The auditorium door opens with a thunderous click. The people inside turn to stare at four men who enter and sit in the back. They are young, all wearing jeans, expensive shoes and t-shirts with humorous sayings or logos. The rotund woman in the front bangs the lectern with her gavel, bringing the audience back to attention.

Josie is seating in a middle row. She has seen the men before, at the marina where she keeps her husband’s boat. She’ll get around to selling it one day, but she still enjoys it during flattie season. Halibut, she overheard the men call the flat bottom feeders when they were talking to the captain of a charter boat. That proves they’re out-of-towners. Josie wonders why they’re here at the senior citizens meeting.

The rotund woman says, “We have visitors this afternoon. They’ve come from Los Angeles to talk to us. Gentlemen?” She sidles away, taking a seat designated for her in the front row.

One of the men walks to the front. “I direct television commercials. We’ve come to film one here, and we would like one of you ladies to star in it.” He appears nervous as he twists a ring around his little finger. Josie thinks perhaps it is difficult for this young man to address a roomful of seniors.

“It’s a commercial for a brand of seafood from the Pacific Northwest. We will film in the home of the woman we select. She must be a very good cook.” Then the director asks for nominations.

After the crowd murmurs for a while, they nominate several. Josie is surprised to hear her own name. She doesn’t think of herself as a good cook anymore because she no longer has anyone to cook for. Her children are married and gone. Oh, she prepares something for a church dinner now and then, but mostly she cooks for herself, lost now in the huge old kitchen.

The nominated women gather in a corner of the auditorium after the meeting. One man takes their pictures as they smile self-consciously. Another writes down their names and addresses. Josie wonders if she’s doing the right thing by giving hers to him.

The next day she tends her roses, deadheading and pruning, before she walks to the post office for stamps. She purchases coffee filters and flashlight batteries at the general store. She has forgotten about the men from Los Angeles until she returns home and there they are, sitting on her porch and standing on her lawn.

Josie invites them in, expecting them to sit, but instead they walk around squinting at walls and furniture. They are most interested in the kitchen, specifically the white enameled gas stove. They defer to her, speaking as though they expect her to be hard of hearing.

The director says, “Only two women are still being considered. You are one of them. Have you done any public speaking? Local theatre?” Josie replies but has the feeling the director doesn’t care about her answers, just wants to hear her talk. Finally he says, “We’ll be in touch.”

For the first time, Josie realizes she could actually be seen all over the country. Millions of strangers will stare at her. She will become a public person, and the thought troubles her. In the evening she calls her children in Chicago and Atlanta. Her daughter is excited for her. “It will be fun, Mom.” He son is less enthused. “They’ll bring in lights and cameras and tear up your house.” Josie wonders what her husband would have said.

By bedtime, she decides to do it. So what if the house gets messed up? She feels complimented to be chosen. Maybe she has qualities she’s never recognized in herself.

The next day is one of those sun-filled beauties that Josie considers her reward for putting up with Washington rain. The mountains and islands shine and seem to have moved closer somehow. The four men appear in the late afternoon, and they discuss the weather until it becomes awkward. The director finally says, “We chose the other woman for the commercial. But we appreciate all your time.”

The men leave. Josie watches the car pull away. She sits on her porch until the sun begins to fade and the temperature drops. Then she goes inside, locks the door, and closes the windows. The days are beautiful, but the nights can produce a chill.

She called it her pocketbook (the word still doesn’t mean paperback to me). She always chose a basic no nonsense color that was easy to wipe clean. No casual, flappy-topped, slouchy fashion statement this. It was a stiff sided serious carryall meant to outlast a nuclear blast. Short and thick leather handles could have doubled as pit bull collars. Mom’s purse had a sturdy metal closure with two intertwining knobs that snapped shut with unquestioned authority. When I was young enough, my nail bitten fingers could not undo it. When I was old enough, I was scared to try.

My mother’s purse harbored her own basic needs. Aspirin, comb, checkbook, wallet, keys, gloves and a hankie to spit on for the vigorous wiping of goop off our faces. Band-aids and a vile little vial of Mercurochrome. And a bottle of diet pills, too. For years she was jazzed on amphetamines. But who knew?

In addition to serving her requirements, that purse was a treasure trove for kids. If you are old enough to remember Steve Martin’s magic routine with the Chinese Mystery Pagoda Box of the Dead, it was sort of like that. We couldn’t get into it … but we knew that if we needed something, really needed it, Ma’s purse had it.

There was always gum. In addition to the Clove she chose for herself, she had Dad’s Black Jack and Teaberry for Sis and me. In the provisions department, Dad preferred horehound. The rest of us liked sour balls. But she also kept a supply of the softer, chewier keep-you-mouth-shut-longer kind of Bit-O-Honeys or Chuckles or Jujyfruits.

She often had a toy or two for longer trips. I could be kept entertained for hours with a plastic horse forever frozen into a rearing position. The little man who rode it, eternally in a leg splayed squat, could as easily ride a window handle around and around. I suppose Mom had something that would keep Sis quiet, too. Maybe a Katy Keene comic.

My mother’s purse was heavy enough to be a bludgeon. She carried it everywhere, of course, and would have used it at the drop of a hat if anyone threatened us kids. It was a survival kit and it appears to have worked. But I don’t remember ever thanking her for that.