THREE PURSES-By Godfrey

Worzel here- This gem is a favorite of Godfrey’s eccentric sister Alice, who reports, “Very true, I get to poke my brother and get him paddled for snooping all in one poem”. Alice writes- “Our olde Ma refuses to be included in your written “saga”, but has made this clear, “I will have little to leave you but fond memory, bury the purse with the torn strap beside me”, From Ma.

Rarely do I write of my dear hearted Ma, but reminded I was of her this rainy morning by someone I saw. No, it was not a rusty, dented old car, or child hiding as I used to, in the shoe department of a big, noisy store. It was not even Haggis on a restaurant menu, but a woman like Ma, three large purses she wore.

Ma carried three purses, when apparently ladies of her time were labeled “odd” if they toted more than one. I recall as a lad the three purses Ma had, one was angry, for when she rummaged for money she rummaged with curses, which was rare. Her other purse held clove scented sweets, her hands smelled of cloves and raw wool when she spit in her palm to slick down my hair.

Her brown purse had a leather strap, frayed and torn, she caught it in a car door, a firey accident soon after Alice was born. When I asked her about it, my sister Alice, slapped me about the head. “Said, no one was hurt, but for the purse, shut up and go back to bed”.

And what of the elegant lady I saw, wearing large dark glasses, a film star maybe?…Was her third purse like Ma had, a mystery?, Ma’s was knitted and bulky, gray and pink plaid, unsightly, one day Alice dared me open the purse, it took one quick peek in to reveal it, Ma carried within a great brick in a sock, lest some yobbo perhaps, wish to steal it…

Rarely I write of my sweet natured Ma, along the High Street our old car did rattle and lurch. With a swat with her purse, prod in the back, she sent me off to chip shop or church.

And even when older in the ladies wear shop, while discussing and fussing over girdle or hem, it was I, Godfrey, never Alice, left with the three purses, holding them.

Not oft I write of my beloved Ma, and when I do think of Alice and I, the children we were. Pocket knife, bills, knitting wool, change of smalls, the troubles I know now she bore, so much living, stuffed in the three purses Ma wore.

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