‘THE LOCKET”

I had lived with my grandparents and my mom until I was five years old in a big old two story house that was full of grandeur. By age three I was the constant explorer and questioner which no doubt drove all three crazy while their answers didn’t make much sense to me. My grandmother called me a plunderer which was a word foreign to me. By age five, I figured out what that word meant when she caught me going through a drawer in the huge mahogany buffet that was in the dining room.

“Quit plundering in your grandfather’s papers” she told me. Reasoned she meant looking for things for I was and for what I had no idea. It was the thrill of the hunt which would become a huge part of me later on as an adult but then it was just exciting.

Both of my grandparents had been married before and both had lost their mates. A lot of things in their house had belonged to my grandmother’s mother while much of the rest had been purchased by my grandfather or had belonged to his late wife. The latter part I knew even at age three for if I touched something I wasn’t supposed to my grandmother would say “That belonged to Bess.”

I remember asking her who was Bess and she told me that it was my grandfather’s first wife. I saw a picture of Bess and she scared me just looking at her.  Too young to ask my grandmother why those things were still around for what second wife would want her husband’s first wife’s things?

My mom and I shared the front upstairs bedroom while my grandparent’s bedroom was in the middle and the back bedroom was a guest room. Since my mom went back to work months after I was born, I found myself sleeping with my grandparents a lot in their huge four poster bed from age three and onward.

Their bedroom had aside from the four poster bed, a huge chest of drawers that was behind the door, a fireplace, a cherry wardrobe, a huge vanity with a gigantic mirror and to the right was a sewing machine that was covered up with a cover that my grandmother had made. Not a lot was out but I do remember a distinct mahogany box that had gold trim around it that sat on top of the chest of drawers.  Could I reach it? No. But my grandmother would take it down and show me what was inside: I will never forget the first time my eyes spied jewelry.

“Is this yours?” I asked her. “No, it belonged to Bess. Be careful with it.” The fear of what Bess would do to me frightened me for how could she if she had died? My grandmother and I were sitting on the big four poster bed as I saw a big shiny circle lurking in the bottom of the jewelry box. It had carvings on it—at least that’s what I thought they were. And it opened up. All in all, it was about the size of a silver dollar. “That locket belonged to my brother; he bought it for someone he loved but never gave it to her.”

The thoughts of that swirled through my five year old mind. “Why didn’t he give it to her?” I asked. “You’re too young to understand. I am the keeper of that locket. Those carvings were her initials.” All of that went over my head and although I would remember the locket, I never got in the jewelry box again. Fear of Bess had a lot to do with my actions.

There were so many things in their house that I loved for they were a part of my world as well. 

Years passed, my grandfather had died and my parents had divorced. I found myself staying a lot of nights with my grandmother to keep her company and besides I loved being with her.  I was not into jewelry although she had a huge amount of it such as pins, pearls and necklaces. Generally she only wore one ring and it was simple, platinum and had diamonds across the top. I learned that it had been her mother’s ring. Did I think about that jewelry box that had belonged to Bess? No but I did think often of that locket.

When my grandmother died, it was up to my mom and her sister to empty out the huge house. I was there along with my female and male cousins and I was the only grandchild that was married and had a child.  It awed me that my mom or her sister didn’t argue about who would get what: Each decided upon what they wanted and what they didn’t want, I was asked first. As my then-husband and I were living in our first house and it was large, I took the dining room furniture, a big rocker as well as other things—including that mahogany jewelry box.

Seeing those objects in my own house gave me pleasure and yet sadness at the same time. They had been a huge part of my life and now they were mine and I wished that my grandmother could have seen them placed ever so carefully. I was not teaching for I had decided to stay home with my young son. And the personal things I owned were minimal; it was then that I remembered my mom and her sister getting rid of all of my grandmother’s costume jewelry to a friend of my aunt’s. As I knew that woman it made me feel good that at least she received some treasures. My mom had taken my grandmother’s wedding band and her diamond engagement ring and I was shocked to see the engagement ring for my grandmother never wore it. But then neither would my mom ever wear those rings either.

