Lost in spaciness

I've given it a lot of thought and I think I know exactly how it happened.

I refer to the tragic occurrence of losing my right-hand diamond ring last Friday.

In a cemetery.

Oh, I know that made you sit on the edge of your seat! So listen up.

Allow me to regale you with the salient details of said event, embellished with my own unique (I hope) brand of tale-telling embroidery.

First I should explain that I am not rich (in money) and I don't want anyone to think I'm writing about this so I can broadcast the fact that I own a right-hand diamond ring.

I have been given several pieces of beautiful jewelry in my life, and as I am a total sucker for jewelry -- especially diamonds -- every gem and every bauble is dear to me.

The ring in question has adorned my right hand since February of 1996, when TG bought it for me to mark no special occasion except that I wanted it and he wanted me to have it.

I had been expressing my desire to own a right-hand diamond ring for several years, the way we ladies sometimes go on and on about certain things, just throwing the information out there, hoping but not really believing I'd ever possess such a treasure.

It was what you might call a dream. A wish.

I have a lot of those. I'll run out of life before I run out of wish-dreams.

As it should be.

So imagine, if you will, my delight when on an excruciatingly rainy day in Birmingham, Alabama, where TG and I just happened to be for a reason that is not germane to the story, while we were dawdling away an afternoon window shopping, we wandered past the fine jewelry counter at Parisian (how I miss that store) and I spotted a ring and said I loved it.

TG urged me to try it on and we had lots of time to kill, so I did. It was even more stunning on than off my hand -- isn't that amazing? 

And it was on sale -- deeply discounted, as a matter of fact -- and the store was offering a convenient payment plan with no interest.

I think when he heard "no interest" is when TG began to have real interest.

Long story short, a few minutes later we were strolling down the mall and honestly I had practically forgotten about the ring when TG hugged me and asked if I'd like to have it.

Well, of course, in the spirit of striking while the iron is hot, I let him steer me back to the fine jewelry at Parisian and purchase the ring.

My mama didn't raise no fool, y'all.

I still remember the saleslady telling TG and me how cute we were as he gave me the ring. She couldn't stop smiling. Counting commission, perhaps?

It also could've been because I was beaming like a five-dollar Christmas tree and TG might've been looking rather pleased with himself, already counting the spoils that were sure to be his as a result of the gallant, romantically significant gesture.

And I do love the ring, with all my heart. If that makes me silly or mercenary or shallow or any other pejorative term you wish to affix to my person and my personality, so be it.

I've worn my ring for fifteen years and even though in the interim TG has given me several more pieces of diamond jewelry -- a necklace, a bracelet, and earrings, to be exact, and also a wrap/enhancer for my engagement ring on our thirtieth anniversary -- it is my right-hand ring that I love only slightly less than my wedding rings.

Someday when I'm gone, my daughters -- and, I hope, a daughter-in-law -- will wear the jewelry given to their mother by their father. So yes, I am attached to these wearable heirlooms and I rarely if ever leave home without sporting most if not all of them.

Fast forward -- and then back up a little bit -- to last Friday. The setting is Mount Hope Cemetery in Florence, South Carolina, about ninety minutes by car from my house in Columbia.

I had gotten up early and driven to Florence to report a deposition, which adjourned shortly before one thirty. I had already scoped out the area cemeteries and packed the Nikon.

It was an almost painfully beautiful day. A trifle windy for my liking, but the sky was glorious and it was warm but not too warm.

At least not at first.

Mount Hope Cemetery is rather large but not massive. It contains a nice mix of older headstones, newer monuments, and flat perpetual-care sections with some interesting statuary.

I started at the most logical place: the Garden of Prayer, a couple of acres with flat tablet markers, a grassy space punctuated in the middle by a huge sculpture of hands, palm-to-palm in an attitude of -- you guessed it -- prayer.

As I said, the sky was glorious and I wanted to get a shot of those huge hands against the blue and the white scudding clouds with bright sun winking around them.

I parked and, before changing into my graving shoes and unpacking my camera, I had the bright idea to disengage my remote control and ignition key from the rest of my keychain stuff, which is not keys at all.

The main element is a pirate dangly -- complete with a piece of eight -- made for me several years ago by a friend.

Also there is a keyring featuring Captain Jack Sparrow, plus another thing that reminds me of an extra-large guitar pick, which bears the almost unbearably sweet likeness of my precious granddaughter, Melanie.

It's her school picture and she gave it to me last year.

Yes, my entire keyring apparatus is rather eccentric and I make no apologies for that, except I admit that when I'm graving, the dangly parts -- including the set of red lips with a faux-diamond shine that make up my purse-rim hook for easy location -- are annoying as all get-out.

So last Friday I felt very pleased with myself when I decided to undo the whole contraption and take only my key and remote with me. They hook easily onto a pinkie finger and after awhile I'm not even aware I'm carrying them.

(No, I don't have pockets. Step off.)

Only, the moment I got my remote control and key away from the rest of the contrivance, I did what I do ninety-nine point nine nine nine percent of the time when I'm in my car: I dropped the dangly parts into the narrow space between my seat and the console.

Now, I cannot reach down in there with my rings on. It's too tight a squeeze. So I took off my rings and I moved my seat back and I tried but failed to latch onto the beads and pictures and lips and all.

Exasperated, I gave up. I retrieved my wedding ring from the console and put it back on. I got out of the car and walked toward the praying hands.

I took lots of pictures of the hands. There were other statues in the distance and I wanted exercise but not too much, so I went back to my car and moved to the next section. 

Many shots later -- including Matthew, Mark, Luke, but for some reason no John -- I drove to the part of the cemetery that was all stones and monuments.

That's always my favorite part.

