With this ring
There is a tiny ring that I have worn on my finger since I was 15 years old. It is of the Blessed Virgin Mary fashioned by hand and made by the creative artisans in Italy. I bought it for P180 at the gift shop of Glecy Tantoco when Rustan’s was just an extension of her private residence in a quiet, leafy, shaded area of San Marcelino, Ermita. The ring was my first lay-away purchase that gave me a sense of accomplishment because indeed, if one saves, one could own.
A ring can cover a medley of emotions, full of intuition, of sunshine, smiles and sadness. Oftentimes, it becomes more valuable not for its price tag or its commercial value but for the circumstances that surrounded it that pulled at your heartstrings or brought you memories that were either beautiful or painful or both.
Take the common high school ring. It sums up four years spent in a learning environment with teachers and classmates, punctuated with fun, camaraderie and mischief. I recalled strong typhoons that turned the long stretch of España Street into a virtual lake thus meriting an early class dismissal. We would pull up our skirts, wade through the ankle-high flood and hail a jeepney and a calesa to reach Raon Street, the hub of musiclandia near Chinatown and Escolta. There, we would shift through stocks of 45s and 75s and long-playing vinyl records looking for the latest releases that were constantly played in the airwaves.
“Hey, it’s still early, let’s watch A Summer Place starring Sandra Dee and Troy Donohue (at Avenue Theater in downtown Avenida Rizal),” screamed my cousin Remy Jose and my classmates Cora Matheus and Fe Reyes. Paying the princely sum of P1.80, we chose from empty rows at the balcony section of the cinema munching on shoestring potato chips and freshly-roasted chestnuts. After merienda or a snack at Little Quiapo, we would return to the school campus just in time to catch the appointed hour when the family car would be parked outside to collect us from school. It was synchronized lakwatsa or playing hooky sparing our parents from unnecessary worries.
The going-steady ring. It was usually another high school ring or a college ring (bull ring) that became my symbol of my pledge to this young man that “I will only go out with you and will not entertain any other suitor or any other handsome man (which was a mistake) because my heart belongs to you.” It was the most uncomfortable, hideous ring on my size 4 middle finger but since I was on cloud 9, I wore it with my nose turned up in the air, my feet off the ground with a mound of melted wax. If this going steady pact failed, the high school rings were returned to their rightful owners.
The friendship band. My steady date commissioned this band from a jeweler as his gift to me on my 18th birthday. It had my initial “L” with pavé diamonds. I wore it every day with stars gleaming in my eyes even in broad daylight. One time, I took it off to clean but carelessly dropped it down the drain. I gasped with horror and pain. So much for friendship and romance that literally went down the drain.
Engagement ring. My fiancé gave me a square cut ring of my birthstone that he fancied in a jewelry store. My aunties wailed, “Ano ba ’yan? Doesn’t he know about diamonds?” I smiled and offered no clue or explanation. He bought it from his first paycheck and I thought that scored high in the “I give my heart, my dreams, my resources, my future to you.”
Anniversary ring. Aha! I think the man in my life even surprised himself with this ring. Not only did he score high with my loupe-bearing aunties, he also didn’t realize that he was reaping the harvest of many long summers of diligent sowing. He asked a Swiss/German bijoutier (jeweler) to design a wide band with an emerald cut diamond capped by two tapered baguettes on the side. With a little help from his mother-in-law in choosing the stone, he got assurance that I would like it. My eyes popped. Was I standing in the center of the hidden treasures of The Arabian Nights? Who would not imagine such fantasy? I still wear it on occasions but my hands are showing signs of irreversible arthritis with bending fingers and green veins popping like wiggly worms. The ring still brings a warm glow to my heart to think that the hungry, struggling years bore succulent fruits.
One time, my grandson made a ring out of pressed, recycled newsprint. He quickly scribbled on the card, “Nonna, wear this on your thumb because I never see you wear anything on it.” The ring looked like a sash that was wrapped around an old, sinewy, aging trunk. “Don’t wet your thumb,” he cautioned.
In a recent family reunion, my scrutinizing aunts asked me, “Tell me, where are your wedding bands?” “Through the years and in harmony with his expanding waist, the ring has become too tight to wear on his finger while mine gave me blisters or skin sores,” I replied. “Hmm,” she said, “ I hope there are no snags or sores in your life, okay?”
With a little imagination, I was able to turn the bands into detachable pendants. Maybe, my grandchildren could once again use them as their wedding bands and inject some fable of love, romance, miracle and mystery in the telling. Ah, precious symbol of undying devotion, what a lovely reminder that, like Beyoncé singing, “If you like her, and you know it, you shoulda put a ring on it.”
