We lose precious things, but hold onto cherished memories

I flushed the necklace down the toilet. Not on purpose, of course. I’d wrapped it in tissue to keep it safe, then tucked it into the zippered part of my pocketbook where I kept lipstick and loose change. It was 1979 and I was traveling. I was protecting the necklace from thieves. No one would be able to steal it now, I thought.

And no one did.

The necklace was made of diamond chips. It had been created from my mother’s engagement ring, which my father had given her when he proposed. Or so I imagined. I didn’t know its history then and I still don’t. I invented it, my father on his knees proposing, my mother doe-eyed, speechless, gazing at the glittering specks, watching them reflect the moonlight or the stars or the sunlight or just the light in her eyes. It was these stories, which I told myself, that gave the necklace its worth.

On their 20th wedding anniversary, my father surprised my mother with a real diamond. This time it wasn’t chips. It was a stone. My mother could have kept both rings, but he, she, they, took the original to a jeweler and had it made into this necklace for me. And in my effort not to lose it or have it stolen, I hid it when I was home and wrapped it in Kleenex when I was on the road.

And then came the afternoon I mistook it for a used tissue and flushed it down the toilet at the Place d’Armes, a small hotel in the heart of the French Quarter, fating the necklace to an eternity adrift in the New Orleans’ sewage system.

Of course, I told neither of my parents about flushing away the one piece of jewelry that had been witness to their youth. I replaced the sparkly necklace with one that looked almost the same and to their dying days both believed the necklace I wore held the diamond chips that had been my mother’s.

I did not flush her anniversary ring down the toilet. I know this for sure because I have not wrapped jewelry in tissue for 44 years. It is missing, because I hid it and I have no idea where.

Why did I hide it? Because I hide things. Because the house I live in has been robbed. Because I think I can outwit thieves. Because it’s better to be safe than sorry. Because although most of the stuff thieves take is meaningless and replaceable, some things hold memories. And are irreplaceable.

When we were robbed, thieves stole a heart-shaped necklace my uncle had given me when I graduated from eighth grade. I loved that necklace. Thieves stole my mother’s charm bracelet, too. It was silver, not gold, crowded with tiny figures of places and things that had been important to her. I remember a windmill from Holland, a leprechaun from Ireland, a cowboy hat she’d bought in Texas where she and my father stayed for a long weekend with a group from the Randolph Lodge of Elks. And I remember a baby shoe, which I’d bought for her when my son was born.

Lisa Genova, who wrote “Still Alice” and who is an expert in the science of remembering, says “… Most of us will forget the majority of what we experience today by tomorrow.” This makes me think, well, OK. People forget. Of course I don’t remember where I hid a ring a month ago. Yet why is it I remember exactly how the arms on that tiny windmill charm spun?

In her nonfiction book, “Remember: The Science of Memory and the Art of Forgetting,” Genova says that “attention is essential for creating a memory.” If you’re not paying attention you won’t remember. This makes sense. But I was paying attention when I hid the ring. When I found the perfect spot, I remember thinking this is the best hiding place ever, a place no one would ever find it.

I didn’t suspect the “no one” would include me.

“Unless you actively do something to remember some piece of information, your brain will automatically forget it,” Genova writes.

This is not comforting.

I have retraced my steps. I have retraced my steps every day for two weeks. I have looked everywhere — in every drawer, shoe, pocket, sock, through file cabinets and bookshelves, under cushions, inside hats, in every room, under and over and in between — all the while thinking I would never hide a ring in any of these places. So where did I hide it?

I am thinking that maybe when you get to a certain age, hiding anything may not be the best idea. Friends say to pray to Saint Anthony, but I’m long past believing that there’s a being in the sky in charge of lost and found.

“It will turn up,” my husband said.

I’m not sure. When something is routine, you don’t remember it, Genova wrote. I routinely hide my jewelry.

Not anymore, I promise myself. Not anymore.

Beverly Beckham can be reached at [email protected].