So we have this huge pile of stuff on the dining room table to take to the Salvation Army (even though we just went…it’s all our old dishes and stuff). I had about half a minute before Ken was ready to leave for our eye appts today, so I picked up my old purse to doublecheck that I hadn’t left anything small in it. It has a front pocket that I never used, because the snap was awful—you practically had to use a crowbar to get it open, and a hammer to get it shut. But, I thought, maybe I stuck something I didn’t often need in there, like a blister pack of Tylenol or whatnot. And I pried it open.

And found my wedding ring and my grandmother’s diamond ring, which I’d lost more than a year ago.

At the end of Great Western War in October 2004, Ken packed up the RV, and swore he put the rings “somewhere safe, in a pouch or something.” I went through every pouch, pocket, box, basket, and bag three times over, to no avail. Since our SCA/sewing room never got organized when we moved in, I’ve never had the opportunity to really tear the place apart. So I’ve always had a nagging fear that the rings were left in the RV, and I’d never see them again. The wedding ring is replaceable—yes, it would suck to not have “the” ring, but it’s a common enough poesy ring that I can get another. But my grandmother’s ring is unique, and it’s not replaceable. For more than a year, I harbored the fear that they were gone forever.

And today, on a vague whim when I had a couple of free seconds, I looked in a pocket I never used, in a purse I was about to give away, and there they were.

This Thanksgiving, I’m going to be grateful for trusting my own intuition. It’s shown me the right path more times than I can count, and I have my precious handfasting/wedding ring, and my grandmother’s silver filigree diamond ring, as proof.