I found my mother’s monogram pendant. I was raking my barn aisle after mucking stalls and suddenly spied the small gold circle winking up at me through the stalks of hay chaff. What a relief!
You can see that the the pendant wore through at the top. I had figured this must have been the scenario as the bail was still intact on the chain around my neck. This is exactly what happened with my mother’s diamond engagement ring: after her death I wore it every day until the gold thinned and finally broke.
I am not much of a jewelry person. If I like something, I tend to put it on and leave it. (In the case of the signet ring given to me by my grandmother when I was in fourth grade, for the next forty-two years and counting.) Of course this makes me sartorially dull, but I tell myself it also makes me reliable.
I realize I am like this in most things. Recently Lucy and I were driving the back roads and we passed a hay field dotted with rotting giant round bales.
“Gosh, I wish I had some of those round bales as mulch,” I sighed.
“Do you know, Mom,” replied Lucy, “you say that every time we go by this field?”
I was taken aback. “Really? I’m sorry.” I thought for a moment. “Well — at least I’m dependable. Not some flighty, changeable person but a safe, boring, predictable old mom who will always want more mulch.”
In the same way, three hundred and sixty days out of every three hundred and sixty-five, I will be wearing small gold stud earrings, my wedding ring, my mother’s rings, my grandmother’s ring, a Timex watch — and, now once again, as soon as I can have it repaired, the first-date anniversary pendant that reminds me of both my dear parents.
I’m so grateful that I found it.