with this ring

We went out with our dear friends, Randy & Kim, to celebrate our anniversary last weekend and I'm just now able to sit up straight...I sprained my laughing muscles.  It was such a good time.  There's a richness to relationships that span decades and shared memories that bind us together as to make us inseparable.  Pure joy.

During the course of the evening, we talked about our early married life and I shared a story about Ron's wedding ring...

After I graduated from college, I moved to Branson, or more specifically, Point Lookout, where my dad was president of School of the Ozarks (now upgraded to College of the Ozarks).  I got a job waiting tables (my first - and last - attempt at that position) at a cute little restaurant in Branson called Harbor Lights.  It was on Lake Taneycomo, so I'm not how the "Harbor" moniker applied, but it was a decent place.  It was in town, not out on "the strip" - this was long before Branson flamed into the entertainment capital of the universe, so our customers were mainly locals.  And the occasional couple in town to drop or pick up kids from one of the Kanakuk Kamps.  These were the rich folks so we always vied for their tables.

But I digress.

Our wedding was three months away and I had to buy Ron's wedding ring.  I found one I liked and probably put it on layaway.  Every night after a shift I'd come home, pop into my parent's bedroom and dump my tips out of the pockets of my very stylish autumnal themed polyester smock onto their bed.  Then I'd count the quarters and dimes and nickles...and sometimes the bit or two pieces of "folding" money I'd managed to earn.  On a good night I'd make seven or eight bucks.  I remember once getting a $10 tip and thinking I'd hit the big time.  Ah, the age of innocence...

Finally, after three months of schlepping platters of food, ladling thick dressings on top of plain old iceberg lettuce, sneaking hush puppies when the cook wasn't looking and coming home smelling like a vat of grease, I'd made enough money to buy his ring...$125.  It was the first really big purchase of my life and I felt very accomplished.

Imagine my horror when Ron came home from work one day empty fingered.  School of the Ozarks has a mandatory work study program (in lieu of tuition) and Ron worked at the Transportation Department, punching coal.  A dirty, hot job.  He'd been washing his hands and, unbeknownst to him at the time, his ring slipped off and washed away.

I was devastated.  I'd worked so hard.  Listened to a third rate combo every weekend, doing bad covers of bad songs.  I'd had to throw a glass of water on a customer on Fourth of July because someone thought it would be great (and safe) to light sparklers inside and her chiffon blouse caught on fire.  I'd burned my fingers repeatedly splitting and smushing baked potatoes.  I'd had to try and erase the image of the cook and another waitress practically "doing it" in the walk-in.

It had taken every bit of three months to earn that money...now we had bills to pay.  We were never going to get enough money to buy another one.  I was inconsolable.

Then...miracle of miracles...the next day Ron went to work and someone had been cleaning out the drain and found his ring.  I'm sure tears were shed when he showed it to me.

It's been on his finger ever since.  Well, almost ever.  He had to take it off for his knee surgery earlier this year.  As he handed it to me I took a good look at it.  The fine row of ridges on the outside are long gone, rubbed away with wear.  It's no longer perfectly round, but has a rather oval shape.

It still has a good, heavy feel to it.  I smiled as I remembered the mountain of coins I amassed to buy it.

And then I slipped it on my third finger, next to my wedding rings, to keep it safe.