Gold Party

“And then... “ I concluded excitedly, “I’m going to write a blog about it. What better subject to blog?” I was attempting to explain to my husband the odd errand that I had planned for the day, and it occurred to me that the bit about the blog might make it seem less strange.

It started out, as most mornings do, in my reading of the daily free paper. Calendar of Events. Third item down. “Gold Party Fund Raiser. There will be a gold party fund-raiser at The Met Coffee House from 4 to 8 p.m. Gold Girl Events will give participants cash for their old gold and donate 15 percent of their proceeds to the White Mountain Waldorf School. For more information...”

“Hm.” I thought to myself as I made a mental inventory of my various and sundry baubles. “Old gold...” The motley collection of adornments that I lay claim to consists mainly of costume jewelry, with even the few quasi-valuable pieces containing little intrinsically valuable material. No old gold.

Except... twenty two years old...

This June. It would have been our twenty-second anniversary, I mused.

Bands. Plain, gold bands. I remember when we bought them. We didn’t have money for fancy bands, but apart from that I wanted the plain yellow type, the type my parents had worn all of their married life. A solid band, a solid marriage. They seemed, at the time, like a good luck charm...

“Not that I would keep the money.” I continued, “Whatever cash they give me I’ll donate to charity. Something John would have liked...”

“Can I see them?” my teenage daughter piped up, having appeared suddenly in time to catch enough of the conversation to interject with a query, “From your first marriage, right?”

“Yes,” I said, “I think I’ve shown them to you before, but come look.” I led her upstairs and retrieved the small wood and glass jewel box from my dresser. I opened it and allowed her to gaze upon the contents as I searched for a tiny zip-lock bag in which to place the bands.

“Is that a diamond?” she asked, pointing to the engagement ring which was nestled proximal to the gold rings.

“No.” I replied, “It’s cubic zirconia. I’m going to keep that ring. It’s so lovely and delicate”

And it doesn’t have the karma. I thought but did not say those words. It wasn’t there... when it happened. Unlike the other rings. These rings... As I dropped the bands into the tiny bag I almost felt a chill, as if the precious metal had somehow absorbed the energy of that night and was still releasing it, like radioactivity. An energy that was merely seven months younger than the bands...

Crash, and cries, flashing lights, and death... reflected in a ring, would change its substance, right? Just like it changed me, just like it changed the world to which I awoke, newly widowed, days later in a hospital bed...

I put the baggie down. “These rings,” I announced to my daughter as I placed 2 alternate rings into the velvet crease from which the gold bands had been so recently plucked, “Are made of white gold. The engagement stone is a sapphire, and the wedding band fits right along side it. Custom made. Though of course I wear my diamond anniversary ring these days.” I proudly flashed for her the glittery trinket that adorns my left hand.

That evening , after supper, I talked my daughter into hopping into the car with me for a drive to North Conway. “C’mon,” I said, “We can have coffee and dessert at The Met, and you can see what the Gold Party is all about.”

A black and white sign directly inside The Met proclaimed that the Gold Party was taking place in the back room. Having filled our Met Mugs with coffee, we strolled through the ‘quiet room’ to the ‘back room,’ with me stopping mid-way to make sure that the rings were still in my pocket. The very idea of going to a Gold Party to sell my wedding rings already seemed strange, and arriving at said party to find I had forgotten them would be extremely awkward to say the least. But I hadn’t. I held the little package tight in my fist as I entered the room.

The back room contained a table covered with an assortment of pot-luck snacks and desserts, surrounded by a small bevy of ladies. They greeted me as I entered, and there was a small awkward silence as I wondered if getting right down to business was the polite thing to do, or whether perhaps I should partake of cheese and crackers first. I decided on the former. “I’ve got old gold!” I said with a smile.

This seemed to warm their collective hearts, and one lady took my gold (ostensibly not noticing the bad karma), while another gave me a form to fill out. “Forty-five dollars.” announced the lady with the cash box after what seemed like a very short interval. Maybe people show up at a Gold Party with 2 fourteen carat gold bands so often that she knew their value by heart.

Turns out the enterprise was sort of like a Tupperware or a Pampered Chef party, except the attendees ended up surrendering their jewelry instead of acquiring kitchenware. And receiving money instead of dishing it out. As I sampled the snacks I was encouraged to consider hosting a party, from which I in turn would receive a portion of the gold booty surrendered by my friends. Or, rather, cash representing its value.

Uh, no, I don’t think so.

But thanks, ladies. It was good to release the rings.
.