12 Things Every ’60s Mom Had In Their Handbags At All Times

Remember when mom’s handbag wasn’t just a fashion statement—it was a full-blown survival kit for everyday life? Growing up in the 1960s, I was endlessly fascinated by the magic of my mother’s purse. It seemed to defy the laws of space and time.

From Band-Aids to breath mints, safety pins to sewing kits, tissues to Tic Tacs—whatever you needed, she had it. It was like Mary Poppins meets mission control. Stuck in traffic? Out came the snacks. Scraped your knee at the park? She had antiseptic and a comforting word. Spilled something on your shirt? She had a stain wipe and a scarf to cover it up.

Her handbag was command central, a portable HQ for our small family’s daily adventures. It jingled with keys, snapped with lipstick cases, and smelled faintly of spearmint and leather. What amazed me most was how effortlessly she wielded its powers.

No digging, no fumbling—just a swift reach inside, and voilà, crisis averted. Today, most of us carry tech to feel prepared, but back then, moms had the original mobile toolkit slung over their shoulder. To this day, whenever I see a well-loved handbag, I smile. Because sometimes, a purse isn’t just a purse—it’s a little bit of magic in disguise.

1. Wonderbread Rain Bonnet

The telltale crinkle of plastic always gave it away. Mom would whip out that folded square from a tiny plastic case at the first drop of rain, unfurling it with practiced precision to protect her freshly set hair. These ingenious little bonnets often came branded with the Wonderbread logo—a clever bit of advertising that moms didn’t seem to mind as long as their weekly salon appointment wasn’t ruined.

I still laugh remembering how my mother would transform from elegant shopper to what looked like a walking shower cap in seconds flat.

The bonnets were transparent, lightweight, and tucked away so neatly you’d never know they were there until needed. And need them we did! In those pre-umbrella days, protecting a bouffant or beehive was serious business—worth looking a little silly for the sake of saving another trip to the beauty parlor.

2. Decorative Keyring Collection

Jingle-jangle! You could hear mom coming from three rooms away thanks to her keyring collection. Those weren’t just keys—they were a personality statement adorned with miniature mementos from family vacations and special occasions. My mother’s favorite was a tiny silver box from Atlantic City that actually opened to reveal an even tinier pair of dice.

Each trinket told a story: the ceramic Florida orange from our trip to see grandma, the copper Empire State Building from dad’s business trip, the plastic hula girl that made us kids giggle. These keychains weren’t just decorative; they made house keys easier to find in the depths of a purse.

Practical and sentimental—that was mom’s style. Sometimes she’d let me hold them while waiting at the doctor’s office, each little bauble a passport to memories and daydreams about places we’d been or hoped to visit someday.

3. Pocket-Sized First Aid Arsenal

Skinned knees didn’t stand a chance against mom’s miraculous first aid kit. Tucked into a corner of her handbag was a compact pouch containing everything needed to handle childhood disasters on the go. Band-Aids were the stars of this portable emergency room—not the boring beige ones we have today, but those distinctive flesh-colored strips with the red pull-tabs that never quite worked right.

Alongside them were individually wrapped alcohol prep pads that stung like the dickens but “killed the germs” as mom would say while I hopped around dramatically. The kit usually contained a few safety pins, some gauze, and that angry-orange mercurochrome that painted wounds like sunset.

My brother once called it “mom’s doctor bag,” which wasn’t far off. Between playground tumbles and bike accidents, that little kit probably saved us hundreds in doctor visits and turned mom into our personal Florence Nightingale.

4. Pristine White Handkerchief

Long before tissues became disposable necessities, mom’s crisp white handkerchief saved the day for runny noses and tearful moments. Pressed to perfection and often embroidered with delicate flowers or her initials in the corner, this simple square of cotton was perhaps the most elegant solution to life’s messier moments.

I can still picture mom dampening a corner with her tongue (much to my horror) before wiping a smudge of chocolate from my cheek. The handkerchief emerged from a specific pocket in her purse, always folded just so, like a magician’s prop ready for action.

These weren’t just practical items—they were heirlooms. My grandmother had passed down several to my mother, some with hand-tatted lace edges that were deemed too special for everyday use. For special occasions, mom would tuck one with a bit of lace showing from her sleeve or purse—a touch of refinement that seems lost in today’s world of paper products.

5. Emergency Sewing Kit

Mom’s tiny sewing kit saved us from more public embarrassments than I can count! Housed in what looked like a fancy business card case, this miniature tailor shop contained needles threaded with black and white, safety pins of various sizes, and buttons that somehow matched whatever we were wearing. The day my brother split his pants at church remains legendary in family lore.

While Dad distracted the pastor, Mom whisked my mortified sibling to a quiet corner and performed what we later called “the three-minute miracle”—a repair so seamless nobody noticed it during the post-service handshakes. Those nimble fingers could reattach a button or fix a fallen hem with astonishing speed. I once asked why she didn’t just carry tape instead.

“Tape is temporary,” she explained with that knowing smile. “A proper stitch lasts.” Like so many mom-skills of that era, her quick-draw sewing abilities seemed almost magical to us kids who grew up watching her everyday heroics.

6. Elegant Powder Compact

Nothing announced “grown-up lady” quite like the golden click of mom’s powder compact. That satisfying sound would draw my attention as she’d flip it open to reveal a perfect circle of pressed powder and a tiny mirror that seemed to hold all the secrets of womanhood. The compact itself was a work of art—often gold-toned with an enameled design on top, sometimes featuring rhinestones or a mother-of-pearl inlay.

My mother’s favorite had a delicate rose pattern that fascinated me to no end. I’d watch, mesmerized, as she’d dab the little puff against her nose and forehead, magically erasing any hint of shine. These weren’t just makeup items but social tools.

