Mother's Day, Every Day

I came home with the Jostens’ brochure in my hand; hopes high, expectations managed. In my mind, I was already designing the ring…torn between the journalism icon, music notes, and comedy/tragedy masks. Why couldn’t there be room for all three of my extra-curricular loves?

The class ring was a rite of passage in my mind, something to symbolize that I actually enjoyed high school, that these really were great days in my life, despite all the growing pains. I realized years later, that it also meant I was more than the fallen ceiling panels in our living room, more than that street kid from South Bend, that we had gone past those things, that we could at least afford this.

She recognized that brochure right away. I’m sure she did some calculating in her head, her mind running numbers while her eyes never betrayed the math. My mom was really good that way. She could size up a situation, figure out a couple of plans of action, and have a solution on the table before most people realized what was going on. So, I imagine that when she saw me come through the door that afternoon, contemplating birthstones and ring styles, she was already trying to find a way make it work. We sat at the kitchen table and I spread our options out in front of us in full glossy color. She listened while I told her how much I didn’t like the birthstone they used for my birthday month, June. That clear pink stone just didn’t appeal to me. Didn’t they know there were two birthstones for June? We looked over designs and contemplated what might be most popular at my school…I’d likely order the style that wasn’t. Then, we talked price. We looked at the price list and just sort of sat there. Honestly, today I can’t tell you if those class rings were fifty bucks or five hundred bucks. Because at that moment, they might as well as have been priced at a million. She didn’t say it, but I knew it. I also knew that if I really wanted that ring, she would do her damnedest to find a way to get it for me. I had my own savings, but not enough to cover the cost.

So, we sat there and drank our Pepsi for a little while and talked about what having that ring meant to me, how we might afford it, who I thought I might be when I got older (as in, would I ever wear this thing past graduation?) After some conversation, she went into her bedroom and came out carrying a small jewelry box. She handed it to me and when I opened it, there was a gold ring with a garnet stone bearing a stately M: her high school class ring. Monticello High School 1951. I remembered seeing it when I was little, but never on her hand. It was always tucked away in her jewelry chest and I was the one who couldn’t control her curiosity and always played in her mom’s stuff. (Dress-up was a big pastime in my house) And then, Mom offered me a deal. She suggested I wear her ring, as a retro kind of thing. She would then buy me a “grown woman’s” ring when I graduated. We could go to the local, family-owned jewelry store downtown and look at things…maybe pearls. A pearl? A real pearl? That was the June birthstone I always thought was beautiful…if for no other reason than the amazing way they come about. “If you can wait, I’ll buy you something you can wear your whole life, that will never seem dated,” she said. It was a compelling idea. I tried her Monticello High ’51 ring on and it was a perfect fit. We smiled at each other. She took my hand. I knew she wanted to give me everything. I looked at my hand adorned with her ring and loved the idea of wearing this old school high school class ring. “Let’s do it!” I said.

A few days later, we went downtown to the little jewelry shop. I was dazzled and took in the beauty of the gemstones…the sparkling diamonds, deep greens of emeralds, the powerful hues of the rubies, and the warmth of the sapphires. Then, I headed for the showcase featuring the pearl earrings, rings, and necklaces. While I browsed, my mom talked with the jeweler. He was nodding and smiling, occasionally looking over her shoulder to smile at me. After their chat, she came over and looked at rings with me. “Don’t forget, we’re not buying today, so look for styles that you like, something to give us an idea of what to get later.” I contemplated black pearls…thinking I might be classically edgy. But, ultimately, I found a ring that I adored: a single pearl set with a triangular cluster of tiny diamonds on either side. It was beautiful, just enough sparkle but not too pronounced. “Mom…I think I’d really like something like this. Is this okay?” She smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind.” The jeweler smiled and said he’d see me at graduation.

The class rings came in. Many of my pals were flashing theirs and I was actually happy for them. Not really feeling left out at all, because I enjoyed wearing a ring from 1951 and I knew Mom would keep her promise and my class ring would come later. It would be a ring I would look at long into my life and remember those days of high school in that small town, remember what those days meant. Of course, 1986 eventually came and my high school years had been filled with people and experiences that still remain precious to me. The ceiling never really got fixed and there was a lot of creative financing in those days. Graduation week rolled around.

Mom told me it was time to go back to the jeweler. I found myself hoping there was a ring there similar to the one I fell for a few years before. We walked in and I went to the case with the pearls. I looked for a couple of minutes, and then joined my mom at the counter. The jeweler remembered me, the beauty of a small town at that time. He had a box in his hands and set it on the counter. Mom opened her purse, pulled out four rolls of dimes and set them on the counter. Suddenly, I realized what had happened. The jeweler opened the ring box and there it was: the beautiful solitary pearl with clusters of tiny diamonds on either side. The ring. My ring. The ring, I realized at that moment, that was put aside three years earlier by an understanding businessman and paid for by a determined mother a dime at a time. I learned later that they had cut the deal that first day we went in. He would hold the ring I chose, she would pay it off by my graduation. So, she started saving dimes and she went in every week and gave him something, sometimes as little as five dollars. Often paid in dimes carefully counted and rolled. She kept that promise to me. I kept my promise to her. Together we saw it through those pivotal years in my life. Sometimes a dime at a time.

I still wear my mother’s high school class ring. And, I treasure each morning when I put on that pearl ring, the lessons she gave me in love, perseverance, and integrity. To this day, open my coin purse and you’ll find, if nothing else…a dime.