Tuesday, August 28, 2007 at 2:02am
You are your safety-deposit box
Column: Writing Down Your Soul
You think you know someone. Your parents. Your children. Your spouse. After you've lived with someone for decades, you think you know what they like, what they believe, and what they have — especially what they have. After all, you've shared the same space for ages.
My brothers and sisters and I thought we knew our mom inside out. This wasn't difficult; she was transparent. At all times, our mother was happy to tell you exactly what she thought about religion and politics — which in her mind were the only subjects worthy of discussion. And she was consistent. When she uncovered some new documentation that verified her opinion, she would tell you about it in great detail, but nothing ever changed her mind. Once Laurene set her face forward, she did not waver.
Just as my mother was a rock with her thoughts, she was unswayed by fashion. She decided what looked good on her in her 30s and stuck to that simple, elegant style to the end. On any given day, she wore a cardigan sweater, a classic white blouse, an A-line wool skirt, and a leather belt to hold it all in place. On her feet she wore sensible low heels. Although she weighed just 125 pounds, and the last thing she needed was a girdle, she wore one every day to hold up her stockings. This was her working wardrobe. Until she broke her hip in her mid-'80s, she never wore pants or tennis shoes or, heaven help us, a sweat suit. The first time her children saw her in a sporty pink and blue running jacket with matching pants and New Balance walking shoes with sweat socks, we just stood there dumbfounded.
Mother had an equally unbending uniform for going out. She wore a dark wool belted suit with a slender midcalf skirt, stockings (and that girdle, of course), and beautiful shoes and matching handbag. If the destination was church, she capped her outfit with one of a dozen hats stored in large round boxes on the top shelf of her closet. And gloves. Laurene never forgot her gloves.
Her jewelry was equally elegant and equally consistent. Without fail, she put on four pieces of jewelry. No more. No less. First, she put on her wedding band, which she personally designed when she was a solid gold jewelry buyer at Marshall Field's in downtown Chicago in her 20s. It was an unusual band with alternating squares of engraved yellow gold flowers followed by white gold squares with five minuscule diamonds. Second, she put on her small but perfect strand of Mikimoto pearls, also acquired in her Marshall Field's days. She loved to tell us about her favorite Japanese salesman, who came to her abruptly in 1941, bowed very low, handed her a piece of richly brocaded obi cloth, and said, "I must go now." On Dec. 7, she understood. She abhorred everything Japanese imperialism stood for, but she still loved — and wore — her pearls. Next, she screwed on her tricolor gold love-knot earrings, a design so classic, you can buy the identical earrings from Tiffany's today. Last, she put on her watch. The watch was unusual. I've never seen one even remotely like it. It looks like a gold mesh bracelet. The watch is hidden under gold mesh made to look like it is weaving in and out of two gold rings. Visualize a preppy cloth belt that you buckle by putting the fabric through two D rings, and you've got the idea. When she wanted to know the time, she snapped the woven knot open and there was a tiny gold watch. Snap the gold knot back down and, voila, it's a sumptuous bracelet again.
If you had asked any one of us what jewelry our mother wore, we would have rattled off the same four pieces. It's all she wore for as long as any of us could remember.
So when Jay, our eldest brother and the executor of Mom's estate, told us to meet in his hotel room on the Sunday after the funeral to disperse the contents of her safety-deposit box, we thought it would be a very short meeting. He'd already sold the coins. Mom and Dad were obsessed with the gold standard and felt that America had gone in the wrong direction from the moment paper money was no longer backed with gold bullion in the mint. And when the government took real metal coins out of circulation in the 1960s, well, they went apoplectic. They were convinced that when depression or recession or inflation or deflation came, only the people with precious metal would eat. So my parents made their five children go through all the coins in our pockets for years and save all the real silver dimes and pre-sandwich quarters. As the pile grew, they had to get a bigger and bigger safety-deposit box. But Jay had already removed and sold the coins, which came to a staggering $32,000. (That's a whole lot of change!) And he'd taken care of all the paperwork. The only thing left in the box was her jewelry.
As my brother Larry and my sisters Claire and Mary and I filed in to Jay's motel room, we stared at the bed. What was all this stuff? There was so much that Jay had laid it out in three rows. Huh?
We stood around the bed, unsure how to proceed. Finally, my brothers and sisters said, "Janet, take the watch." I'd worn it on Friday for her eulogy, and loved the feel of it on my wrist, so I was thrilled to take it. At the same time, I reached for the box that held the gold love-knot earrings I'd worn. But when I opened it, I got a big surprise. In addition to the earrings, there was a matching brooch and pinky ring. I had the vaguest recollection that she might have worn the pin, but she never wore any ring but her wedding ring. I wondered out loud where she'd gotten it. Did it come from Marshall Field's? Did Daddy give it to her? Or did she choose it herself? Why didn't she ever wear it?
