It’s funny how a little thing can send you off on a tangent. This being National Poetry Month, I followed a prompt to write a poem about something precious to me. Seven pages and some online research later, I had no poem but a lengthy meditation on my grandmother’s engagement ring.
It’s a beautiful ring, which I never noticed before my father found it in an envelope in my mother’s nightstand after she died in 2002. In her perfect handwriting, Mom had written “For Sue.” The ring, which my research shows comes from the 1920s Art Deco style, has a large European cut diamond surrounded by sapphire “baguettes” mounted on filigreed white gold. The band was well worn, one of the sapphires was missing, and the ring didn’t fit my fat finger, so Fred and I took it to Diamonds by the Sea in Newport to have it resized and refurbished. I wear it when I dress up, always afraid I’ll lose it or damage it. Now that I have done some research, I’m going to be even more careful. Rings like the one pictured above sell for $4,000-$5,000 these days.
Holy cow. I have never owned any jewelry worth that much. Most of my jewels are cheap and quirky and won’t last much longer than I will. My engagement ring for my first marriage had such a small diamond you needed a magnifying glass to see it. When I married Fred, I said all I wanted was a gold band. There’s a story behind our matching rings, just as there is behind Grandma’s ring.
I’m bothered that I never noticed my grandmother’s ring when she was wearing it. Now I scour old photos trying to see her ring finger. I remember her dark eyes, her blue and black dresses, her thick elastic stockings, her flat shoes, and her voice—high pitched for children, low for adults, often lapsing into Portuguese—but I don’t remember that ring.
I want to know the story. Anna Souza and Albert Avina were both children of immigrants from the Azores Islands. Both lost their fathers when they were young. Both left school after eighth grade to go to work. I don’t know how they met, probably through one of Anna’s brothers or the cannery where Al worked, where all the women did stints cutting apricots and other fruit. They weren’t rich people. How could Grandpa possibly afford such a ring? Nobody had credit cards back in the 1920s when they were married. Did he make payments at the jewelry store in San Jose?
Was there a romantic proposal? Did they go on dates alone or with a chaperone, as was the old-country custom?
I have no memory of my grandparents kissing, holding hands, or even agreeing on anything, but I was child, a child who didn’t think much about such things. My own parents were visibly affectionate, but not my grandparents. Of course, they seemed old to me, and old people didn’t do that sort of thing. Actually, when Grandpa died at 66, he and Grandma were both younger than I am now.
As a child, I didn’t think about rings. My own small hands were usually stained with paint, ink, Playdough, food, or mud. For dress-up, we 1950s females wore white gloves. Was Grandma’s ring hidden under her glove? Did she wear it while cooking spaghetti or frosting chocolate cakes? Did the ring flash when she gave us a palmada—a slap—when we were being brats?
If only I could go back. I have so many questions. I wrote a whole book titled Stories Grandma Never Told. I don’t have many stories from my own grandmother. Now all the relatives from her generation are gone. A decade after she died in 1982, I took my questions to other Portuguese women, writing their stories and urging everyone to ask questions of their elders before it’s too late.
I don’t have children or grandchildren. If I did have a daughter, I’d like to think I would sit her on my lap and tell her the stories of my jewelry. See this ring? It belonged to Grandma Anna Avina, born Souza. Her husband, your Great-Grandpa Al, gave it to her when they got engaged to be married. They were poor, but he found a way to buy it.
Both of their families came from the Azores, beautiful islands in the Atlantic Ocean full of green fields, black and white cows, lava rocks and blue hydrangeas. It was hard to make much money, so people left for America to create a better life for you and me . . .
I wouldn’t tell just that story. I would move on to my parents’ stories and my own, down to my husband Fred’s romantic proposal and our life together. I would want my children to know I was not just “Mom” but a person named Sue who had a whole life of my own. Just as Grandma was a person named Anne who slipped this ring onto her finger and agreed to marry a tall curly-haired man named Al.
Dear friends, ask for the stories. Tell your own. Tell the stories of the rings.
Speaking of stories, remember last week when I had trouble with the apple pie? A few days later, I decided to make the cookies from the recipe on the back of the whole wheat flour bag. Somehow, I mixed up my measurements. I was supposed use 1 3/4 cup flour and 3/4 cup brown sugar, but I put in 1 3/4 cup brown sugar, way too much. I didn’t realize it until I was about to mix in the flour. Now what could I do? You can’t unmix the sugar from the eggs and butter. I was out of butter so I couldn’t double the recipe.
Knowing I’d probably have to throw the whole mess away, I added more flour and another egg, shaped the dough into circles and baked them. Guess what? The cookies were delicious. A miracle.
Stay tuned for further misadventures in the kitchen.
4 thoughts on “I’ve Got the Ring But Not the Story”
I always enjoy your blog posts, Sue. You are younger than me, but not by a lot, so I can relate to the times you were growing up. I have a ring story. When I was born in Hawaii just a month before Pearl Harbor was bombed, it was a very scary time. My Dad had been discharged in September, thank goodness, but my mom and I were there for the next six months. A Chinese neighbor lady gave my mom a beautiful jade ring for Baby Judy for good luck. Mom was to give it to me when I was old enough to wear it. She really liked the ring and didn’t give it to me until she turned 90. Yep, 90. Like I said, she really liked the ring and wore it when she dressed up. I guess, at 60, I was finally old enough to wear it. Since I’ve had it, I mostly wore it when I dressed up, but lately, I’ve been wearing it every time I go out. I really like it. I’ve learned to be a very patient person.
What a great story. Thank you, Judy. Enjoy your ring.
What a gorgeous ring, Sue! My ring story is my dh & I had a long-distance romance & engagement… we told our parents we wanted to get married and started planning the wedding (July 1985) in June 1984, but I didn’t actually get my ring(s) until he came to visit in April 1985. He told me to start looking for something I’d like and I had a blast wandering around jewelry shops in downtown Winnipeg, trying on rings. One salesman asked me dryly if I had a groom to go with the ring, lol. I did find a set I liked — matching engagement & wedding rings (the engagement ring had a bigger diamond) — and when dh came to visit we went to get them (plus a gold wedding band for him). He was just newly out of school and newly employed and his credit card had just a $300 limit on it. He wasn’t sure they’d take a personal cheque from out of province (no such thing as debit cards back then), so he brought along & used travellers cheques to pay for the rings!
They were getting (cough) a little tight on my finger, so I took them to be resized last winter. I picked them up from the jeweller just a few weeks before everything shut down because of COVID. Whew!
I got married in 1985, too. May 18. We met a jeweler at a craft fair and visited her in her shop to design our rings well before the wedding. Fred was a planner.