H Is for . . .

Handbags, vintage. This is but a small portion of my collection, almost all of them picked up for a song here and there (the one in front was a quarter!). The fab red patent leather one in back is ginormous, and thus doesn't get carried very often, but it's one of my favorites nonetheless. It would be so cool to have them on display somewhere, somehow, but I don't think that's going to happen anytime soon! (B. is rolling his eyes as he reads this). Anyway, I love handbags--and that's what these are to me, not purses. My grandma Betty called them "pocketbooks," and hers always had chewing gum (minty, like Trident) and a handkerchief in it (among other things, of course). Sometimes, when I open up a handbag like one of these, I smell a faint minty, powdery, sweet smell that reminds me of her, and I smile . . .

H is also for Holidays. B. and I celebrate, in some small way, most holidays, large and small. The first gifts we ever gave each other, before we were married, were Easter gifts, and it's mandatory on Memorial Day and Labor Day to eat ice cream, no matter what (should that become a federal law, maybe?). And we love the "H" holiday: Halloween. We have a rather large collection of Halloween-o-bilia, some of it vintage, some of it reproductions of vintage, some of it just Halloweenish (you'll see much more it on, well, Halloween!). We don't dress up in costumes or go in for the supergory stuff--just jack-o-lanterns, black cats, and spooky witches. Oh, and candy. Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, please, with a chaser of M&Ms.