my mother's brooches

I am going through my jewelry drawer to find broken, orphaned, boring costume jewelry for a workshop on upcycling such things, offered by Tanglewood Works.

I opened the box holding my mother's brooches and began to cry. The week has started on a rocky note and unearthing one of the many, many collections of things I have of my mother's pushed me over the edge, yet comforted, hence the tears.

My mother loved brooches: on a blazer lapel, to hold a scarf in place, on her hand-knitted wool coats.

In her honor, like an OCD meditation, I sorted the little collection. Five distinct categories are clear.

1. The ceramic, usually obtained from local Sydney artists, such as Vickie Grima:

2. The museum shop pieces:

3. The travel souvenirs:


4. The family heirlooms:

5. Her Sydney roots:

One question: what is that delicate little chain on the antique/vintage brooches for? I have yet to grasp its use. Extra security in case the main clasp gives? A way to attach two sides of, say, a scarf? I could use the Internet, I suppose, but I prefer to simply pose the question and ponder possibilities.

Time to re-box the brooches. Must remember I can take them out and wear them myself.

the crux of the matter

Okay. If I am going to write, then I must eventually write about when I was 16 years old and lived in Sydney for six months. But I avoid this topic. Completely. Until now. Don’t expect anything that is earth shattering – I think it was only so for me. I’ve blocked out a lot of the memories; this is going to take some work.

So many BIG THINGS revolved around this event.

First, I begged my mother to move there. She was Australian. I am half Australian. I was unhappy. My mother must have wanted to move there too. But I begged, cried. So I think the whole move is emblematic of how my mother was so understanding and supportive. We moved in January 1988 (unless it was December – can’t recall).

Second, I had spent the summer of 1987 in Sydney, visiting my friend K’s high school. I thought I fell in love with a boy (who turned out to be a boring stoner). So, my boy-crazy nature drove my “grass is greener” thoughts.

Third, my father had remarried and my stepmother was pregnant. I don’t remember associating this with my desire to move, but it must have been, right? I became no longer an only child (while I was in Sydney). AND, this whole move made my father so mightily angry at my mother (and me – I remember him saying, “You are a scared person, just like your mother.”).

Fourth, I was in my junior year in high school. Every year I seemed to go through some kind of “run away” scenario. For example, in tenth grade, I wanted to drop out (silly girl).

That’s all I can write about this for now. But I do know that if that book is going to get written – for some gut reason – I need to write about this first.