Grandma’s Ruby Ring

By

Teri Lyn Smith

Published March 2, 2001

When you pass a pawnshop window do you slow your step to look inside? Do you see the old mantel clocks and the tarnished trumpets, the dusty mandolins and the antique stickpins? Do you ponder where they might have been before finding this their current home? Do you ever peruse the beautiful jewels wondering who cherished them last? Would you notice, tucked in a crease of dark verdant green velvet, a simple ruby ring?

What catches your eye about this simple piece? The gold of the band is not too yellow. Not brassy but pale. You can tell it is very old from the setting. The ruby sits high, much too high to make it an everyday ring. It is delicate, simple, elegant and very beautiful. The blood red of the Burmese ruby is eye catching. You take note that Burmese rubies are the more precious now that they are nearly mined out. The color reminds you of a small shimmering lump of Jell-O. Glistening, pure, radiant. Someone's Grandma wore this, quite possibly her only piece of fancy jewelry.

Once, my Grandma wore such a ring. The same year my mother was wed Grandma suddenly died. Momma was crushed at heart that her beloved mother did not live to see her wedding day. She did not live to see me born just the next year. But Momma would show me her ring. There were few material things that Grandma left to Momma. Her worn silver-plated flatware, her Cameo locket and this ruby ring. These few simple things were the most precious tangible items Momma had. She never wore the ring because her hands were the hands of a hardworking woman. She always said they were not pretty enough to wear such a fine ring so it stayed safely tucked in her cedar lined jewel box.

During the rainy weather Momma would bring out the cedar box and tell me her stories, stories of Grandma and her talent. Her wonderful ability to create beautiful dresses out of scraps of fabric and her ear for music. Grandma never owned a piano but could play like she was enchanted when she found herself near one. Grandma was a large boned woman, not a physical beauty but her spirit was like fine porcelain and her character like delicate silk. She was made of pure and sturdy stuff, a farmer's daughter and a carpenter's wife. She raised Momma during the depression. They lived near the sea and the sandy soil was lenient and yielding. They grew fat russet potatoes and lush green broccoli. Grandpa worked miles from home during the week but on Friday he would return with a huge beefsteak from the butcher and his pay envelope. There was always good oat hay for Momma's sorrel mare, Bess. There were scrapes for her pup, Pudgy. Life was good though simple. While tragedy overwhelmed the lives of businessmen in far off cities Momma's family suffered little on their small plot near the Pacific coast.

I am now 50 years old and Momma is nearly 72. It has been many years since I have seen the ruby ring so I asked her, “Momma, can you show me Grandma’s ruby ring”? Momma was silent for a long time, much too long and my stomach began to turn during her silence. I felt a sly serpentine trickle of dread creep down my spine. “No” was all she said. My heart skipped and my breath caught in my throat. “What happened”? I asked in a halting manner. “There was a young man who came to visit. He said he knew our family. I did not know him. He seemed kind”. She spoke in a low tone. “I didn’t want to tell you. I couldn’t believe it myself”. she said. “I don’t know how he found my cedar jewel box but he did. I was only out of the room for a moment to fetch him something to drink but when I returned he had gone. I found out later that the ring was gone too”. Momma’s voice broke off and I knew we could speak of this no longer.

I still cannot bring myself to believe Momma’s words. It has to be a mistake. I don’t understand how this can be true. In a fitful state of non-belief I sleep now and I dream that I walk the streets of strange towns hoping for a miracle. In my dream I slow my pace when I walk past pawnshop windows. I see the old dusty mandolins and the bent and battered trumpets but my eye is like an eagle's focused only on the velvet display case. I have my site fixed for a flash of deep rich ruby red and a glint of pale gold. I will know it when I see it. A high setting too fancy for everyday wear. Not the kind of ring a woman like me would wear. But I watch for the flash. I have my eye set to catch the crimson sparkle of the delicate, simple Burmese ruby ring that once belonged to a Grandmother that I did not know except for this tiny token and Momma’s memories of her kept safely in an old worn cedar jewel box.