Yes, I am a loser.
I lose things – sadly, beautiful, never-to-be-found-again things.
A beautiful real gold bracelet Craig gave me when we were dating (stolen out of my car).
A white gold watch from him during our engagement (I think the movers stole it).
And the diamond in my engagement ring – THREE TIMES!
The first time I had been doing housework, and when I realized it was gone, I combed the house on hands and knees.
After that fruitless search – seemingly making matters worse – the hose on my washer came out of the wall, pouring water all over our center hallway and adjoining bedrooms. To mop up the mess I had to pull the washer out so as to get the goo underneath.
It was there, right in the middle of that gunk: my diamond. Somehow it had dislodged while I was doing laundry – and then God in his goodness yanked that hose out of the wall so the diamond would not go down the drain.
The second time I lost that diamond, again, I was doing housework. Again, I found it in a pile of yuckiness from the vacuum bag that I spread out all over the floor.
The third time I lost that diamond I found it quickly on the floor in the car . . . and got the dumb beautiful, VVSI (very, very slight imperfection) thing fortressed into what the jeweler said would be a “no fail” setting.
Right. So, last summer when a prong failed, I took the ring for repair. Guaranteed now for a year.
Right. Two months later the prong was failing, so I took the ring off and put it in a ziplock baggie into my wallet. When I the baggie fell out onto the ground one day, I zipped it into a compartment in my handbag.
It’ll be safe there.
Right. After a trip visiting one of our sons and his family I noticed that the ring was gone. That compartment let things fall into the bottom of the handbag.
So, after a full day of bawling and calling and falling into a really sad bad way, I told my husband.
I didn’t tell him at first, because the stories of my losing valuable jewelry sometimes wound their ways into responses to my “You don’t appreciate me” comments.
But instead of his making me feel even worse, he said, “We’ll just take my ring and have it sized for you with a diamond.”
His ring. The one I always gave him a hard time about for not wearing. The one he said that if he wore, he would lose a finger over in some farm machine. The one locked in his safe. He. Does. Not. Lose. Things.
One lovely day this spring we went to Gold Rush Jewelry in Graeagle, California, and for about seventy-five dollars that kind man made Craig’s even more beautiful ring into mine. Like my rings it has engraved symbols of love on it: two hearts, clasped hands, a star with a cross, an open Bible. I love it and decided a diamond was superfluous. His giving me his ring was enough of a gift for a girl who tends to lose All Things Diamond.
And that is the end of my Happily Ever After Story, except for one thing. I DO have a diamond ring. I wear it on my ring finger.
This ring was also lost – by someone about fifteen years ago. My husband found it and two others in the gutter outside a two-dollar movie theater. I took the rings to the local police station in Sparks, Nevada, and a nice policeman called me several months later and said to pick them up – no one had claimed them. It has thirteen little diamonds on it, with spaces for two others that are missing. Somehow that seems appropriate for me.
I’ve suggested to Craig that maybe he shouldn’t buy me expensive jewelry anymore – I always lose the silly things.
But just in case he insists sometime, there is this gorgeous quartz gold ring at the Gold Rush Jewelry store . . .