Astronomers tell us that somewhere out in the vastness of space there are curious objects known as black holes. Formed during the collapse of super-huge stars, these things are so massive and their gravity so intense that nothing — not even light or Harry Houdini — can escape the clutches of their immense gravity.

When I first heard about black holes, I got that funny feeling called déjà vu. This is because I thought that they were describing my wife’s purse.

If women are an enigma wrapped in a mystery, then their purses fall into the realm of the unknowable. As any married man will tell you, a look into his wife’s purse is a journey into the netherworld, a place where a guy could get lost and never be heard from again. It’s the Bermuda Triangle of fashion accessories, a capacious leather satchel that’s large enough and heavy enough to contain Amelia Earhart and her Lockheed Electra.

I’m sure you’ve seen photos of glamorous models in catalogs such as those published by JC Penney or Victoria’s Secret wherein the woman is clutching a tiny handbag that’s big enough to hold approximately half of a Kleenex. These women are obviously single.

Think about it, guys. Would you marry a gal whose constant companion is a tiny designer handbag that has room for exactly one Tic Tac lozenge?

I think not.

I never cease to be amazed by the wonders that my wife’s purse can produce. Some are on the order of the miracle of the fishes and loaves of bread.

Many long years ago, we embarked upon a short vacation trip with our two young sons. At one point we stopped to admire the scenic splendor of a roadside rest stop. Our boys soon finished their business and began to tear around in a nearby picnic area. One of them took this opportunity to practice his free-fall technique off the top of a convenient tourist information sign.

The next thing we knew, the child was on the ground, wailing at the top of his lungs, clutching a small wound on his knee. We pried his hand from his leg, and when he saw the tiny trickle of blood, the volume of his yelps increased by several dozen decibels. (It probably didn’t help when I pronounced, jokingly, that amputation was likely the only option.)

My wife ordered me to fetch her purse while she consoled the child. I returned with the purse several minutes later, huffing and sweating and convinced that I had suffered a double hernia.

“What have you got in there, an anvil?” I asked.

She began to dig through her purse. “Why, do you need one?” she asked as if she may just happen to have an anvil in there somewhere toward the bottom.

In no time at all, the boy was bandaged, given a Chewable Tylenol and was happily munching on a granola bar. We resumed our journey with scarcely a few minutes’ delay.

I was impressed by the purse’s conjuring abilities, so I decided to put it to the test. As we drove along, I said, “I think we might be lost. I sure wish we had some idea of where we are.”

In a matter of seconds, the purse coughed up a neatly folded paper map. Pretty good.

“You know,” I said, “I’m kind of hungry but we’re already running behind schedule.” A roll of Life Savers candy was promptly placed in my hand. Impressive!

I decided to put the purse to the ultimate challenge.

“Dang it!” I exclaimed, pounding the steering wheel in faux frustration. “I forgot to fix the spare tire! I sure hope that we don’t get a flat!” A roll of duct tape was summarily tossed onto my lap.

That did it. The purse had won my undying respect and admiration. I suddenly felt sorry about kidding my wife for hauling that massive thing around with her everywhere that she went.

But the next day, our vacation was delayed by an hour or more, or so it seemed. The purse had swallowed our car keys and stubbornly refused to cough them back up.

As my wife rummaged around deep in her purse’s innards, she would occasionally mutter such things as “Aha! There’s my blue hairbrush!” or “Whose teddy bear is this?” or “Are these S&H Green Stamps good for anything anymore?”

At length she gave up and plopped the purse onto my lap, nearly crushing my femurs. “Here!” she exclaimed, clearly frustrated, “You look for a while!”

“No way!” I replied. “Haven’t you heard about what happened to that poor, unlucky Earhart lady?”

— Jerry’s book, “Dear County Agent Guy” can be found at www.workman.comand in bookstores nationwide.