One day when I had my young son out in the backyard, I was talking to a young couple: They were renting a house that belonged to our next door neighbors. The house sat far back and for me to get near it, I had to walk a long way back to talk to them. I’m not sure how it came up but I did know that their last name was Smith.

The next day I did the unthinkable: I took that locket with the initials on it and gave it to the young woman that lived out back. It was uncanny that the initials on her were hers as well. She was pleased and on my part, I had no idea what I was giving away at all. I never mentioned what I had done to anyone and am not sure if my mom ever knew the contents of Bess’ jewelry box.

Five years later my then-husband, my two young sons and I decided to buy another house located in a completely different neighborhood. Moved in and settled, I met a lot of new people and saw a woman wearing a locket that was similar to the one I had given away. It looked pink just as Bess’ locket. “What kind of metal is that?” I asked the woman. “It’s pink gold. Belonged to my mother.”

My heart sunk. How could I have been so stupid in giving away something that not only my grandmother had kept but also something so valuable? At the time I gave it away I had no idea of its worth or the fact that it was pink gold. Becoming livid, I jumped in my car to go to the young couple’s house to admit my mistake only to find out that they had moved. My former neighbors who owned the house in which they rented had no idea where the Smiths had moved to or if it were here or out of state.

I never told anyone what I had done although it made me heartsick. That was forty four years ago and there isn’t a time that I don’t wonder where the locket is now: Did the receiver keep it? Did she sell it? Neither question can be answered for I have no idea where the Smiths moved to or if they are even alive.

Wish that my grandmother had told me that at some point the locket would be mine and that I had to become its keeper for had she said those words to me, I would have kept it. I would have treasured it and I would have passed it onto my granddaughter. But none of that happened nor can it happen.

There is a moral in this story and I’m sure that it is evident: “Think before you give something away and know its value.” As for me, I will forever mourn not keeping the big pink gold locket but gone is gone even if I do reflect upon it too much.  No one knew anything about it but my grandmother and me. And now you know of the  action of a young twenty-something woman who had no idea of what she was giving away—a treasured piece of jewelry. Often times I wish I could find the woman to whom I gave it and explain it all: Is it a pipe dream? Perhaps and perhaps not. Maybe she’s reading this story. Who knows?

Sherry Hill              

Copyright © 2015

Sherry Hill

All Rights Reserved

“THE SMALL WOODEN ORIENTAL JEWELRY CHEST”

”Every night when I get it bed, I stare at a small wooden oriental jewelry chest: It’s black and has colorful flowers painted on it. It sits on top of a tall slender cupboard across the room. And it’s not a typical jewelry chest for it looks like a miniature wardrobe: It has two doors that open and a drawer underneath it on the bottom. It wasn’t mine as it belonged to my mom but the odd thing is that I never knew that she had it until she died.

The second odd thing is that I got one when I was eight years old: I distinctly remember my grandmother taking me to the movie theater to see “Peter Pan.” After leaving the theater, my imagination was stirred to the nth degree as I’m sure it did most kids seeing it for the first time. We had taken a bus to the movie and took one back near her house. The bus stopped near a pub that was frequented by everyone at that time. It wasn’t sleazy but a place that not only sold food and beer but also magazines and you name it.

My eyes looked up to a high shelf and there sat a black oriental wooden jewelry box with hand painted flowers. Lust set in: I just had to have it despite that fact that I had no jewelry other than the play type. Yes, my grandmother bought it for me and I carried as if I were cradling an egg in my hands until we reached her house.

Upon going inside, she went on with whatever she had to do and I headed for the couch in the living room. As I sat there I explored the jewelry chest; it was so beautiful, loved the flowers that had been painted on it and the closer I got it to me, the more I smelled a distinct smell. Whether it was the lacquer that had been used on the chest or the type of wood that smell was unique and to me, it smelled good.

Placing it carefully on a table in the living room, I went off to see what my grandmother was doing. She was cooking dinner as my grandfather would soon be home and my parents would arrive to pick me up and drive me home to St. Albans. My mind was still in the “Peter Pan” mode and I was thinking how cool it would be to actually fly when I saw my grandfather open the front door and walk down the hall to us.

