Back in 2018, after my father died, I received my "inheritance" -- around $725. Then a few months later, my brother sent me a small jewelry box of miscellaneous tie clips, tuxedo studs, and cufflinks, thinking I might want them as a memento. I didn't, particularly. However, I've held onto the box and its contents, with what I suppose you could call an ironic motive. I was pretty sure they weren't valuable, but if all heck broke loose, perhaps I could trade them for a loaf of bread.
When I came across the box a few days ago, I opened it again and looked carefully at the contents. The only significant item appeared to be a tiny gold ring, which I can see from the interior inscription was my great-grandmother's wedding ring from 1888. It barely fits on my pinkie, and even it has, I am sure, little real value, but as it is a token of one of my female forebears, I put it in my own little box of special things. On Saturday, I took the remaining nine items to a local jeweler, to see if any of it has value. The short answer is no. Worthless. And, of course, in this day and age, away from major metropolitan centers, I don't think many men wear cufflinks, tuxedo studs and tie clips, although they are for sale online.
So I walked away, still in possession of this gosh darned box of stuff (from Schenectady's best jeweler back in the day), now wanting to get rid of it but not quite prepared to toss it in the trash. I'll let you know what I eventually do. However, I couldn't resist the metaphoric meaning of this story. What is in the box of "stuff" that our fathers pass on to us, both individually and collectively? Does it look shiny and valuable and turn out to be valuable, or is it the leavings, the detritus of a life or of a bigger paradigm? It's worth going through the box carefully. There can be beauty and value in amongst the worthless things, things that should be kept. But the entire collection may simply be too heavy, psychologically or physically, to keep carrying.
One footnote about my great-grandmother. She and her husband (and later, their children and grandchildren) were on the outer rings of New York City high society. I am not sure when it happened, but probably in the nineteen-teens or twenties, they separated or divorced, which was uncommon in that era. Although I have no evidence of why it happened, my gut tells me that Jean was more willing to face an uncertain future alone than with her husband. She was evidently a formidable woman; perhaps her husband was not. In any event, the little ring speaks more to me of her eventual independence than the limitations of her married state, and I hope I can continue to keep it safe.
