proposal

With This Ring. . .

~ Sharon Abbott ~ 6 Comments

When Paul proposed in January of 1969, he did it without an engagement ring.  That is another story and one that is told in the story called The Proposal. But this is a different story.  

The day after we graduated from high school, Paul got in a car and drove to Denver where his Dad had moved earlier in the year for a job. He got a job in the same bakery where his dad worked and eventually would land a second job at the Leaning Tower of Pizza (yup, that was really the name of it). The rest of the family stayed in Pueblo to finish out the school year and over the summer, they would all relocate. I stayed in Pueblo for my job. We wrote letters back and forth every day and I penned mine on stationary that I had purchased with some of my graduation money – a box filled with bright neon orange and green and yellow sheets and matching envelopes. He used a yellow legal pad with white envelopes (once a debater, always a debater). They were love letters of sorts and also a daily journal of what we had done that day and whatever it is that eighteen year olds write to one another when they are falling in love. I wish I still had them.

I say all that to say that even after working two jobs all summer and putting in lots and lots of hours because he had nothing else to do really, at the end of the summer he had no money to show for his efforts. Not because he spent it all on himself, but because his family was struggling financially trying to get moved and established in Denver, and Paul signed over his paycheck to them every week. That, with what his dad was bringing home, kept the wolf from the door until they could get on their feet.  

He returned to Pueblo at the end of the summer to start school at the local college where we both had full scholarships and got a job at Sears selling paint to pay for gas to get back and forth to class from the home of a family friend who boarded him for free.  

In December he returned to Denver to spend the holidays with his family and when he came back for the second semester we got engaged.and set the wedding for September.  And yes, I know., We were too young, we were too poor, we were too stupid, we were too. . . . But that’s the way the story goes.

I think it must have been sometime in the spring, maybe over Spring Break, we went to Denver to visit his family. His mother wanted to go to the mall, and usually when Judy made a plan, it was going to happen. So we were walking through the mall, window shopping and visiting and at some point we ended up at the Sear’s jewelry counter. His mother stopped to look – she loved jewelry! I think I wandered off in a different direction to look at sweaters or some such thing and she called me back. She was pointing at engagement rings. “So when you get a ring, what kind do you like?” I hadn’t really thought about it. “Well. . . I like white gold,” I offered. “But what STYLE do you like?” I wasn’t sure what to say. “Do you like that one?” Not really, though I could’t really give her a reason. “What about that one?” Uuummmm. . . it’s okay. “That one?” No. “How about that one?” Yeah. I do sort of like that. She got the sales clerk’s attention, “Can we try that one on?” I put it on my finger. “What do you think?” she wanted to know. I thought it was pretty. “Okay, we’ll take it,” she told the clerk. And just like that, I had picked out my engagement ring. Had I known we were actually going to buy a ring that day, I’m not sure it’s what I would have chosen. But I did like it well enough. Looking back, I know we went to the mall that day to get a ring, and when Judy makes a plan . . .

Over the years, I wore it and the plain matching wedding band without really giving it much thought or notice. I wore it when I kneaded bread and when I bathed babies. When I washed dishes and when I folded laundry. When I slammed the door after a fight about who knows what and when I caressed his face and said, “I’m sorry “. When I taught my little ones to hold a pencil and when I walked down the street holding hands with the one who had put it on my finger at the altar. I wore it when I wiped away tears from little faces and from my own and when I served up ice cream floats to college students as we sat on the front porch on hot summer nights.

And then one day, about 20 years later, I looked down at my hand and the diamond was missing from the ring. It was not a big diamond, but now there seemed to be a huge gaping hole where the stone should have been. I had no idea how long it had been missing or when or where I lost it. I only knew it was gone, and I was devastated. All of a sudden the ring that had not mattered, mattered so much. Money was tight and while Paul wanted to get the stone replaced, I insisted that we should just get plain bands and wait on a diamond . . . so that’s what we did. For twenty years, we wore plain gold bands and I told myself it was way more practical anyway. Paul continued to wear his original band on his right hand and sometimes people would ask him why he wore two wedding rings. “This one is from my first marriage,” he would say. I wore my mother’s engagement ring and wedding band on my right hand which is another story for another day called The Fellowship of the Ring but also worth reading.

