By Margie Boule
The Oregonian
March 5, 2009

It's almost impossible to separate pearls from sentiment. Youth passes, friendships fade, love dies, but ask a woman about her pearls, and here comes the emotion.

Last month I wrote about a local woman who was able to have her mother's precious pearls restrung shortly before her mother's death. A family friend saved the day, stringing the pearls in the back seat of his car in a parking lot.

Like many other women, the dying woman had worn her pearls for special occasions. Her heart was not on her sleeve; it was gracefully draped around her neck.

After the column ran, readers shared their stories about special strings of pearls. Artists Repertory Theatre collected more stories from audience members at its production of "String of Pearls." (The show continues tonight through Sunday; see artistsrep.org.)

Penny Greenwood's husband, Al, bought her a string of pearls when he was serving in Vietnam. Penny wore the necklace often.

In 1976, the family was in a station wagon in Florida, en route to visit Penny's parents. "We were doing something fairly dressy with them, so I had packed my pearls," Penny says.

The children slept in the back; the luggage was strapped to the top. Around 2 in the morning on a freeway, a strap broke and Penny's suitcase flew off the car.

Al cut through the median and headed back. Nearby, a state trooper saw Al's illegal move and followed.

"Just as we came back around," Penny says, "we saw a big truck drive right over the suitcase."

Al parked; Penny ran for the case. "I could see all these pearls across the road."

The trooper, once he understood the situation, blocked traffic and helped Penny pick up her pearls. "Some were in the median, most were in the lane, some were on the shoulder. We ended up finding 40 of the 42."

She had the pearls restrung and still wears them. A couple are pitted from the accident, which only makes them more special, she says.

Barbara Morley, another Portlander, wears her mother's pearls. Her father died in a plane crash when she was 4. "Dad's wedding present to Mom was an opera-length string of pearls. I remember she would knot them over a cashmere sweater. It was that June Cleaver era."

When Barbara's mother died six years ago, Barbara and her sister divided the jewelry. "My sister went for the sparkly things and I took the pearls, knowing I'd probably not have a reason to wear them. I did, though."

Not long ago, a friend threw a 1950s-style cocktail party. Barbara took out a dress of her mother's and the pearls. People thought they were costume jewelry, from Goodwill. "I just smiled," Barbara says.

George Romero was visiting Hong Kong in 1955 and bought a string of black pearls. He had no one to give it to. But he told his mother, when he returned to the United States, that someday he'd give them to his wife.

In 1959 George met a young woman named Irene at a dance in San Diego. Irene says today, "I couldn't believe we had so much in common."

George walked Irene to her car. It turned out his car was parked directly behind hers -- and they were identical. "Green 1952 Plymouths," Irene says. "He said, 'Is this your car?' I said, 'Yes.' He said, 'This is bold, but I'm going to marry you.' "

Months later, Irene visited George at his parents' home in Santa Rosa, Calif. "Suddenly he placed the pearls in my lap. His mother said, 'That means he wants to marry you.' "

"We've been very happy," Irene says.

Except for the day in the early 1990s when Irene realized her pearls had disappeared from around her neck. She'd been all over Portland that day, even at the zoo. She retraced her steps but never found the necklace.

A few months later, Irene and George took a trip to Victoria, B.C. There, in a jewelry store, they saw a black pearl necklace. When they told the jeweler their story, the man said the pearls had been lost for decades; he'd just found them in the store attic.

"It just felt like it was meant to be," Irene says. She'll wear the pearls at the couple's 50th anniversary party this year.

Finally, reader Guru Padma Donais wrote that she, too, now wears her mother's pearls. "My mother's nickname was Queenie -- a name fit for all her attitudes."

Queenie was quite a character. "Before she passed away, she gave me her pearls. As she put them around my neck she said, 'I won't always be around, you know. So should you ever miss me, just put on these pearls . . . and remember this hug.' And she, in her frail but tough body, hugged me.

"Then Queenie took another drag off her cigarette, leaned on her cane and said, 'Besides, your sister's neck is too fat. And these are good pearls. I gave her a cheap pair of earrings from the Home Shopping Network.'

"Black as her humor might have been, she was always Queenie. Her pearls have hugged me many times."