When I was three or four, I was at an Iranian mehmooni (which simply does not translate to the western notion of “party” with its connotations of fun and letting loose) with my family. I dropped my ruby ring down the fearsome black hole which festers in the middle of the Iranian toilet. My grandmother, amazing heroine of Iranian womanhood that she is, drew on a pair of rubber gloves, much with the same expression, I imagine, as Sir Gawaine drew on his gauntlets before going to fight the dragon, groped inside the hole, and retrieved the ring.
This story, not remembered but part of my early childhood mythology, impressed upon my mind the importance of gold. And yet, it hasn’t prevented me from losing a crap ton of gold over the years.
When I 18 or 19 or perhaps in my early twenties, I bought a pair of earrings shaped like bows, with long delicate chains hanging from the tips. I took them off one night and put them under the bed, as one does when one is too tired to put them back in the their proper place. That was the last I saw of them. The cleaner or simply a mis-behaved vacuum? We never found out.
When I was 29 – I know my age now because the princess was a baby and we had another cleaner, a thick gold chain necklace and bracelet went missing.
Last spring, we went to Victoria Park on Victoria day fro a picnic with some family friends. I lost my wallet. I had a thick gold “shemsh” in there -for no particular reason- which I had bought with about three months’ of salary, in the last few days I was in Iran before I moved to Canada in 2008.