On a recent Oprah show, hip designer Marc Jacobs presented the host with a knockout handbag. Why he would gift one of the richest women in the world instead of me, is a mystery. Should Mr. Jacobs ever catch sight of my purses-one brown, the other black--he would see I use them long past their expiration date and realize I need a freebie more than Ms. Winfrey does.

    I haven't always been so blasé about what hangs from my arm. As a teen-ager, I carried the coolest: namely, anything with the gold metal label sewn to its lining--the ID tag that said, "Roger Van S.," in fancy script. There was a certain way to hold that purse, as any owner knew: the back against you when you unclasped it, so the world would recognize its nameplate and know you were one of the sharp girls.

    This past Christmas, a friend from my boarding school days sent me a Roger Van S. purse exactly like one I'd owned in high school-a tan, pebble-grained leather bag with a shiny gold clasp. It has thick round handles and little gold feet that keep the bottom clean and hold it upright when it's set on the floor. Each of the curved trim pieces, adorning the front and back, is decorated with a row of perfect little circle cutouts. I had that purse in three colors-tan, black and brown--all bought with my babysitting money. I don't know where my friend, Martha, found it. I want to ask her but I can hear my mother's voice, admonishing me to mind my manners.

    I picture Martha in front of her computer, bidding for this perfect present on EBay. Like the roulette player who says, "Baby needs a new pair of shoes," then smooches the dice and throws them on the spinning wheel, I can see my friend kissing her fingertips before she types her bid and says, "Andrea needs a new purse." When she was in town last year (from her new home in Massachusetts), we met for lunch. I'm sure she took note of the pitiful condition of my five-year-old, clearance table, black micro fiber and vinyl handbag. Not even leather--she must have been shocked.

    When I opened my gift on Christmas, the well-preserved bag took me back to 1962 and the downtown Minneapolis Woolworth store where Martha and I spent our money on slices of hamburger pizza and tiny, royal blue bottles of Evening in Paris cologne.

    As I showed my husband the golden badge of identification, I told him about the times my sister and I put the top down on Mom's Mercury convertible in the middle of winter, shoved the heater switch and the radio as high as they'd go, and flew down the road to Stillwater to visit Martha. As we arrived at her home, high above the St. Croix, my sister and I would search our matching Roger Van S. purses to find combs for our messed up bouffant hairdos.

    I guess this darling pocketbook would be called vintage. For me, it says the opposite. Every time I look at it, I feel young and giddy. It makes me want to rent a convertible and pick up my sister. We'll put the top down, turn the stereo to an oldies station, and crank the volume up all the way. We'll pull a cell phone from the tan purse resting on its little gold feet on the seat between us and call our old friend to thank her for the memories. The very sweet memories.