A Couple Of Old Rings

First published July 22, 2005

I have a ring that just turned thirty years old.

Thirty years.

I can remember being about seventeen and thinking that I was not real sure I even wanted to live for thirty years. I mean, think about it – thirty! How could person that old have anything left to live for?

It’s a simple gold ring, kind of medium-wide, with a pattern of leaves inscribed around it. Some of the detail in the leaves has worn away, ground down by thirty years of duty on a hand that held wrenches, and cameras, and cobbler’s nails, and ski ropes, and power saws, and guitars, and maybe an occasional beer bottle. A hand that typed hundreds of thousands of words on a portable typewriter, and later on a computer keyboard.

A hand that knew the joy of holding the hand of a little boy who always seemed to find some comfort in its size and strength.

There’s another ring around here that’s just like mine, and just as old, only this one is a little bit smaller. The hand it’s riding on is smaller too. It’s a hand that still feels like it fits as perfectly into my hand as it did thirty years ago.

Thirty years ago an engraver scratched on the inside of each of these rings, “NJB to JMB, 7/19/75.” Thirty years ago these inscriptions were a lot easier to read, with our young and hopeful eyes.

The nineteenth of July was exceptionally hot in 1975 – ninety-five degrees in the shade. We stood in a little stone chapel near the University of Michigan campus, where the only breath of air was stirred by a couple of box fans and fifty or so people waving their programs in front of their faces. We all ignored the perspiration dripping off my nose and spoke the few words that we had written for each other. The organist, on the verge of heat exhaustion, started playing the recessional in the middle of the vows. We all stood and waited patiently for her to finish so we could carry on.

Then I put Nancy’s ring on her finger and she did the same with mine.

Thirty years.

These rings saw warm summer days and frosty winter nights. They saw blue skies and gray skies. And, once, they saw a storm that came perilously close to putting an end to us.

They bathed in the unconditional love of three dogs and five cats. They watched us transform one house into a home, and then another one. They were washed with tears of pain, and tears of defeat, and tears of triumph.

They saw that little boy hold his first “sippy cup,” and saw him score his first hat trick. They watched him tie his first necktie. They saw him getting his high school diploma wearing a red robe and a ridiculous flat hat. They saw him, tall and proud, packing his possessions and heading off to college. And they’ve really only seen the beginning.

Now that I think of it, the detail on the leaves surrounding those old rings hasn’t really been worn away. Those are just the spots where life, and love, and hardship, and happiness have polished them to a brilliant glow.

Thirty years.

Copyright © 2005 Michael Ball