My grandmother raised me and I will always remember her pocketbooks. Every one was black and every one had lots of compartments, some with zippers. I was never allowed in her pocketbooks. If she needed something, I could bring the bag to her, but I could never reach inside.

Except once. Just one time when I was growing up, my grandmother told me that I could get some change from her pocketbook. I do not remember the occasion or what prompted her. It was unprecedented.

I remember going to the store with my grandmother when she’d buy a new pocketbook. She always looked carefully for one with enough compartments. It had to have compartments. She was very organized.

All my life, I’ve carried handbags just like my grandmother’s. Mine always have lots of compartments.

My grandmother was a wonderful lady. I remember when she’d organize spring cleaning each year. As a part of the cleaning, my grandmother would repaint the toilet seat and hang it on the clothesline to dry. I was always embarrassed by this display.

And my grandmother killed the chickens we ate. She’d tie a chicken up by its feet to the clothesline and then take a knife in one hand, the chicken’s head in the other and then whack that chicken’s head off. At the same time that she cut the chicken’s neck, she’d begin to run so as not to get spatters of blood on her dress. She was a heavyset woman and she rarely ran fast enough to avoid the spattering.