The normal conversation started about what had happened that day for him and for us. I told him about seeing the movie and about getting the black oriental jewelry chest and yes I could see a gleam in his eye. He knew I could talk my grandmother or him into almost anything within reason. “What did you do with it?” he asked. “I put it on a table in the living room; want to see it?” Off I went with him following me. As I showed it to him I could see that he liked it for his job was a furniture buyer for a huge department store in town.

“Take good care of it” he told me. And I assured him that I would for not only did I love it but associated it with the movie I had seen.

It wasn’t too much longer that my parents were at the front door to come to get me. It was the norm many times for my grandmother to fix extra food for dinner and give us a huge basket of hot cooked food that we would eat later when we got home. The next thing I remember was sitting in the back of my dad’s car with a wicker basket of hot food beside me and the black oriental jewelry chest in my hands.

When we arrived home, my dad carried in the wicker basket as my mom helped me out of the backseat along with my prize possession. I dashed through the front door and headed for my bedroom so that I could place it on my chest of drawers. Dinner was eaten, dishes washed and since it was a Friday it meant that the weekend would be free and wonderful.

When I got in bed that night I stared at the black oriental jewelry chest: It had two doors and a drawer on the bottom. I loved looking at the painted flowers and got up to smell the smell of the wood. Sleep came easily to me with dreams of Peter Pan and receiving an ultimate gift.

Forward in time and with many moves, I still had that beautiful jewelry box until one day I realized that it was gone. Whether it got thrown out in packing boxes used for moving or broken to bits was never known. All I knew was that it was gone and I was heartsick.

And yet unbeknownst to me, my mom had the very same jewelry box but where had she kept hers all those years? And why had she never shown it to me or given it to me since mine was gone? Those questions wouldn’t come forward until I was an adult with grown children when my mom died. Imagine my surprise when I found it in the bottom of her dining room buffet: The flowers were pinker than mine had been and yet it was the very same.

As I stood there alone in her apartment, I held the chest close to me so that I could see if it had the same distinct smell and to my surprise it did! A swirl of thoughts rushed through my head: Did she take mine? Why did she never show it to me? And what were the odds of the both of us having the very same unique jewelry chest? As for my last question, I’d have to answer “Slim to none.” It was more than coincidental and yet mine had pale pink flowers painted on it while hers had dark pink flowers on it.

Yes she could have painted the flowers a darker shade of pink. And yes, it could have been mine but you can’t imagine the shock I felt when I found it. I took it to my house, as I was the administrator of her estate and an only child, and once again I cradled it in my hands as if I were carrying an egg. Images of the trip with my grandmother that day to see Peter Pan and the bus trip back where I received the jewelry box, came rushing at me with full force.

All of a sudden I was eight years old again holding a prized treasure—at least it felt that way. It was the first thing that belonged to her that I put on top of that cupboard in my bedroom. That was almost fourteen years ago. And every single night when I get in bed, I stare at it from across the room even though I could stare at a lot of things.

Sometimes I get up, open its doors and smell that unique smell. It brings back incredible memories of a wonderful day long ago and yet it also makes me wonder if it were mine. For whatever’s sake at least I have it once again—or hers and that’s a good thing. It’s unique although probably not valuable but the smell it has evokes good things of a wonderful day long ago.

It truly is the little things in life that matter the most.

Sherry Hill

Copyright © 2015
Sherry Hill
All Rights Reserved

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AUGUST AND THE SMELL OF MOTHBALLS

With August approaching in several months, I can’t help but think back to when I was nine and onward into my young adult years because August meant dragging wool skirts and dresses out of the cedar chest.

Perhaps you may not know what a cedar chest is for in today’s world, very few people own them—instead many have cedar lined closets if at all. A cedar chest was and is made of cedar wood and looks like a trunk; the wood is reddish in color and has a distinct smell. Some were huge while others were medium sized and their purpose was two-fold: To save things for a future wedding or to store wool clothes. The main purpose was to keep moths out of wool clothing and it worked.