We had all agreed long before Mom's death that Mary would get Mom's wedding ring. And Mary had received it after the funeral, so it was Claire's turn. All Claire wanted were the pearls, but the pearls were nowhere on the bed. "Oh," Jay said, "Mom gave those to Elizabeth (his daughter) ages ago." But there were three other necklaces that looked like enormous yellowish pearls. In Mom's handwriting, the paper around them said: Ivory necklaces. That's it. Gee, Mom, we all thought, we'd like to know so much more: When did you get them? Who gave them to you? Did you wear them? Did you like them? But she left us no answers. Claire took the ivory necklaces.
Next, Claire picked up a tiny round silver box, one inch in diameter. She opened it. It was crammed full of jumbled things. She held it up to my face and I carefully pulled out something on top. As soon as my eyes focused, I cried out, "Jay, Jay, Jay, come look!" It was a gold baby identification bracelet with JRC, his initials, on the band. Jay looked shocked and moved. He must have worn it at his baptism, 62 years ago. Since then, it had rested in Mom's safety-deposit box.
Inspired now, Claire and I dug through the little silver box. We found a baby ring with a capital C, for Claire, but none with a J for Janet or L for Larry or M for Mary. We deduced that Mom grew weary of buying jewelry for each of us, because the other baby ring simply said "baby." Mary is our baby, so we gave it to her. After removing all the baby jewelry, there was something more, something weird. I dumped it out in my hand and turned it over until my brain could decipher what I was seeing: six pieces of gold dental work. But whose? Did she and Dad go to the dentist with instructions to save the old gold? They were a little nutty about gold, so it's possible, but we'll never know.
In other boxes we found Native American silver and turquoise bracelets that she never wore. Did they visit a reservation? No one knew. And she left no note. We found an outrageous, almost gaudy gold bracelet. No one had ever seen that. And a huge gold and amethyst ring. We were fairly certain that came from Vaney, Dad's mother. Mom never wore it, so it must have sat in the safety-deposit box since Vaney died in1971. And there was a topaz ring. Really quite lovely, but Mom never wore that either. Who did that belong to? Was it Vaney's too? Or was it a gift from Dad?
Every box, it seemed, held a jewelry surprise. One held a tiny 1-inch perfume bottle nestled in a silver cage on a silver chain. Mom never wore that! We wrestled it open, and, sure enough, the perfume brought her spirit into the room. Evening in Paris, I guessed, but I couldn't be sure. Mary is going to take it to a perfumer for an assessment.
As amazing as the array of jewelry was, the biggest surprise was the cigarette case. There were two. One was ornately carved tarnished silver in the undulating shape of a row of cigarettes. The other was flat, with just a few elegant Art Deco lines. In the center were the initials IMH. IMH? Who was IMH? Laurene kept this case in her safety-deposit box for decades, but none of us know anyone with the initials IMH. She left us a true mystery.
There were other treasures: a girl's gold bracelet that I remember wearing at age 3 or 4, a heavy gold chain that no one had ever seen, and rosaries, lots and lots of rosaries. Why were these rosaries in the safety-deposit box? Were they blessed by the pope? Did one belong to Daddy? Mother left no answers.
In the end, we were mystified by the contents of her safety-deposit box. Who was this woman who had delicate Indian silver, chunky ivory necklaces, a tricolor gold pinky ring, baby jewelry, and an initialed cigarette case?
She did not leave us any answers. So, as with so many other mysteries around her death, the Laurene we were so sure we knew receded more and more into the background and a new enigma stepped forward.
The experience left me with this one thought: If I died tomorrow, what would people think of me as they rifled through my safety-deposit box? I know what's in there. I know that the odd assortment of coins honor the birthdates of the people I love. But no one else could figure that out. I know that the Krugerrand is a gift from my ex-husband. I know that I gave the Mont Blanc Diplomat to my husband when he went to work for CNN in 1980 and the Rolex Submariner when we moved to Florida in 1984. I know. But I haven't written anything down. If I died suddenly, my family would walk around the objects I left behind, fingering them and asking themselves, "What is this? Who gave this to her? Why did she keep it? What did it mean to her?"
I leave you with this question: What mysteries are in your safety-deposit box?
(Next in the series: What the blind man knows.)
— — —
Janet Conner, S.E. (Spiritual Explorer), is the creator of the Spiritual Geography map and book series. She is currently working on a new book, "Writing Down the Soul: How to Activate and Listen to the Extraordinary Voice Within," for Conari Press. The Spiritual Geography books are available through Amazon or Spiritual Geography. Contact Janet at {email janetconner@tampabay.rr.com}janetconner@tampabay.rr.com{/email}. © Copyright 2007 by Janet Conner.
