A Walker in the Suburbs

Yesterday we drove out into the country to what my father had remembered as a rustic fruit stand that sold pumpkins this time of year. Signs led the way down the winding two-lane road.

But when we arrived it didn’t long to realize that the corner orchard had become an autumn carnival. Hundreds of cars were parked in rows across the grassy fields. Employees with flags directed traffic. We were waved into a handicapped spot (yes!) and made our way slowly out of the car and up to the packed pumpkin patch.

There were many varieties of apples — Granny Smith, Delicious and McIntosh — and Asian pears. There was cider, spiced and regular. There were gourds of various shapes and sizes. And because this is Kentucky, there was a reedy sculpture of … a horse.

Most of all, there was the autumn sun, out again after a brief shower, shining on the pumpkins.

My mother, I recall, used to do it quite often — sometimes once or twice a week, to match her shoes. I do it once or twice a year, if I’m lucky.

I’m talking about changing purses, that great seasonal, female ritual (maybe male, too, I don’t want to discriminate!) in which the contents of one bag goes into another.

Sounds simple, right? But it’s not.

Because a purse has a soul, you see, a way of being carried or worn, and the Metro card spot in my woven straw-colored summer bag is completely different from the one in the my multi-pocketed black leather winter bag.

To complicate the process this year I’ve purloined a bag of Celia’s, one she loves but is not carrying  right now, college girl that she is. (A backpack or a pocket is all she needs.)

So I’ve tried to cram everything from a roomy “Mom”-type purse into a sleek younger model.

We’ll see how long it will be until I’m changing purses again!