And then on September 5, 2009, on our 40th wedding anniversary, Paul had a gift for me. He put a black velvet ring box in my hand. I thought maybe he had bought me an anniversary band. When I opened it, there was my ring. With a new stone in it. And yes, I cried.  He was explaining he had wanted to replace it with a bigger diamond but it would need a new setting to do that and that would have been more expensive. And that he was sorry the diamond was so small, and he wished it were bigger and maybe he should have just gotten a new ring altogether. How could I explain to him everything this ring meant to me after 40 years?  

That this ring told the story of not just his love and his care for me, but for his parents and how he had spent all his summer wages to help them. That I had learned that a man who would care for his parents like that would care for his wife and sacrifice for her which he had done over and over and over again. It told the story of my mother-in-law and her generosity and her love and care for me. It told the story of our marriage: that it had never been built on money or expensive things but on love and commitment and our promise to one another. That ring, which had cost $160 in 1969, held so many stories. It was irreplacable. No, I did not want a different ring.

And now, as our 50th anniversary approaches (but how can we have been married 50 years??!!), Paul made a plan – he is his mother’s son. He wanted to put a bigger, better stone in the ring.  “Because,” he said, “fifty years is a really big deal.”.  I agreed. Fifty years is a big deal.  But only if they could put it in the original setting and make it work. So we took it to a jeweler who helped us to choose the right stone and will repair the crack in the band and give it back better than new. And now this will become part of the story as well.  

Side bar:  A couple of years ago, I had a minor surgery which required general anesthesia. Following the doctor’s directions, I removed all my jewelry and left it on my dresser before I went to the hospital. I got all the typical warnings and instructions before I returned home:  don’t drive, don’t operate heavy machinery, don’t sign any documents or make any major decisions, don’t use the stove. etc.  When we returned home, Paul deposited me on the couch, and went across the street to get me a salad. He was gone maybe 15 minutes. During that time I saw my jewelry on the dresser and decided it needed to be cleaned ( I have NEVER cleaned my jewelry before in my life) so I took it all to the bathroom, plugged and filled the sink, slathered it with jewelry cleaner, washed it all off, dried it off, drained the sink, and put it back on – earrings, necklace, bracelet, etc.  A few minutes later I noticed I was not wearing my wedding ring. I retraced by steps, looked all over the counter, and decided it must have been in the sink when I drained the water. About this time, Paul returned home.  “We have a small problem,” and I explained the situation.  “But all we need to do is take apart the pipe under the sink, and there it will be. Easy peasie.” The problem was, it wasn’t in the pipe. I could feel the panic rising. Paul said maybe he could disconnect the pipe in the basement and find it that way.  Nope.  Full blown panic was setting in. I was in tears and could not be comforted. Paul sat on the bathroom bench next to me: “It’s okay.  It’s just a ring. We can get another ring. It’s just a symbol. We are the real thing. And we still have each other. That’s the important thing.”  By now I was wailing.  “NO!!  THE IMPORTANT THING IS THAT WE FIND THAT RING!  I HAVE  HAD THAT RING FOR ALMOST 50 YEARS AND IT’S IRREPLACEABLE!”  Okay, so maybe the hysteria was coming from the drugs still in my system. . .  but still. . . 

I could hear Paul in the living room calling plumbers, It was after 5:00 so it was hard to get anybody to answer. but he was trying. To calm myself, I stood up and began aimlessly moving things around the bathroom counter. And there, carefully tucked under the soap dish where I had obviously put it for safe keeping but had no memory of doing so, was my ring.  That which had been lost was found and now I cried uncontrollable happy tears (didn’t Jesus tell a story something like this?). 