My brothers and sisters and I thought we knew our mom inside out. This wasn't difficult; she was transparent. At all times, our mother was happy to tell you exactly what she thought about religion and politics — which in her mind were the only subjects worthy of discussion. And she was consistent. When she uncovered some new documentation that verified her opinion, she would tell you about it in great detail, but nothing ever changed her mind. Once Laurene set her face forward, she did not waver.
Just as my mother was a rock with her thoughts, she was unswayed by fashion. She decided what looked good on her in her 30s and stuck to that simple, elegant style to the end. On any given day, she wore a cardigan sweater, a classic white blouse, an A-line wool skirt, and a leather belt to hold it all in place. On her feet she wore sensible low heels. Although she weighed just 125 pounds, and the last thing she needed was a girdle, she wore one every day to hold up her stockings. This was her working wardrobe. Until she broke her hip in her mid-'80s, she never wore pants or tennis shoes or, heaven help us, a sweat suit. The first time her children saw her in a sporty pink and blue running jacket with matching pants and New Balance walking shoes with sweat socks, we just stood there dumbfounded.
Mother had an equally unbending uniform for going out. She wore a dark wool belted suit with a slender midcalf skirt, stockings (and that girdle, of course), and beautiful shoes and matching handbag. If the destination was church, she capped her outfit with one of a dozen hats stored in large round boxes on the top shelf of her closet. And gloves. Laurene never forgot her gloves.
Her jewelry was equally elegant and equally consistent. Without fail, she put on four pieces of jewelry. No more. No less. First, she put on her wedding band, which she personally designed when she was a solid gold jewelry buyer at Marshall Field's in downtown Chicago in her 20s. It was an unusual band with alternating squares of engraved yellow gold flowers followed by white gold squares with five minuscule diamonds. Second, she put on her small but perfect strand of Mikimoto pearls, also acquired in her Marshall Field's days. She loved to tell us about her favorite Japanese salesman, who came to her abruptly in 1941, bowed very low, handed her a piece of richly brocaded obi cloth, and said, "I must go now." On Dec. 7, she understood. She abhorred everything Japanese imperialism stood for, but she still loved — and wore — her pearls. Next, she screwed on her tricolor gold love-knot earrings, a design so classic, you can buy the identical earrings from Tiffany's today. Last, she put on her watch. The watch was unusual. I've never seen one even remotely like it. It looks like a gold mesh bracelet. The watch is hidden under gold mesh made to look like it is weaving in and out of two gold rings. Visualize a preppy cloth belt that you buckle by putting the fabric through two D rings, and you've got the idea. When she wanted to know the time, she snapped the woven knot open and there was a tiny gold watch. Snap the gold knot back down and, voila, it's a sumptuous bracelet again.
If you had asked any one of us what jewelry our mother wore, we would have rattled off the same four pieces. It's all she wore for as long as any of us could remember.
So when Jay, our eldest brother and the executor of Mom's estate, told us to meet in his hotel room on the Sunday after the funeral to disperse the contents of her safety-deposit box, we thought it would be a very short meeting. He'd already sold the coins. Mom and Dad were obsessed with the gold standard and felt that America had gone in the wrong direction from the moment paper money was no longer backed with gold bullion in the mint. And when the government took real metal coins out of circulation in the 1960s, well, they went apoplectic. They were convinced that when depression or recession or inflation or deflation came, only the people with precious metal would eat. So my parents made their five children go through all the coins in our pockets for years and save all the real silver dimes and pre-sandwich quarters. As the pile grew, they had to get a bigger and bigger safety-deposit box. But Jay had already removed and sold the coins, which came to a staggering $32,000. (That's a whole lot of change!) And he'd taken care of all the paperwork. The only thing left in the box was her jewelry.
As my brother Larry and my sisters Claire and Mary and I filed in to Jay's motel room, we stared at the bed. What was all this stuff? There was so much that Jay had laid it out in three rows. Huh?
We stood around the bed, unsure how to proceed. Finally, my brothers and sisters said, "Janet, take the watch." I'd worn it on Friday for her eulogy, and loved the feel of it on my wrist, so I was thrilled to take it. At the same time, I reached for the box that held the gold love-knot earrings I'd worn. But when I opened it, I got a big surprise. In addition to the earrings, there was a matching brooch and pinky ring. I had the vaguest recollection that she might have worn the pin, but she never wore any ring but her wedding ring. I wondered out loud where she'd gotten it. Did it come from Marshall Field's? Did Daddy give it to her? Or did she choose it herself? Why didn't she ever wear it?