I remember how she’d offer it to her friends during coffee klatches, a ritual of feminine solidarity that seemed as important as the actual touch-up. When I turned thirteen, mom gifted me my own (much simpler) compact—an initiation into womanhood that felt more significant than any birthday cake.

7. Signature Lipstick Tube

The gold tube emerged from mom’s purse like a magic wand, transforming her from everyday-mom to ready-for-anything-mom in one smooth application. That tube of lipstick—almost always Revlon’s Fire & Ice or Cherries in the Snow—was her armor against the world. I loved watching the ritual: the precise twist of the base, the careful application, and the final press of lips together to evenly distribute the color.

No blotting with tissues for my mother—she had mastered the perfect application. The lipstick itself smelled faintly of wax and roses, a scent I still associate with special occasions and my mother’s comforting presence.

Sometimes, when feeling particularly generous, she’d let me try a tiny dab on my lips before wiping it away with her handkerchief. “When you’re older,” she’d promise, making lipstick the ultimate symbol of maturity. That elegant gold tube represented something more than makeup—it was confidence, femininity, and the mysterious power of transformation all women seemed to possess.

8. Wallet Full of Cash and Coupons

Before plastic cards took over the world, mom’s wallet was a fascinating archive of our family economy. The snap-closure leather billfold contained neatly arranged dollar bills—ones and fives primarily—organized by denomination with military precision. The real treasure trove was the coupon section. Mom clipped and sorted these paper savings with the dedication of a stock market analyst.

Betty Crocker points, Green Stamps, and manufacturer coupons were filed by expiration date in little accordion pockets. I can still picture her at the checkout counter, proudly presenting her coupons while other shoppers fidgeted behind us.

That wallet also held mysterious adult documents: her driver’s license with a photo that never quite looked like her, social security card (carried everywhere back then), and those paper check registers where she’d record every penny spent. When she’d let me hold it while she tried on clothes, I felt like I was guarding Fort Knox—the responsibility both terrifying and thrilling for a kid whose own financial portfolio consisted of a piggy bank.

9. Family Photo Collection

Mom’s purse contained our family history, carefully preserved in a plastic photo holder that accordioned out to reveal a parade of faces. These weren’t digital copies but irreplaceable originals—snapshots of Christmas mornings, summer vacations, and school portraits with missing front teeth. The photos were arranged chronologically, a timeline of our growing family.

Dad’s spot was always first, followed by each child in birth order, then extended family. The plastic covering had turned slightly yellow with age, but those images remained vibrant connections to our shared past. Mom would sometimes pull out this photographic lifeline while waiting at the doctor’s office or sitting through my brother’s baseball practice. “Remember this day?” she’d ask, pointing to a beach scene or birthday party.

More than once, these photos rescued us from boredom or distracted us from tears after a scraped knee. They also served as mom’s secret weapon at family gatherings—visual evidence to settle disputes about “who was there when” or “what year that happened.” No smartphone gallery has ever felt as special as that treasured collection.

10. Roll of Lifesaver Mints

Church services became bearable thanks to mom’s strategic deployment of Lifesavers. That distinctive roll of candies—usually peppermint or wintergreen—appeared like clockwork whenever fidgeting threatened to evolve into full-scale rebellion in the pews. The candy itself came wrapped in foil-lined paper that crinkled no matter how carefully you tried to open it.

Mom had perfected the art of silent unwrapping, a skill I never managed to master despite years of observation. One mint could buy about 15 minutes of good behavior, carefully rationed throughout the service.

These weren’t just bribes for good behavior—they were social currency. Mom would offer them to other mothers’ children, creating an instant bond of gratitude between parents. They freshened breath before unexpected social interactions and soothed upset tummies on car rides. The roll lived in a specific pocket of her purse, and the distinctive shape was immediately recognizable by touch alone. To this day, the smell of wintergreen transports me back to Sunday mornings, dressed in uncomfortable clothes but comforted by that sweet, familiar taste.

11. Avon Hand Cream

That little pink tube of Silicone Glove hand cream was mom’s secret weapon against the ravages of dishwater and garden soil. Avon had convinced an entire generation of housewives that their hands deserved special care, and my mother was a devoted believer. The cream itself had a distinctive scent—not quite floral, not quite medicinal, but immediately recognizable as “mom smell” to us kids. She applied it religiously after washing dishes, before bed, and anytime her hands felt dry.

The ritual fascinated me: the careful squeeze of the tube, the methodical rubbing between palms, then the final massage of each finger joint. Our local Avon lady, Mrs. Peterson, would visit every few weeks, and hand cream was always on mom’s order list. “A woman’s hands show her age first,” she’d tell me with absolute conviction.

Looking back, I realize this small act of self-care was one of the few indulgences she permitted herself in days filled with caring for everyone else. That pink tube represented five minutes of attention turned inward—a mini-rebellion against the constant demands of motherhood.

12. Station Wagon Keys with St. Christopher Medal

Long before key fobs and remote starters, mom’s car keys were instantly recognizable by the St. Christopher medal dangling from the ring. The patron saint of travelers watched over our family station wagon—a massive boat of a vehicle that somehow managed to fit all of us plus the occasional neighborhood kid. That medal had been blessed by our parish priest, a fact mom mentioned whenever we embarked on trips longer than 20 miles.

The keys themselves were substantial—none of this modern, lightweight business—with deep ridges that left imprints on your palm. They lived in a designated pocket of her purse, easily accessible for quick getaways from grocery stores with cranky toddlers. Dad had his own set, of course, but mom’s keys represented freedom and responsibility.

I remember the day she let me hold them while she tried on dresses—the weight felt enormous in my small hand. When I finally earned my driver’s license years later, she gifted me my very own St. Christopher medal. “Just in case,” she said with a wink, “the heavenly GPS needs backup.”