Like a marriage of 50 years

Two lessons to learn from this chapter of the story: (1) Always follow your doctor’s instructions after anesthesia, though in my defense nobody said anything about not cleaning your jewelry and (2) The worth of an object is not always measured by monetary value but by the stories we attach to it. Some things are irreplaceable.

The Ring Goes South – and Other Lord of the Rings Chapter Titles

~ Sharon Abbott ~ Leave a comment

It was over Thanksgiving break when he wanted to go ring shopping. And so we all tagged along: his dad, his mother, two of his sisters, and two little nieces. Because when you’re the baby of the family, nobody thinks you can do anything without lots of help and advice (and supervision). “We’d like to look at engagement rings,” we told the sales clerk. After we all agreed that yes, this was the one and money was exchanged, we celebrated by going out to lunch. Once home we put the ring safely away until he would need it for the proposal in April “Because,” his dad insisted “you cannot keep this in your dorm room.” Sometimes you just feel the need to state the obvious.

And so the plan was made and we settled in to wait. He came home for Christmas and we got the ring out and looked at it again and talked about what exciting times lay ahead. He returned to school and we all felt good that there was a plan and everything was working according to the plan and that April would be here before we knew it.

But then the plan changed. “I’m thinking I am going to propose on Valentine’s Day. Could you bring the ring down this weekend?” What happened to April?? Valentine’s Day was on Monday.

And herein lies the problem: this was the winter of 2010 – “Snowmageddon” as it came to be known. The third of four monster snowstorms to hit the east coast that year came on Monday and Tuesday, Feb. 9th and 10th.  We would be buried in a mountain of snow. The roads would be terrible. This was a disaster waiting to happen. I said no. But because his dad is a romantic at heart and because he is always up for an adventure, he said, “Oh the roads will be cleared on Wednesday and we’ll drive down on Thursday and back on Friday.  Sure.”

The next problem to be solved: though the main roads may or may not be cleared on Wednesday, our cul-de-sac certainly would not. Paul thought we could shovel the driveway and once out on the street we might just be able to drive through the foot of snow on the road. Plan B: maybe we could shovel our street enough to get the car out to the main road. Seriously?  But here’s the really cool part about a snowstorm – people who are pretty much strangers the rest of the year come together and pull together and become neighbors. So when they saw what we were doing and we told them why we had to get out, they all took up the challenge and with one little snow blower that the woman on the corner owned and the rest of us armed with snow shovels and a spirit of romance and adventure, we shoveled out our street to the main road and we were free! The Black Gate is Open

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We stopped in Frederick to pick up Tabi because of course schools were closed and would be for the rest of the week and since she would be trapped in her classroom of first graders well into the summer to pay for all these snow days, why not join this party of adventure to deliver the ring to her baby brother who so badly wanted to pull off his Valentine Proposal? And besides, it’s hard to have a fellowship of the ring – with only two people. And Three is Company.

The next obstacle: Journey to a Crossroads. We exited the interstate highway to travel along the state highway and so far so good. But then we saw the police cars blocking the road ahead. “Is there no way through?” we asked the officer. “No, the snow has drifted and we have to close off the road.” (The Black Gate is Closed)  How long before it might reopen? No idea. We explained our mission. We were the Ring Bearers and we must make it to Mordor Lynchurg – the fate of the proposal was in our hands. And for whatever reason (adventure, romanticism, boredom) one of those kind police officers stepped up. “Follow me, I’ll get you around this and back to the highway.” said Officer Strider.  Okay, that wasn’t really his name but it could have been.  Which is how the Fellowship of the Ring found itself with a police escort across the backroads of Maryland into Virginia until we were once again able to travel the highway.

We sent texts along the way to friends back home who knew of our secret mission. “The Ring Goes South”.  The reply comes back “Keep it secret. Keep it safe.” “If Sharon starts calling the ring ‘my precious’, abort. ABORT!!” And so it went for four hours.