We had all agreed long before Mom's death that Mary would get Mom's wedding ring. And Mary had received it after the funeral, so it was Claire's turn. All Claire wanted were the pearls, but the pearls were nowhere on the bed. "Oh," Jay said, "Mom gave those to Elizabeth (his daughter) ages ago." But there were three other necklaces that looked like enormous yellowish pearls. In Mom's handwriting, the paper around them said: Ivory necklaces. That's it. Gee, Mom, we all thought, we'd like to know so much more: When did you get them? Who gave them to you? Did you wear them? Did you like them? But she left us no answers. Claire took the ivory necklaces.
Next, Claire picked up a tiny round silver box, one inch in diameter. She opened it. It was crammed full of jumbled things. She held it up to my face and I carefully pulled out something on top. As soon as my eyes focused, I cried out, "Jay, Jay, Jay, come look!" It was a gold baby identification bracelet with JRC, his initials, on the band. Jay looked shocked and moved. He must have worn it at his baptism, 62 years ago. Since then, it had rested in Mom's safety-deposit box.
Inspired now, Claire and I dug through the little silver box. We found a baby ring with a capital C, for Claire, but none with a J for Janet or L for Larry or M for Mary. We deduced that Mom grew weary of buying jewelry for each of us, because the other baby ring simply said "baby." Mary is our baby, so we gave it to her. After removing all the baby jewelry, there was something more, something weird. I dumped it out in my hand and turned it over until my brain could decipher what I was seeing: six pieces of gold dental work. But whose? Did she and Dad go to the dentist with instructions to save the old gold? They were a little nutty about gold, so it's possible, but we'll never know.
In other boxes we found Native American silver and turquoise bracelets that she never wore. Did they visit a reservation? No one knew. And she left no note. We found an outrageous, almost gaudy gold bracelet. No one had ever seen that. And a huge gold and amethyst ring. We were fairly certain that came from Vaney, Dad's mother. Mom never wore it, so it must have sat in the safety-deposit box since Vaney died in1971. And there was a topaz ring. Really quite lovely, but Mom never wore that either. Who did that belong to? Was it Vaney's too? Or was it a gift from Dad?
Every box, it seemed, held a jewelry surprise. One held a tiny 1-inch perfume bottle nestled in a silver cage on a silver chain. Mom never wore that! We wrestled it open, and, sure enough, the perfume brought her spirit into the room. Evening in Paris, I guessed, but I couldn't be sure. Mary is going to take it to a perfumer for an assessment.
As amazing as the array of jewelry was, the biggest surprise was the cigarette case. There were two. One was ornately carved tarnished silver in the undulating shape of a row of cigarettes. The other was flat, with just a few elegant Art Deco lines. In the center were the initials IMH. IMH? Who was IMH? Laurene kept this case in her safety-deposit box for decades, but none of us know anyone with the initials IMH. She left us a true mystery.
There were other treasures: a girl's gold bracelet that I remember wearing at age 3 or 4, a heavy gold chain that no one had ever seen, and rosaries, lots and lots of rosaries. Why were these rosaries in the safety-deposit box? Were they blessed by the pope? Did one belong to Daddy? Mother left no answers.
In the end, we were mystified by the contents of her safety-deposit box. Who was this woman who had delicate Indian silver, chunky ivory necklaces, a tricolor gold pinky ring, baby jewelry, and an initialed cigarette case?
She did not leave us any answers. So, as with so many other mysteries around her death, the Laurene we were so sure we knew receded more and more into the background and a new enigma stepped forward.
The experience left me with this one thought: If I died tomorrow, what would people think of me as they rifled through my safety-deposit box? I know what's in there. I know that the odd assortment of coins honor the birthdates of the people I love. But no one else could figure that out. I know that the Krugerrand is a gift from my ex-husband. I know that I gave the Mont Blanc Diplomat to my husband when he went to work for CNN in 1980 and the Rolex Submariner when we moved to Florida in 1984. I know. But I haven't written anything down. If I died suddenly, my family would walk around the objects I left behind, fingering them and asking themselves, "What is this? Who gave this to her? Why did she keep it? What did it mean to her?"
I leave you with this question: What mysteries are in your safety-deposit box?
(Next in the series: What the blind man knows.)
— — —
Janet Conner, S.E. (Spiritual Explorer), is the creator of the Spiritual Geography map and book series. She is currently working on a new book, "Writing Down the Soul: How to Activate and Listen to the Extraordinary Voice Within," for Conari Press. The Spiritual Geography books are available through Amazon or Spiritual Geography. Contact Janet at {email janetconner@tampabay.rr.com}janetconner@tampabay.rr.com{/email}. © Copyright 2007 by Janet Conner.