Leah Paul
Mother’s Pearls
by Leah Paul
At the top of my mother’s dresser was a very large jewelry box. It had two drawers with a lift up top and it was covered in a golden raw silk. She didn’t have a huge collection of jewels, but she did have many fine pieces that were mixed in with the ever so popular 1970’s junk jewelry.
For me, this jewelry box was an extension of my toy box. I loved to clamber up on to her bed and lean over to reach my own personal treasure chest. I would clip on dangling earrings and shake my head to hear them jangle and pretend I was a mysterious gypsy visiting from Italy. I would take her gold rigid monogrammed necklace and put the ends in my ears to pretend I was a very busy doctor that needed to listen to everyone’s hearts with my metal stethoscope. I would slip on her silver cuff bracelets and suddenly I was Wonder Woman blocking bullets and saving the world. But, my all time favorite piece of her jewelry to play with was the string of pearls.
The pearls were given to her by my father on their wedding day. I have no idea how a high school teacher and football coach could afford these, and I suspect my grandfather loaned him the money. I have never seen a strand of pearls like these. It is a very long strand with a double clipping clasp made to look like a gold flower with a pearl in the middle. The clasp is what makes these pearls so different. You can wear them as one long pearl necklace or place the clasp higher to make a shorter strand of pearls or use the double clasp to make two strands of pearls or even make a double choker of pearls with the flower hidden in the back or showcased in the front.
I loved these pearls. I would pull them out and put them on while wearing my mother’s highest of heels. I would strut back and forth in front of her dressing mirror and model all the different ways the pearls could be worn. Of course, I would always finish with a tribute to the 1920’s and pretend that I was a flapper and spin those pearls in my hand while attempting the Charleston. And that is usually when I broke the pearls. Entirely wrapped up in trying to dance in those highest of heels the pearls either went flying out of my hand and smacked in to a wall or I managed to smack them on top of the dresser. The funny thing is, though, my mother never got mad, and she loved that necklace. She simply picked through the shag carpet to find all of the rogue pearls and sent the necklace off to Tom Cook Jewelers to have them re-strung.
Because of my early connection with these pearls, they became part of my life. I wore them at my prom. I wore them in my senior high school picture. In fact, I have worn them in every formal portrait ever taken of me. I wore them when I graduated from high school. I wore them when I was initiated in to my sorority. I wore them when I graduated from college. I wore them the night my husband proposed. I wore them for my wedding. I wore them when I graduated from graduate school.
They were always my mother’s pearls and always kept in that jewelry box. So, even when I did not live at home anymore, I would come home and borrow the pearls a few weeks or months at a time. When I returned home from my honeymoon, I drove home to visit and return the pearls. As I was placing the necklace back in its special spot in the box, I glanced over to my mother’s dressing mirror and saw the reflection of a little girl in the highest of heels carelessly flinging a pearl necklace over her head. It was then that I asked my mother why she never scolded me for breaking her pearls and continued to let me play in her jewelry box, especially with the pearls. She walked over and ran her finger along the curled up strand and then turned to me and patted my cheek. She looked me in the eye, smiled and said in her very southern drawl, “Honey, those pearls are just a possession. Possessions don’t matter, people matter.”
I inherited the pearl necklace entirely too early. I wear them as often as I can because my mother was also a full believer that pearls go with everything, even a bathing suit. And while I do not don the pearl necklace at the beach, I often wear it to church on Sunday and with jeans on Friday. I do not have a daughter to pass these pearls on to, but I do have niece who is my mother’s namesake. And, she looks so much like my mother and behaves so much like my mother that I have become a believer in reincarnation. I hope she will borrow the pearls for all of the milestone occasions in her life, and I plan on giving her the necklace when she marries. Most importantly, when I bestow the heirloom upon her, I will remind her of her Granny’s words of wisdom. For as pretty as the pearls are, they are just a possession and really do not matter.
by Leah Paul
At the top of my mother’s dresser was a very large jewelry box. It had two drawers with a lift up top and it was covered in a golden raw silk. She didn’t have a huge collection of jewels, but she did have many fine pieces that were mixed in with the ever so popular 1970’s junk jewelry.
For me, this jewelry box was an extension of my toy box. I loved to clamber up on to her bed and lean over to reach my own personal treasure chest. I would clip on dangling earrings and shake my head to hear them jangle and pretend I was a mysterious gypsy visiting from Italy. I would take her gold rigid monogrammed necklace and put the ends in my ears to pretend I was a very busy doctor that needed to listen to everyone’s hearts with my metal stethoscope. I would slip on her silver cuff bracelets and suddenly I was Wonder Woman blocking bullets and saving the world. But, my all time favorite piece of her jewelry to play with was the string of pearls.
The pearls were given to her by my father on their wedding day. I have no idea how a high school teacher and football coach could afford these, and I suspect my grandfather loaned him the money. I have never seen a strand of pearls like these. It is a very long strand with a double clipping clasp made to look like a gold flower with a pearl in the middle. The clasp is what makes these pearls so different. You can wear them as one long pearl necklace or place the clasp higher to make a shorter strand of pearls or use the double clasp to make two strands of pearls or even make a double choker of pearls with the flower hidden in the back or showcased in the front.
I loved these pearls. I would pull them out and put them on while wearing my mother’s highest of heels. I would strut back and forth in front of her dressing mirror and model all the different ways the pearls could be worn. Of course, I would always finish with a tribute to the 1920’s and pretend that I was a flapper and spin those pearls in my hand while attempting the Charleston. And that is usually when I broke the pearls. Entirely wrapped up in trying to dance in those highest of heels the pearls either went flying out of my hand and smacked in to a wall or I managed to smack them on top of the dresser. The funny thing is, though, my mother never got mad, and she loved that necklace. She simply picked through the shag carpet to find all of the rogue pearls and sent the necklace off to Tom Cook Jewelers to have them re-strung.
Because of my early connection with these pearls, they became part of my life. I wore them at my prom. I wore them in my senior high school picture. In fact, I have worn them in every formal portrait ever taken of me. I wore them when I graduated from high school. I wore them when I was initiated in to my sorority. I wore them when I graduated from college. I wore them the night my husband proposed. I wore them for my wedding. I wore them when I graduated from graduate school.
They were always my mother’s pearls and always kept in that jewelry box. So, even when I did not live at home anymore, I would come home and borrow the pearls a few weeks or months at a time. When I returned home from my honeymoon, I drove home to visit and return the pearls. As I was placing the necklace back in its special spot in the box, I glanced over to my mother’s dressing mirror and saw the reflection of a little girl in the highest of heels carelessly flinging a pearl necklace over her head. It was then that I asked my mother why she never scolded me for breaking her pearls and continued to let me play in her jewelry box, especially with the pearls. She walked over and ran her finger along the curled up strand and then turned to me and patted my cheek. She looked me in the eye, smiled and said in her very southern drawl, “Honey, those pearls are just a possession. Possessions don’t matter, people matter.”
I inherited the pearl necklace entirely too early. I wear them as often as I can because my mother was also a full believer that pearls go with everything, even a bathing suit. And while I do not don the pearl necklace at the beach, I often wear it to church on Sunday and with jeans on Friday. I do not have a daughter to pass these pearls on to, but I do have niece who is my mother’s namesake. And, she looks so much like my mother and behaves so much like my mother that I have become a believer in reincarnation. I hope she will borrow the pearls for all of the milestone occasions in her life, and I plan on giving her the necklace when she marries. Most importantly, when I bestow the heirloom upon her, I will remind her of her Granny’s words of wisdom. For as pretty as the pearls are, they are just a possession and really do not matter.