Today I stopped at Starbucks and used the last of a gift card.  Finding that I still owed twelve cents, I pulled out my coin purse and rummaged for a dime and pennies.  “Is that a skate key?” inquired the barista, peering down inquisitively. “Drum key,” I answered. “Oh, are you a drummer?” I resisted the urge to lie and instead answered truthfully,  “Don’t I wish?  Actually, I raise drummers.”  This too, is an obsolete truth.  It has been ten months since I used the drum key.

How often do you clean out the nooks and crannies of your purse? In doing so, do you discover relics, ticket stubs and memories?  Last time I went on a handbag cleaning spree, I found a worn ribbon of paper, saved from a memorable fortune cookie.  I had carried it since a family reunion some ten years previous.  The drum key is not so ancient. Up until June of last year, I taught music. I got used to setting up and tearing down my drum kit. I also directed and attended a number of performances where it was advantageous to have a drum key handy.  So, it came to reside in my purse along with my small measuring tape and my P38 can opener.  Like a good boy scout, a good mother is always prepared. 

These days, I work in a pathology lab and come home to an empty nest.  One has to wonder what I am doing with a drum key in my wallet.  One also wonders if it makes me more interesting to carry a drum key or a skate key?  But, maybe that’s just the writer in me that wonders.