When I married my husband, we had zilch money. We got married quickly, so that I could go to Algeria with him, where his company had transferred him. Actually, we thought we were going to Morocco. A story for another time.
We had a dear friend, an artisan jeweler, make our wedding rings. Bernie did them for materials; it was his wedding gift to us. They were lovely, but don’t fit us (in any way!) these days. And there was no diamond; we couldn’t afford one.
So after we’d been married for a long time, and had two sons, my wonderful husband showed up around my birthday (but not on my birthday, as he was quick to point out) with a lovely emerald-cut diamond solitaire. Suffice to say it’s fashionably large, although I have it set deeply so it won’t catch on things. (Have I mentioned I really don’t like fussy junk?)
He said he’d always wanted to buy me a diamond. It’s my birth stone, and I LIKE diamonds. I know they’re not fashionable now: there are good reasons to boycott deBeers. But times (& we) were more innocent then. He stopped in Amsterdam on the way back to where I was in the US, finishing school. He went to the diamond cutter’s and picked out my stone, then had it set. Very simple. No fuss. For my birthday, he sent roses. The diamond, he said, was just because. Mostly bcause he could afford the one he wanted to get me, now.
You can’t argue w/ a man like that. Why would you try? So today — as I do every day — I give thanks for my husband. Who is not only a buyer of diamonds, but brilliant, witty, kind, generous, and still verrrry cute. Thanksgiving is as good a time as any to put it out there.