Worked if mothballs were added. Some people went overboard and literally poured the entire box into the cedar chest on top of wool clothing.  To this day I can conjure up that smell and I am back standing in my grandmother’s back bedroom as she pulled out my wool clothes and put them on a twin bed.

And every single August it was as hot as blazes for there was no air conditioning then. I’d have to put on a wool skirt and stand like a mummy while my grandmother either lowered or shortened the hem on each skirt. First she used straight pins to mark the hem and made me turn slowly—which was not easy for a nine year old or later a teenager.

Picture many wool skirts and dresses and then picture my having to stand there scarcely able to breathe or move as she slowly pinned every single one of them on the hems. The mothball smell was intoxicating to the point of almost fainting on my part. I’m not sure which was worse—the mothball smell or the heat but the combination was downright horrid.

It was no easy task for her either for she had to squat down as she pinned the hems on every skirt and dress. And far worse, was that she would later have to sew the hems either shorter or longer depending upon the hem length that year.

This daunting task seemed to go on for hours upon end for it had to be done in one afternoon.

I never stayed while she sewed the hems: In retrospect, I should have considering all of the hard work that was ahead of her. It was appreciated for those were the times when people looked at hems on skirts and dresses. Too short, too long or uneven? Why that was considered ghastly and a fashion faux pas. Looking back it was totally stupid and yet it was a fashion rule that had to be followed.

Every single August this procedure was repeated again and again: Dragging out wool skirts and dresses out of the fumy mothball smelling cedar chest and my standing there as my grandmother would say “Stand still. Turn. Turn again.” She was using straight pins on the hems. And every single August on the day that this task was started was so blasted hot that swear literally poured down both of our faces while I had wool clothing on to beat it all.

This yearly ritual went on into my early twenties. Hemlines went up and then down and every year was never the same for who knew what the then-fashion police would come up with? It was a task that I dreaded as did my grandmother and then there still lingered the overwhelming mothball smell. By this time I was used to it in a way but it still made me nauseated.

It was during my early twenties or so that polyester arrived on the scene for both men and women’s clothes. It didn’t require being stored in a cedar chest or being deluged with mothballs but it had a peculiar smell that made my eyes sting. Oh I still wore some wool skirts and dresses that required being hemmed and they had been stored in the cedar chest with the ever present mothballs.

And once again my grandmother and I went through the tortuous ritual of my standing still while she straight pinned each hem on a skirt or dress. It again was always August and always a sweltering day complete with those fumes.

Into my late twenties, my grandmother died and I mourned not only her passing but those hot August days spent with her for despite it all, it was a time for our togetherness.  My mom inherited her cedar chest and then later on I would receive it. Did I keep wool clothing in it? Of course I did and sprinkled mothballs over the clothes –but not a lot of them.

In today’s world no one seems to care if a hem is uneven or not, nor does anyone have her skirts or dresses shortened or lengthened each summer. It is now just a memory.  But rest assured that every August my mind goes back to those hot days, breathing the fumes of mothballs and having to stand like a zombie in wool clothes and hearing “Stand. Stand still. Turn.”

I miss my grandmother deeply but I will never miss the torture of all of that which happened every single sweltering August day. Fashion made a statement then and it certainly makes one now for anything goes! Hem too short? Hem too long? Hem un-even? No one cares and maybe that’s a good thing after all for the world in which we live is far more complicated now without adding more worries.

But I will never forget August and the smell of mothballs.

Sherry Hill

Copyright © 2015

Sherry Hill

All Rights Reserved

“AND IT HAS A PICTURE WINDOW”

When my parents purchased our first house I was nine years old. The realtor had shown my parents many houses prior but none of them seemed right. The one that my parents liked was way up on a steep hill named South Walnut Street in St. Albans.   Although the house wasn’t large it had three bedrooms, a semi-large living room and a pretty good sized kitchen.

