Several years ago, my beloved’s stepmother passed away and left behind an unusual gift. A cache of everything I had ever wanted in the way of jewelry.
Mostly costume, I was the recipient of the remnants of an obsession, a collection of earrings, rings, necklaces, bracelets and watches. “Here, do you want this?” her daughter had asked me, tired from sorting and packing.
We were standing in her mother’s former bedroom, now a storage space for all she had collected. One wall stacked from floor to ceiling full of dolls, collectable and rare, safe within their boxes, other boxes with shoes, bags and various toiletries. I don’t think she ever opened any of them. Bought most likely during lonely nights watching QVC, she had also fulfilled her quota of kitchen appliances, baskets and wigs, all which has already been divided up between the other women relatives. I had only met her three years earlier and didn’t spend much time with her. I was the last to know her, the last to get there, and the last to say goodbye.
“So, do you want them?” she asked me again, her voice tired but not impatient. She knew what this all looked like to those who really didn’t know her mother. She wanted to put it all to rest, along with the memories and the clutter.
Standing to face me, she handed me two large boxes each containing plastic bags sorted with the various pieces; rings in one bag, necklaces in another, etc. She held them out to me, arms stretched taunt so that I could see her triceps. There was a lot of heavy metal there, and she wasn’t going to take no for an answer. For someone who had one good watch, five rings and a couple of stainless steel earrings, this was the mother lode.
“I will be happy to take it, but don’t you want some of it?” I asked as she transferred the weight of the boxes to me.
“This junk?” she laughed. “No, you can have it, and if you find there’s really nothing you want, feel free to throw it away.”
Content the responsibility was now mine, she moved quickly onto the next project.
“Hey!” she yelled towards the room where she was heading “Who wants these cds?”
The next few weeks were spent uncovering my surprise treasures, quickly realizing there were so many pieces I had to purchase a jewelry armoire to store them.
Even more surprising was the possibility that some of the rings (fifty-five in all) might have real gems in them, not just glass stones. Much to my husband’s chagrin, I decided not to learn the value of them; I was happier thinking they were all real diamonds and gemstones. Taking them to a jeweler I trusted would be time consuming and take the mystery out of the whole experience. No, I was better off not knowing, because had I known the market value, I would not have worn them. Their value to me was priceless, appraised or not.
Happily, I did keep some of the watches out of the total sixty-nine I counted. Some were plastic and others were the result of the purchase of many drive-through dinners when she didn’t feel like cooking. None of them worked.
I kept twenty-five of the watches, to be exact. Some were very pretty, more ornamental than functional, and I thought perhaps I would just wear them as bracelets and not be concerned about whether they kept the correct time. After all, I had gotten this far without ever really knowing what the hour was, and never seemed to be late for anything. No sounds of tick-tick-tick in the background of my mind, I was soon to learn a lot of people DO want to know what time it is and I had to keep explaining why the watch I was wearing was really a bracelet.
I realized I was doing her a disservice by not wearing them and sharing then with the rest of the world. What would be the harm? All they needed were batteries and a cleaning. I would think of her every time I strapped one on. What better tribute to her than that?
“Wow” said the man behind the counter.
“Looks like you’ve got a lot of time on your hands.” We both laughed as I handed the plastic baggie full of time pieces.
Time is all we really have, and we best not waste it. If I can carve out enough to glance at my wrist now and then, I will consider it a blessing.
She did.
Mostly costume, I was the recipient of the remnants of an obsession, a collection of earrings, rings, necklaces, bracelets and watches. “Here, do you want this?” her daughter had asked me, tired from sorting and packing.
We were standing in her mother’s former bedroom, now a storage space for all she had collected. One wall stacked from floor to ceiling full of dolls, collectable and rare, safe within their boxes, other boxes with shoes, bags and various toiletries. I don’t think she ever opened any of them. Bought most likely during lonely nights watching QVC, she had also fulfilled her quota of kitchen appliances, baskets and wigs, all which has already been divided up between the other women relatives. I had only met her three years earlier and didn’t spend much time with her. I was the last to know her, the last to get there, and the last to say goodbye.
“So, do you want them?” she asked me again, her voice tired but not impatient. She knew what this all looked like to those who really didn’t know her mother. She wanted to put it all to rest, along with the memories and the clutter.
Standing to face me, she handed me two large boxes each containing plastic bags sorted with the various pieces; rings in one bag, necklaces in another, etc. She held them out to me, arms stretched taunt so that I could see her triceps. There was a lot of heavy metal there, and she wasn’t going to take no for an answer. For someone who had one good watch, five rings and a couple of stainless steel earrings, this was the mother lode.
“I will be happy to take it, but don’t you want some of it?” I asked as she transferred the weight of the boxes to me.
“This junk?” she laughed. “No, you can have it, and if you find there’s really nothing you want, feel free to throw it away.”
Content the responsibility was now mine, she moved quickly onto the next project.
“Hey!” she yelled towards the room where she was heading “Who wants these cds?”
The next few weeks were spent uncovering my surprise treasures, quickly realizing there were so many pieces I had to purchase a jewelry armoire to store them.
Even more surprising was the possibility that some of the rings (fifty-five in all) might have real gems in them, not just glass stones. Much to my husband’s chagrin, I decided not to learn the value of them; I was happier thinking they were all real diamonds and gemstones. Taking them to a jeweler I trusted would be time consuming and take the mystery out of the whole experience. No, I was better off not knowing, because had I known the market value, I would not have worn them. Their value to me was priceless, appraised or not.
Happily, I did keep some of the watches out of the total sixty-nine I counted. Some were plastic and others were the result of the purchase of many drive-through dinners when she didn’t feel like cooking. None of them worked.
I kept twenty-five of the watches, to be exact. Some were very pretty, more ornamental than functional, and I thought perhaps I would just wear them as bracelets and not be concerned about whether they kept the correct time. After all, I had gotten this far without ever really knowing what the hour was, and never seemed to be late for anything. No sounds of tick-tick-tick in the background of my mind, I was soon to learn a lot of people DO want to know what time it is and I had to keep explaining why the watch I was wearing was really a bracelet.
I realized I was doing her a disservice by not wearing them and sharing then with the rest of the world. What would be the harm? All they needed were batteries and a cleaning. I would think of her every time I strapped one on. What better tribute to her than that?
“Wow” said the man behind the counter.
“Looks like you’ve got a lot of time on your hands.” We both laughed as I handed the plastic baggie full of time pieces.
Time is all we really have, and we best not waste it. If I can carve out enough to glance at my wrist now and then, I will consider it a blessing.
She did.
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