude pouches, mostly carried by men, shamans and the like. Jumping ahead a few thousand years or more and ignoring absolutely everything in between, handbags for women became the rage in the eighteenth century with the long-stringed reticule, those charming little cloth boxes with drawstrings at the top.

I remember those fancy little bags from old movies set in Regency England or the Old South. In fact, I could recount my entire life from the perspective of the purses I have owned, loved, and lusted after. But alas, here there is no room. Thus, what follows is my very truncated personal and passionate history of the purse.

First acquisitions:  Hand-me-down bags for dress-ups, comprised of bags from Mom and other ladies of import heaped in the makeshift toy chest in the basement. Dig deep. Beneath the old skirts and blouses, oddball hats with feathers, mismatched gloves, and beat-up fake pearls are the bags from "olden times." Black beaded numbers with twirled clear plastic handles and zipper tops. A night at the opera? Classy but useless. Or the mustard-yellow cloth satchel bag of faux velvet with clip top. Had to be Nana's. Ugly but, oh, that clip top, so businesslike, so "I'll take two, thank you,  and please wrap them up" in charge. Drop a quarter into the peon's hand, snap closed the purse. Feel it, baby.

Easter purse, my first:  A small box, covered in cheap white plastic with a metal twist closure and a sprig of fake spring flowers to decorate the lid. Very 1960s and just large enough to hold a delicate flowered hanky from Nana's collection, little white gloves and several balloons.  Hoped church would be a whole lot more fun now that I had a purse for the occasion.  Silly me.

Several years later, the debut of the patent leather bag:  Again a "church purse", demure, black and enticing. Twist open the closure in the front and the top opens up like a shiny oyster. Look inside. Now we're talking. It's roomy. A purse for a grade-B movie actress, the kind that pulls out a gold-embossed cigarette case, retrieves a Pall Mall, puts it to her ruby-red lips and asks for a light with her eyes.  And now you know why I used to smoke.

Teen-year bags:  All leather, some fringe, roomy things that feel and smell like quiet rebellion. They are followed by college purses, more sophisticated, still leather. My favorite— a smooth saddlebag of a purse, rich chestnut brown leather, double-side flaps, zipper in between. Gorgeous (even now I long for it). When the zipper broke so did my heart. No amount of artisanal dickering could fix it and I carried my perfect bag home from the leather shop in pieces. It took years before I could throw them away.

And that brings me roughly up to the present:  More leather bags, knapsack types to double as kid/diaper bags during the mommy years; clever clutches for evenings out if ever I could stay awake; designer bags, mostly knockoffs that my purse-crazy daughters insist I esteem over all else, and the occasional find that is all-me.

They have made their way through my life, into my closet, many to be callously cast aside when they no longer please. Then it's onto the next one. Often at Marshalls where there is a veritable purse Mecca for the obsessed.  It's an addiction.  I admit it.  And I do not want the cure.  Instead upon my tombstone, let these words assure: 

In heaven will be handbags,

Bags and bags galore.

I'll spend my angel moments

Owning Coach and Michael Kors. 

Where in Babylon Village have you bought a handbag? Tell us in the comments.