I don’t have a lot of nice jewelry, mostly because neither myself, nor my family, can afford to buy it, but the few pieces I do have, mean a lot to me. When my paternal grandmother died 20 years ago (actually, 20 years ago on Tuesday), myself and my oldest female cousin split her jewelry, and as I was born in June, I got her pearls, which I keep in a satin bag, hidden in the dark recesses of I’m-not-telling-you-where. I think I’ve worn them only once, but you can definitely feel the difference between real pearls and the fake stuff. I also have a necklace my father bought me when I graduated from high school that is a beautiful pendant on a gold chain, but I don’t wear gold jewelry, so it hasn’t been on my neck that often, but it is also kept in the dark recesses of I’m-not-telling-you-where. The last piece I have is my high school ring, which is white gold, and literally the most expensive thing I have that is not electronic. It never comes off my hand except when I take a shower or go in the pool over the summer. I’ve had it since my junior year, which was 1998-1999, so…it’s been a while. All that being said, neither necklaces or my class ring would be something I would be distraught if something happened to them. I mean, I’d be upset, but I wouldn’t be committed-to-a-mental-hospital upset.
For my 10th birthday, way back in the halcyon days of 1992, my paternal grandmother gave me a stuffed dog, Poky Little Puppy, as a gift. I still have that dog, I sleep with it every night. I took it to college with me, much to the amusement of my friends. If my house caught fire, and I had five minutes to get out, assuming my family took care of the animals, I would grab that dog, my computer/purse/external hard drive, then run like hell. That’s how valuable it is to me.