My grandmother died when I was six. All of her jewelry was parceled out among the female members of the family, my aunts, and my mother. Mum being the only daughter may have received slightly more, I don’t really know. I do remember she came home one day with a bag full of old fashioned looking rings, earrings, bracelets, and necklaces. Most of it was handed down from her grandmother but none were of any special value. On special occasions, or when she was fed up with my pestering, these treasures were hauled out for me to look at.
Mum was a modern woman. She liked teak furniture and clean lines. At the time, her own few bits of jewelry were mid-century style, angular and stark. She would never wear any of that old stuff. I, on the other hand, loved it!
Fast forward to the days when signet rings became the rage at my school. Of course, I had no money to buy one, so I pleaded and pleaded and was finally allowed to wear a ring that looked like a signet ring to me. It fit perfectly on my pinky finger and the prerequisite gold setting, in the center of which was an oval of what might have been well-worn glass, with the vaguest hint of something underneath. Inside, the ring was engraved with a name and a date that had been largely worn off.
Through my studies of the family tree, I knew the name belonged to my great, great grandmother and so I thought this ring was probably hers. I wore it proudly even though it bore no resemblance to the shiny new bloodstone rings that were sported by my school friends.
I wore the ring for some years, not even taking it off to wash my hands for fear I would leave it somewhere. After a while, the colour under the scratched glass area changed from a browny grey to a weird shade of green. Puzzled I showed it to Mum. She had never really examined the ring before and gave a bit of a laugh. “I think that it’s a Victorian mourning ring,” she said. “And the hair inside has gone mouldy.”
Hair? What do you mean hair? That’s when I learnt about memento mori. I had been wearing a lock of my great, great grandmother’s hair on my hand all that time. I’m not particularly squeamish but as a teenager, I didn’t really share my Victorian ancestors’ fondness for carrying their remains on my person. Not too long after that, I was presented with a bloodstone signet ring of my ownm giving me the ideal good excuse to tuck great, great granny and her mouldy hair into the drawer where she languishes still.
Image – Clo Carey
For those who are interested –
https://www.vice.com/en_us/article/pgqnjk/victorian-fashionistas-jewelry-human-hair
https://archive.org/details/selfinstructorin00camp/page/n17/mode/2up
Clo Carey – April/20
Blog Challenge Writing Prompt – Write about a piece of jewelry
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Teetering on the Edge 