But first I put my mind to retrieving my pirate danglies and related charms from in between the seat and the console, because it bothered me that they were down there and not out in the open where they belonged. 

A little determination and they were freed from their narrow jail. Triumphant, I dropped them in a heap into the beverage holder part of my car's console, beside my cell phone.

I had taken perhaps a hundred pictures and moved my car a couple of times when, unexpectedly and for no particular reason, I began to feel creeped out.

Hinky.

I told myself it was because I was all alone -- I had seen one or two people from a distance but by then they were gone -- and it was so quiet.

Except for the windchimes. As I said before, it was very windy. The chimes had obviously been placed in trees -- several trees, by the sound of it -- but oddly, I could not see them.

I could only hear them, and they were banging and clanking and chiming relentlessly.

It reminded me of a scene from Hush, Hush, Sweet Charlotte -- one of the scariest movies I have ever seen and one that I still to this day would not dare watch if I were alone at night.

So I got back into my car, almost convinced it was time to go home. I had taken lots of pictures. I was hot and dusty and hungry and tired and something felt not quite right about the whole situation.

I was driving slowly along the lanes, making sure I hadn't missed anything important, when I realized that my right hand resting at the top of the steering wheel was bare.

I wasn't wearing my ring.

I applied the brakes and looked down into the beverage cups in the console. I took out my phone and the fussy keyring apparatus.

Nothing there except a paper clip and a wadded-up silver gum wrapper.

No ring.

I panicked.

I got out of the car. I dropped to my knees on the asphalt beside the driver's seat and peered frantically underneath. I moved the seat back and forth.

No ring.

I motored the seat forward as far as it would go and looked in the back. I moved my umbrella, my camera case, my work heels, and some dried rose petals. I picked up the carpet mat.

No ring.

I moved around to the passenger side and did essentially the same thing, front and back. Seat forward, seat backwards, carpet mats up, carpet mats down.

No ring.

I emptied my purse and examined each compartment carefully, although I already knew there would be …

No ring.

I picked up the keyring conglomeration with the danglies and the pictures of the pirate and Melly and the lips. I tossed my cell phone aside, not caring where it landed. 

I took out the black rubber two-welled beverage holder and turned it upside down until the paperclip and the gum wrapper flew out willy-nilly.

No ring.

I began to tremble and I felt cold and sick, and I was very close to tears. I began to hate the stupid cemetery and all the dirt and the graves and the old dull heartaches and the tinkle-tinkle of all those ridiculous invisible windchimes.

Because I knew that somewhere on the ground of that cemetery lay my ring.

I arranged myself in the driver's seat, made it cooler in the car, and took several deep breaths. I looked around and knew it would be easy to retrace my tracks.

The thing to worry about was running over my ring with my car.

If I hadn't already.

Logic told me that I'd lost my ring not the first time I'd gotten out of the car, but the second. So I didn't go back to the place I'd parked when I first drove in, when I'd spotted the ginormous "praying" hands.

I remembered that, anxious to get started taking pictures, I'd given up on reaching between the seat and the console for my keyrings that first time.

So I told myself I must've dropped my ring into my lap the second time I reached down there -- which made sense because I used my right hand -- and then I forgot about the ring and it fell out of my skirt onto the ground when I disembarked.

Which would put the ring on the road over by the statue of Luke the Physician with the funny animal.

Except it wasn't.

So I thought, it's at the next road, where I took a picture of the Apostle Mark.

Except it wasn't.

Shaking now and actually shedding a tear or two, I went on to the densely-populated and monumented part of the cemetery. Spotting grave markers that had interested me enough to get out and take a picture, I drove slowly and got out and searched for the ring that must, must, must be there.

Except it wasn't.

After I'd done the whole circuit twice, it dawned on me that the ring must be in the only place I hadn't looked: the first place I'd parked, the place where I'd been sitting when I lost the danglies, the road nearest the giant praying hands.

So I wended my way back to that spot, only this time I approached the area from the opposite direction, which I was convinced was a good thing, because my ring would be on the side of the road where I'd originally parked, and this way I wouldn't roll over it and most likely smash it.

Right?

Wrong.

I pulled up hesitantly. I put the car in Park. I looked over at the praying hands (well, that's a misnomer because we all know they're not really praying) and I said, Lord, please, please, please let me find my ring. 

The hands might not've been praying but I surely was.

I got out of the car and walked around to the front. I don't know why I did that but immediately -- 

-- immediately -- 

-- my eyes fell on a small circular object sparkling in the sun, lying in a sandy patch of road not eighteen inches from my right front tire.

My ring.

I was shaking and laughing so hard, I could hardly get it on my finger.

But I did, and as I did, I thanked God for a clear answer to prayer.

And I'm telling you what I'm telling you: that ring winked at me. 

Mischief maker.

Comments

[Sue the hobbit]

Crikey, the suspense nearly killed me. You sure know how to elongate a story, Jenny dear! Glad it ended in smiles and not tears.

[Donna M.]

You had me scared to death and on the edge of my seat! Lordy! Thank goodness you found it because I know you would have been heartbroken if it was truly gone.

[dapoppins]

What a great story with a happy ending! I wanted to scream at you when you kept saying: No Ring!

[Mari]

Oh man! I could feel the panic. I am so glad you found it!

[irene]

So while I'm reading I'm saying a little prayer to St. Anthony, (not present at your cemetery in statue format). And I'm getting very excited. So GLAD you found your ring.

[Audrey]

I had already heard the Campbell's condensed version of this story and I was on tenterhooks as well! Thank you, Lord, for the happy ending. : )

[kev]

I left a comment for this 4 or 5 days ago! This means either my trusted iPhone isn't so trusting, or you deleted my comment!
Hmmm. Which could it be?