My Grandma Jo passed away almost exactly 2 years ago. One of the things that I always remember about her was her pretty jewelry. She had a nice combination of costume things and modest gemstones with occasional smatterings of diamonds that she enjoyed wearing. As a kid, our Saturday mornings had pretty much the same routine-put pennies in my pink pig bank, make a cake, eat cereal with canned milk, and then clean her rings with a toothbrush. So when she passed away, I received some things, like a few of her costume brooches with plastic pearls and printed flowers that I enjoy wearing with my scarves and jackets. My personal taste in jewelry is much different than everyone else in my family. I love my big sparkly, some would even say gaudy, statement pieces that swallow half of my hand and make my décolleté sparkle like Paris while my mother, sister and aunt have more modest jewelry collections. Little gold diamond pinky rings are pretty much only to my taste and to my grandmother's, so when it was offered to me because no one else would wear it, I was thrilled. I remember this particular ring in a chic supporting role while she held a cup of Sanka and ate a piece of cake with a paring knife. Of course it fits me perfectly, I have her hands. As a kid, I bit my nails to the point of bleeding, and it made her so crazy that she threatened to put chicken poop on my fingers. Rings didn't look very nice on me at the time. After retiring from the shoe factory after 52 years, she pretty much only left home to go do the shopping and spent the rest of her time at home with her Chihuahua eating Utz Party Mix. Her pretty baubles didn't go very many places, they were for her pleasure and she didn't care who saw them if anyone. I, on the other hand really like to get out and about and travel, so my jewelry comes everywhere with me. We just returned home from a cruise last week, and I wore her diamond pinky ring almost every day. Each evening I got my picture taken in a pretty dress, and it is in almost every picture. I have traveled many places around the world with it; it has seen white Caribbean sand, busy streets of Times Square during Christmas season, holidays, fancy dinners and parties where it reflected the bubbles of my champagne, all things that she never experienced and, well probably never dreamed of either. I think about these things when I wear it. I think about her. I'm sure I don't clean it enough to suit her. Just like my grandmother and eventually me, it will get dirty, tarnished, and the stones will get old and cloudy, it will be sometimes neglected, but never lost without a slender digit to call home. There is always another adventure, another cup of instant coffee to hold. And when I am done, I will pass the baton, or in this case, the toothbrush to someone else to continue the journey.