A Tale of Two Rosaries

I've been thinking about this post for a while, and since there are at least four other things I should be doing at the moment (two of which involve sleeping), it's obviously the right time for me to write it.

Ahem.

I was listening to this episode of the veryverylovely Fountains of Carrots podcast, and it got me thinking about my two "special" rosaries. 

Let's call this rosary... Rosie. Why not?

I've had "Rosie" (no. That doesn't sound right. Maybe rosaries aren't meant to have names...) since I was three weeks old. It belonged to my maternal grandmother (who died before I was born) and my grandad gave me it, as the eldest grandchild, as a Christening present. Growing up, I remember holding it every time I had a bad dream. Later, I took it with me every time I flew, and later still, I had it with me through hours (HOURS) of prodromal labour with baby #3. I carried it wrapped around my bouquet when I got married, as did my mother and my aunt, and I hope my sisters and, who knows, daughters will do the same. (It's something old, it's something blue, and, as it's mine for the forseeable future, it will also be something borrowed... three out of four in one object isn't bad, right?) 

If the first rosary was Rosie, this one would have to be Rosita.

I must admit, I very rarely use this rosary. It's (very) old, it's fragile, and it's actually missing beads, which isn't exactly conducive to meditation when I'm trying to remember which decades are short of a couple of Hail Marys. It belonged to my great-great grandmother, who came over from Spain at some unknown point in the 1870s (we think). The pattern on the wooden beads has been worn smooth in places, and there's something very special about holding a rosary which has obviously been used on a daily basis over decades.

I'd love to hear the stories behind other people's rosaries - bloggers, why not write about yours and leave me a link in the comments? ;-)