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Real
jewels lie in stories
behind baubles, bangles |
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You’ve seen the ads in newspapers and magazines.
“We buy gold and silver, old watches and diamonds.”
The ads promise top money for all that old jewelry lying
useless in our jewelry boxes. What’s it all worth?
Ten, 15, maybe 20 dollars? To me, it’s priceless.
There are just some things in life you can’t put
a price on. And the treasures in my jewelry box are among
those.
One of my favorites is a black onyx ring with a tiny diamond
chip at one end. Every time I wear that ring I remember
how grown up I felt on my 16th birthday when my godmother,
Aunt Bernadine, gave it to me. The happy times I had with
Aunt B in the years that followed, flood my senses every
time I see that ring.
When I was in grade school and taking piano lessons, Aunt
B gave me a Liberace charm bracelet with a grand piano,
tiny sheet music, bass and treble clef notes, a candelabra,
and a tiny framed photo of the man himself all dangling
from the chain. The memories of my piano lessons are there
in black and white and gold.
Another one of my favorite jewelry box treasures is the
silver and turquoise ring my mother gave me when I was
a child. She bought it on a trip out west when she was
in college in the ’40s. When Mom gave it to me it
was so large she taped up the back side of the ring so
I could wear it to my eighth grade graduation. Now-a-days
with a bit of arthritis in my fingers the ring is too
small, except on my pinkie finger, so on special occasions
out it comes and so do the memories of my mother who died
in 1979 at age 57.
In 1978, shortly after we married, my second husband gave
me a slender silver chain with a delicate silver carved
pendant dotted with five imitation pearls. The necklace
belonged to his mother who died years before I met my
husband. Even though I never knew her, that necklace is
especially important to me because it reminds me that
we both loved the same man.
The most treasured piece in my eclectic jewelry box is
a pocket watch that belonged to my grandmother. She died
when my mother was 9 years old so I never knew her either,
but what an amazing woman she must have been. The inscription
inside the watch says, “To Minta Pearl on your graduation
day, 1899.” Minta Pearl not only finished high school
and college, she went on to get her master’s degree
and then taught college physics at Ellsworth College in
Iowa. What an accomplishment for a woman in the early
1900s when most women didn’t even graduate from
high school.
My old jewelry box also holds my high school class ring,
a tiny pin that says “CL” for cheerleader,
and two or three slender chain necklaces given to me by
various boyfriends along the way. There’s an inch-wide
piece of balsa wood with a hand-painted robin on it that
hangs from a blue ribbon. My true love, at the time, bought
it for me at a craft fair on our first date. There’s
my dad’s Air Force officer’s bars from World
War II and a medal of Pope Pius XII that was blessed by
him in the early ’50s. There’s the St. Patrick’s
Day shamrock, a tiny America Flag pin and the Christmas
tree bulb one of my children glued to a pin for wearing
on my lapel. Money-wise, none of it is worth much, but
sentimentally speaking, priceless to the core.
Some of the other jewels in my special box include a small
rock from the Grand Canyon, a heart made from an elephant
tusk long before taking ivory was illegal, and a ring
made from a rough quartz crystal by my first husband,
the geologist. These items certainly aren’t jewels,
but they did come from the earth and are as valuable to
me as a polished gemstone from Tiffany’s.
Then there are the earrings. Oh my. Dozens and dozens
of pierced earrings, colors and shapes to boggle the eye.
Earrings shaped in big red “W’s” for
the University of Wisconsin football Badgers. Earrings
shaped in big yellow Swiss cheese blocks to wear on game
day when the Packers are playing. Cheeseheads, unite!
Even big black spider earrings for Halloween.
I may be a sentimentalist but the things that fill my
jewelry box are more precious to me than gold and diamonds.
At least I don’t have to worry about being robbed.
A would-be thief would throw up his hand in despair when
he saw the contents of my jewelry box. How far would he
get trying to fence my children’s baby teeth and
their notes to the tooth fairy?
Hopefully, someday my children and grandchildren might
want to transfer some of my memories into their own jewelry
boxes. Without a doubt each transfer will come with a
long heartfelt story to go with it. And that is where
the real jewels lie … in the stories behind the
goods.
(Lorenz, an art-of-living writer and speaker, can
be contacted at patricialorenz@juno.com.) |
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