Month: May 2025

My father had an incredible impact on me in spite of dying when I was only eight years old. I remember so many moments in our short time together that influence me to this day. I’ve written about his love of history and books and music. Even after he was gone my brothers and I listened to the records he had purchased and played each evening on our Victrola. The many volumes he had purchased lined shelves in our hallway and as me I became more and more proficient and mature in my reading skills I would learn more about the kind of man he was. 

I knew that my father was a sports enthusiast because he listened to ballgames on the radio on Saturdays and read about teams in the newspaper. He assumed that I shared his enthusiasm so he often filled me in on the latest scores and news. I don’t recall many specifics from his commentaries other than his devotion to the athletes of Texas A&M University. He would regale me with stories of coaches and players that seemed to be household names in our family. I wasn’t really interested in that kind of information but I liked that his mind was filled with so much information. I smiled at the way he seemed to charm and entertain the men who came to visit us.

While I was never particularly interested in the details of sports I reveled in watching his favorite comedy shows on our little black and white television encased in a beautiful mahogany cabinet. I suppose what I enjoyed the most was the way he laughed all the way down to his belly when a joke was particularly good. I liked that he had a sense of humor even when I didn’t always understand the jokes. I liked the happy sound of his reactions.

I vividly remember a few movies that I saw with my father and somehow they have guided me in my own viewing preferences to this very day. One of his favorites was High Noon with Gregory Peck. It was the story of a sheriff willing to stand up to a bad guy even when the citizens of his town were afraid to join him. The moral of that film has stuck with me to this very day. I could tell that my father believed in the kind of heroism that required the sheriff to find a high level of moral courage. He would talk about that story over and over again. I would end up rewatching the classis many times and seeing its value through the eyes of an adult. Later I would watch an older Gregory Peck portray a lawyer who went against his townspeople to defend a poor Black man accused of murder and I thought of my father.

Another of my father’s favorites was Shane with Alan Ladd. It too was a story of profound courage from a stranger who came to town during a time when the homesteaders were struggling brutality of wealthy cattle barons who were determined to dominate and steal. The main character helped a family struggling to keep their land and their honor and then he simply went away. My father sometimes opined that this was his favorite movie ever because it showed that common folk can and should stand up to powerful people who would attempt to curtail their freedoms.

Another movie that captured my father’s fancy was The Old Man And The Sea with Spencer Tracey. It was a slow moving film focused on the main character, Santiago, who was determined to do whatever it took to land a huge marlin and bring it back to shore. My father explained the importance of determination to me after watching the movie with him. He also suggested that I one day read the story by Ernest Hemingway whom he considered to be an incredible writer. 

It’s funny how those three movies have stayed with me. I have watched each of them many times and I draw more and more insight from them with each viewing. I also find myself understanding my father from a more adult perspective even though I never had the opportunity to interact with him as an adult. The hints that he left me and my brothers have been more than enough to provide me with a sense of really knowing him. He was a man who admired courage and grit. I realized that some of the last words that he spoke to me were a challenge to be honorable and willing to push myself to be better than I might have thought I would be able to be. He gave me models of what it means to be strong and then he encouraged me to never stop learning. All the while I saw the importance of being able to laugh even in difficult times and situations.

I suppose that with all of the upheaval in our political environment I find myself understanding that sometimes I have to find the courage of being the change that I wish to see as the saying goes. There may not be a posse coming to save me so it will be up to me to persist in doing what I believe to be the right thing for me and my family and my country. It will be a challenge and I may want to quit, but that is not what we are sometimes called upon to do. 

I love that my father was wise enough to share so many things with me and to constantly send me messages about how much he loved me and how much he expected me to be and do my best. It would have been nice to have him around a bit more but somehow he managed to give me all the information that I needed in only eight years of knowing him. My grandparents and my mother and friends and relatives would fill in the blanks for me along the way. I hope that I have done as much for my children as he did for me. His legacy lives in me to this very day. 

