By Linda S. Clare
Humor is just another defense against the universe.
~Mel Brooks
My great-grandma lived to be 102. She was stubborn and never gave up on things. When I tried to wear Great-Grandma's antique pearls, I discovered that I must have inherited her sticking power.
One of my nephews was getting married. Where I live, in the Pacific Northwest, clothing is mostly casual -- think flannel shirts and blue jeans. I'm okay with casual, but I relished the chance to dress up.
The ceremony took place in early fall, when Oregon trees put on a spectacular show that rivals East Coast fall splendor. The couple had chosen a garden setting to take advantage of the changing leaves. In October, the garden blazed with striking reds, oranges and yellows, contrasting with a backdrop of dark green firs and Indian summer sky. I settled on wearing a dressy cranberry-colored pantsuit, which would go perfectly with my great-grandmother's pearls.
If Great-Grandma was as far-sighted as I've become, there's no way she could have put on that necklace by herself. The pearls were gorgeous, but the findings were intricate and tiny. I'd had trouble hooking the clasp even before I started wearing bifocals.
Now, even with a magnifying glass, the fastener looked microscopic. I knew I'd never get the necklace hooked on my own, and I lived alone, not counting my fifteen-year-old cat Oliver. Then I remembered something I'd seen in the drugstore.
Like a lot of drugstores, this one had an entire section devoted to products for older people. Canes, walkers and raised toilet seats vied for my attention, along with pill splitters, pill boxes and pill organizers to help people remember to take their morning and nighttime meds. They had long poles for grabbing out-of-reach things so you wouldn't have to bend over. They sold cell phones with oversized buttons, and a lamp that turned on automatically, so robbers wouldn't know you lived alone.
Then, on a display hook I spotted what I was searching for. Hiding behind the eyeglass repair kits -- complete with the world's tiniest screwdriver and a packet of tinier screws -- hung the perfect solution for fastening necklaces like my string of pearls. For those of us with arthritic hands or dimming eyesight, the package promised no less than a miracle.
I knocked off all the eyeglass kits getting it, but finally dug out a miracle necklace helper and examined the package's contents, which included a couple of small magnets. All you did was connect a little magnet to each end of the necklace. That was it. I was expecting something more dramatic, but the package promised to fasten any necklace and save my eyes. I bought several sets.
The day of my nephew's wedding, I donned the cranberry pantsuit and the pearls. I looked stunning -- if I may say so -- and proudly allowed one of the groomsmen to usher me to the family section. The metal folding chair wasn't the most comfortable seat, but I reminded myself that this was a "Northwest Casual" wedding, not a formal affair in a basilica.
The wedding march began -- not the traditional one, but a flute and guitar version of the Beatles' "Here Comes the Sun." During the processional, the bridesmaids, in wine-colored satin as colorful as surrounding trees, did that special walk up the aisle. My nephew looked handsome in his suit and pink tie.
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The big moment arrived. The bride was beautiful, in a cloud of white chiffon that complemented her long auburn hair. Everyone rose.
Everyone except me.
I tried to stand but felt intense pressure on my neck. I put a hand to my throat, as the pearls pressed against my neck. The pearl necklace's magnets clung to the back of the metal chair. I was stuck.
I couldn't ask for help, lest I call attention to myself. I sat there smiling, hoping no one would notice my face turning the same shade of red as my outfit.
By the time I'd discretely disconnected myself from the chair, my nephew was kissing his bride. I was too embarrassed to explain why I didn't stand for the bride that day, or why my neck had pearl-like rope burns. Besides, I'm stubborn too. If I make it to age 102, I'll attribute my longevity to my great-grandmother's good genes and my own personal magnetism.
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