My favorite part was the backyard for it was level, large and had a playhouse. My second favorite thing was that for the second time I had my own bedroom and it was not small. The realtor was talking to my parents telling them all of the good things about the house. When she said “And it has a picture window” I just stared at her. She was pointing to the only window in the living room and yes, it was big. But I had no idea what a picture window was for I had never heard a window called that.

Had I seen one before? Yes. My mom’s cousin and her husband had a house with one and I loved looking out of it. But it wasn’t the norm for the times. Every house that I had lived in had double hung windows with the exception of one which had the crank out type—meaning that to open the first type, you shoved up the bottom part to open the window whereas to open the second type, you had to use a metal crank to open the window.

The house that my parents were looking at had double hung windows and that huge picture window in the front of the house. My fingers were crossed that they would buy it and not for the window but for that incredibly big backyard with a playhouse.

Fate stepped in that day for it didn’t take long for my parents to talk to the realtor and agree to buy the house. Within what seemed like months but was actually about a week, the house was ours. It was in immaculate condition: My working mom set in to decorate it but first there were rooms that had to be painted. That job fell to my dad and he seemed to enjoy doing it. Together they decorated it.

Eventually the house looked lived in and for once in my life, I felt safe and secure but more than that I was happy. The neighborhood was full of kids my age. Nirvana doesn’t begin to describe how it was for all three of us.

I would spend many an hour looking out the living room’s picture window gazing at kids or cars coming and going and the fingerprints on it were mine. No, it couldn’t be opened at all: It was set in the frame of the house.

When my mom mentioned the word “moving” I knew that nirvana had come to an end. In all honesty, I blanked out the entire move from that house for I didn’t want to leave it but leave it we did. Six wonderful years were spent there.  With a move back to Charleston, it was from one place to another.

That was the only house I would ever live in that had a picture window from age nine to adulthood. My own house doesn’t have one. Does a realtor in today’s world say “And it has a picture window?” Very doubtful for it is not a selling point as it was then. But it sure was wonderful to sit in front of one and stare out at the world in one big picture—not in windows that have sections in them which I have now.

Step forward? You decide.

Sherry Hill

Copyright © 2015

Sherry Hill

All Rights Reserved

My Amazon Kindle E Books

If  you get time, please check out my Amazon Kindle E books.

There are nine with the tenth one still not finished.

Google Amazon.com and scroll down to "Kindle:" Type in Sherry Hill

and you will see my books. Most are priced fairly cheap.

If you don't own a Kindle, Amazon has a download for you to your

laptop, IPad or the like and it's free.

Sincere thanks.

Sherry Hill

FINALLY GOOD WEATHER

Up until three weeks ago, winter was still rearing its head and I was totally sick of it. 
But I was not alone--everyone was. And it wasn't just here for it seemed to be 
nationwide. Sick of snow, cold weather and being stuck in the house.

Finally spring arrived but it seemed to come slowly but I welcomed it with open arms.
Who doesn't love to see buds on trees or tulips start to pop up out of the ground?
And who doesn't love good weather?

We have had some chilly mornings as well as days but within the last two weeks, some
days have reached into the 80's. And that's a good thing when you've experienced a 
terrible winter.

Grass is growing at a rapid rate but then so are the dandelions. My yard looks like a 
sea of yellow. But there is no need to have the grass cut yet for two silver maples are
in my yard: If you aren't familiar with this type of tree, it's the kind that has clusters of
seed-like things that a lot of kids called "helicopters" for they literally fly down to the 
ground--and that is before the leaves form.

Last year I think that there were at least a million seed-like things all over my yard, 
sidewalks and the street. They dry quickly and become crunchy to walk upon. Some 
animals depend upon them as a food source while others ignore them. Off and on,
I've seen birds peck at them and either eat part or discard them.

In essence, they are a nuisance. But once all fall from the trees and dry out, the grass
can be cut and a leaf blower can pile up those seeds. It's all part of good weather where
you have to take the good with the bad.

Here's hoping that you are experiencing good weather finally wherever you live.
At least it's not snowing and that's a good thing!

Sherry Hill