I remember going downtown to Sweeney’s Jewelers with my then fiancee, Mike, to choose the ring that he would place on my finger on our wedding day. The style back in 1968 was to have a fairly wide gold band showcasing a solitaire diamond, so that is what the jeweler first brought from the vault for me to try. It soon became apparent that my hands were way too small for such a piece. Every one that I tried went all the way up to and sometimes beyond my knuckle. It was time to look at other options. 

The jeweler was calm and seemed to understand exactly what I needed. Before long I was holding my hand out in front of my line of sight to gaze on a delicate set with thin gold bands intertwined. The engagement ring was lined with diamond and the pattern repeated on the wedding ring with a single large diamond beautifully balancing the artistry of the stones. It was uniquely stunning and I knew that I would enjoy wearing it for the rest of my days.

And so it was. Mike placed the two parts together on October 4, 1968, and there they stayed every single day since then with few exceptions. I removed the rings before going to the hospital to have my babies and when I had a couple of surgeries. I left them at home when we went on vacations because I did not want to run the risk of losing them in a faraway place. 

Recently I spoke of my rings with my daughter and granddaughter as we enjoyed a girlie moment of reminiscing in the way that only women would understand. I noticed as I was sharing the story of choosing my rings how loose they had become. Over time my fingers were often swollen so I had the rings resized. Of late I they had hardly ever been puffy and so they were now a tiny bit too large. 

On one occasion I noticed that the rings had twirled one hundred eight degrees so that the main diamond was facing downward toward my palm. I considered the prospect of having them resized once again but let other more important concerns grab my attention. I did not think about the rings for a week or so after I had looked at them with my daughter and granddaughter. It was only when I was listening to music while I drove to a tutoring session that I began tapping my left hand on the steering wheel in time with the beat. Suddenly I saw that my ring was not there and immediately went into a panic. 

There was nothing I could do in the moment because I needed to take care of my students first. I’m not quite sure how I successfully made it through the next two hours but somehow I performed my duties and then drove home trying to remember what might have become of my rings. I realized that I had been many places since last knowing that they were still on my finger. There was no telling where they might have fallen off without my even noticing. 

Upon arriving at home I searched my truck and every surface and room in the house. I even went so far as to go through the garbage and under chair cushions. All was to no avail. There was no sign of my rings anywhere. I was so upset that I was unable to eat the soup that I had prepared for everyone for dinner. Instead I went to my bedroom and cried. 

It was not so much the actual physical loss of the rings that bothered me as much as the sentimental value of their constancy in fifty six years of my life. They had been with me through all of the stories that make me, me. I had worn it in times of trials and tribulations. They were my golden circles of life and somehow my instinct told me that I was never going to see them again. Nonetheless I made countless efforts to retrace my steps hoping to uncover the hiding place where the rings lay. I even had people searching the homes where I had visited. There was an all out effort to find them for me but again nothing seemed to be effective in locating them. 

I am a realist at heart and I place a much higher value on people than on things. I do not generally collect expensive jewelry or trinkets. My tastes are simple and I am more inclined to repair something that is worn out rather than replacing it. I just spent days repainting lawn furniture so that I might use it a few more years before the rust takes its final toll. I realized as I thought of my ring that while it meant the world to me it did not mean the end of the world to lose it. I thought of people in Los Angeles who had come home after the fires to nothing but  concrete slabs where their homes once stood. I remembered the photos showing how much Ukraine and Gaza have changed since the wars in those parts of the world. I understood that I don’t need my rings to remind me of how solid my love for my husband has been. My life is the jewel that matters the most. 

Miracles do happen but I am not counting on one this time. I may never see my rings again but perhaps its time to replace them with something more practical for a woman my age. If I happen to find it them will rejoice. If I never see them again I will still have my beautiful memories which will remind me of the many blessings I have been able to count. Nonetheless, I think I will say a little prayer to St. Anthony. He’s a saint who has helped me find things before. Maybe he can lead me to the place where my rings are hiding. That would surely be nice.  

Update: Many days later I was taking an article of clothing from one of my drawers and something fell on my foot. There were my rings! Now they are safely stored away until I can get them adjusted to the small size of my finger. They will be treasured.