We did make it to Virginia that day. We went to Joy’s house and Fletch and Emily met us there for a visit. (A Long-expected Party). I chatted with Emily while Paul and Fletcher headed to the back room (Many Meetings). I asked if they had plans for Valentine’s Day. She wasn’t sure if he had made a plan yet. A Conspiracy Unmasked would happen soon enough.

We all went to dinner that night and chatted about the storm and how this would be one we would all remember and tell stories about for years to come. Amen to that.

The next morning we were Homeward Bound to await the telling of the rest of the story.

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The Proposal

~ Sharon Abbott ~ 3 Comments

We had known each since the 4th grade. We
were high school debate partners who became friends and then began to date. We fought and broke up and got back together like most high school romances and then we graduated high school and he moved away for the summer and we became pen pals – writing daily letters back and forth between our cities, each envelope containing a window into the other’s soul.

He returned home and we started college and fought like crazy.  But by Christmas, when he left town again, there was no question but that we were in love.

The problem, as I saw it, was that he had made it pretty clear from the beginning that he had no plans to marry me or anybody else really. Ever. He wanted to serve God. I say all of this to explain why then, when he returned from Christmas break and wanted to take me to a really nice restaurant (one where they set the desert on fire right at your table!) and a movie (Bullet starring Steve McQueen – I know, right?) I was not really expecting what came next which is how the whole plan went terribly awry.

This of course, was long before wedding proposals were well choreographed, well scripted, and well planned productions complete with a supporting cast, a film crew, gynormous budgets and an engagement ring in its little black velvet box awaiting the reveal. They were really more like. . . well, like improv.  In hindsight, it might have gone better for him had he made his move during dinner with a little set up:  I’ve been thinking about this and praying about this and over the past six months I realize that serving God and marrying you are not actually mutually exclusive – or something like that only more romantic. At any rate, either because that was not the plan, or he deviated from the plan, that conversation never took place – not until much later. So after a lovely dinner and a car chase through the streets of San Francisco with McQueen, he took me home where we sat outside in the car, saying our goodbyes. And that’s when he said, “Will you marry me?”

There is a reason why the next words out of my mouth have become part of the family lore and legend. 

What I said was, “Go home and sleep on it.  And if you never mention this again, neither will I.”  Granted, if I had had a better script writer I might have said something like, “Are you sure you’re not just caught up in the moment and the romance of the evening – the flaming dessert and Steve McQueen?  This seems contradictory to all our previous conversations about marriage. What changed?”  But it was the best line I could improvise in the moment. And so, while what I was thinking was – you are in love with this moment and this evening and the romance of it all, and tomorrow you will wish you could take it all back and I do not want to have that conversation with you –  what I actually I said was, “Go home and sleep on it. And if you don’t mention it again, neither will I”  and I got out of the car and went in the house.

He called the next day to say he had to run some errands and did I want to come along. Sure. We might as well get this over with sooner than later. I had just “set” my hair.  You may or may not remember using empty orange juice cans for hair rollers. You get the picture. If we were going to have this conversation, it was going to be with the real me.  In the cold light of day. We were driving down 18th Street.

“Well,” he said.
“Well what?”
“Will you marry me?”
 “Okay.”
 “Okay WHAT?!”
  “OKAY!  I’LL MARRY YOU!!”  I type this all in caps because, when he tells the story, he yells this part – in sort of an angry voice. I don’t remember it that way. But who knows?

So that was the proposal. By today’s standards, not a very impressive production. But a great story. And it is our story. One of many.

We have been married 45 years today. Those years have seen their share of incredible joy and gut wrenching heartache. But he is now, as he was then, the love of my life. And had I known him then as well as I know him now, I would have known that that proposal came with great planning and care and intention. That he would never have been swept up in the moment (even if it did include Steve McQueen) and that he always, always acts out of conviction. I would have known that his love for God is what fuels his love for me and that together we would make a pretty good team.  

Had I known then what I know now, I would have said without a moment’s hesitation, “YES!  I’ll marry you!”  But then again, where would the story be in that?