I am so peeved with myself that I would kick me all the way to Ashtabula if I could. But I am not that agile, so I'll punish myself by telling you why I am so angry with me.
My beautiful granddaughter Lyndy's the light of my life. Almost from the moment she was born I began planning a new family tradition: the passing down of my mother's wedding ring — to me, the symbol of sacred, enduring, love and unloyalty — to Lyndy, then to her daughter, and so down through the generations as their "something old."
I used the ring when John and I were married almost 30 years ago. I wore it until my finger joints were crippled with arthritis. And then I put it away, waiting for Lyndy's wedding day.
That day came May 19.
I engaged my two housekeepers in an all-out search for the ring. I had put it "in a safe place" but as usual couldn't remember what I had considered a "safe place" at the time I had put the ring away.