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These necklaces belonged to my grandmother, Jane Dewhurst Wilson. My parents gave them to me for Christmas, which I thought was a really lovely recessionesque gift. Their understated simplicity is very representative of my grandmother, who I realize has been gone for almost ten years. This is kind of shocking to me since she played such a big role in my family's life during my formative years. She was really closest to my brother; they would talk on the phone every day when he got home from school. I always knew that I annoyed the shit out of her sometimes and this was confirmed by my mom, who dutifully reported the contents of grandma's diary to me after she (grandma) passed away. Nevertheless, she was always there for me when I needed her most: In seventh grade when my cat absconded (most probably down the throat of a coyote) and I was too heartbroken to go to school, she was there for me. In third grade, when I would crack under the hostile eccentricities of Mrs. Peaches Rodgers and fake sickness, she would always pick me up, driving her long white old-lady car that did not have power steering. My grandma's passion was gardening and she was really good at it. I also enjoyed her cooking, but in retrospect I realize it consisted mostly of margarine, condensed soup, Spam, boiled vegetables, Wonder Bread and ham. But she was a firm believer in eating ice cream every night before bed, which is probably why my brother wanted to stay out at her place so often.

My grandmother was born in Idaho, but attended elementary school in Bend, Oregon--at the same school I went to 50 years later (the same school that employed Peaches). During World War II, she worked in an airplane factory, a la Rosie the Riveter. The best part of her life was certainly her three boys, of whom my dad was the baby. The last years of her life were not good. They were so bad for her that they still mark a low point in my own life. But having her necklaces reminds me of an important lesson that I took from that terrible time, but which I admit to having forgotten in the past few years. Jane Dewhurst Wilson was a fundamentally suspicious person. She was afraid of practically everything and always assumed that people were out to take advantage of her. And toward the end of her life, somebody did. In about the worst imaginable way. In later adolescence, it occurred to me that the fear and suspicion that she had nurtured so carefully over the course of a lifetime had FAILED TO KEEP HER SAFE. It only served to limit her life to a very confined, fearful state. At the time, I vowed to take her example and do the opposite--live fearlessly. But I admit to having gradually forgotten this lesson over the past few years, as I've focused less on having adventures and more on work, spousehood, avoiding eye contact with my eight million neighbors. That is, until these necklaces brought my grandmother crashing back.

So yes, 2010: This will be my year of remembering how to be fearless.

By the time I got to the east side of Regina, Saskatchewan (I think this was the night of the day of the morning of the snowfall, or perhaps it was the next day). I had every intention of keeping on the move, even though it was already dark. Some fellow pulled up in a late model car (I'm guessing) and when I got in, he asked me if I wanted something to eat, or if I wanted a bed for the evening. I don't remember how he put it, but of course I was immediately suspicious.
Of course I was hungry and dirty, so I accepted the offer of something to eat, and the possibility of a shower. When we got to the fellow's house, it turned out to be a large ranch house. Inside, he led me down a long hallway that seemed to be lined with bedrooms. "You can have this room here," he said. It had its own bathroom, so I took a shower. When I got out and got dressed, I went to the kitchen. My host had rustled-up some sort of hot meal (I'm guessing). No one else was in evidence in the house.
I accepted the offer of the bed, and went back and immediately went to sleep.
When I got up in the morning, I discovered that my host had prepared a hot breakfast. I want to say bacon and eggs, but again, I'm just guessing. It wasn't like cold cereal----I suppose I should have been grateful for cold cereal, but that's not me. If you're going to invite me for breakfast, cook something, dammit.
My host had told me he would take me back out to the east side of the city (and I remember nothing about Regina) and let me out. He had one more gift to give me. He had a big plastic bread bag, and he had filled it with ham and cheese sandwiches (the kind of sandwich is just a guess). "Take these with you," he said, or words to that effect. "If you meet some other hitchhikers, pass them out.".
I would guess that I was waiting for my host to say something like, "Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal savior,", but he never said anything like that, at least not that I can remember. Whether or not his actions were a result of Christian charity, or just your average ordinary garden-variety charity, they were extraordinarily gracious, and welcome. I'm not so impolite that I didn't say thank you, but let me say it again: "Thank you, kind sir, for doing me a good turn." I hope I can find ways in my life to do likewise.
I don't remember giving the sandwiches away, but I don't remember eating all of them either, which I probably would, guilt-ridden as I am. I must have given at least some of them away.