The band is gold, thin and simple. The dings and dents of a thousand collisions line the sides. It was in a simple box that I found while cleaning the other day, about the same day that my mother's mother (Esther) had taken a turn for the worse with her health. Esther is 88, in hospice care in an industrial room that has seen life and death for decades, and without that ring, she likely wouldn't be here. And neither would I.
Inside that ring, which now sits on the pinkie of my right hand, is the following inscription:
L.G. to C.C. June 26 - 26
Over 90 years ago, a few summers before the Great Depression, my great-grandfather Leo Glover popped this ring on the finger of my great-grandmother Caroline Currivan. I don't remember much about Leo, as I only knew him as an invalid, taken care of by Esther until his passing. There were rumors that he was offered a spot with the Detroit Tigers, but that farming in Fowlerville was much more lucrative at the time, so he stayed on the farm instead of the baseball diamond. After his death, he left me some money for my education, money that I squandered on teenage pursuits.
I remember more of Caroline, she who would have me stay with her as a child for a few summer days in her Lansing apartment, she who would let me cook as many Smok-y Links as I could eat, she who bought me toys like Godzilla and Shogun Warriors. Later, as her personality and memory eroded in dementia, she took residence at the same facility where Esther is currently spending her last days. By all accounts, the love between Leo and Caroline didn't last long, but it's nice to have a memento of a time, from what we now call the "Roaring Twenties" (that I doubt roared much in the fields near our state's capital), where part of me comes from. May it always stay gold.
Comments
Post a Comment