The Ring - by Tina Benson Skenes

       They met when they were teenagers. He had just moved into the neighborhood with his rather large family. She was the oldest daughter in her family, charged with babysitting her five younger siblings while her parents worked in the cotton mill.

        They slipped away to marry on December of 1939, leaving her charges playing in the yard. When they returned hours later, the kids hadn’t even noticed they had left. For several days, the nuptials were their little secret.

        There was no money for rings. The diamond solitaire wouldn’t come for years. The wedding band would come a little sooner.

        He cried all the way to the station-- World War II was “in full swing”, and he “had to go”.



        He wrote often, the letters addressed by name and town-- no PO boxes, no route number, no street address. It was different then. Everybody knew everybody else in small-town North Carolina.

        His military travels took him to England and France-- where one day he met a young lady on the street who was very petite, about the same size as his wife. He dragged his new acquaintance into a nearby jewelry store, where he had her try on gold wedding bands. (Certainly, their ring size must be similar.) Using a portion of his pay that he had tucked away, he purchased the ring that would be a BIG surprise for his sweetheart back home. I can imagine his excitement!

        He taped his acquisition to the back of a postcard and sent it on its way. Weeks later, she received the card from France, the ring still attached. It WAS different then…

        Time passed. The war ended, and he returned home. He wore many hats over the next few decades-- motorcycle dealership owner, restauranteur… insurance salesman. He built a home, raised three children. His children raised children. As years went by, a favorite story was the tale of “the ring”.

        As her memory began to fail, he covered for her. “She’s having a little problem with her memory”, he’d tell them, and her children started calling to remind her of birthdays and other special occasions.



        “Mom, today is Vickie’s birthday. Be sure to give her a call.”

        “Oh-- it is?”

        “”Mom, did you get the card I sent you?”



        “Streetie, did we get the card Tina sent?”

        He NEVER used the word… ALZHEIMERS… but his children knew.

        In 2003, they moved into an assisted-living center. The staff chuckled at his request to put the twin beds together to make one bed, but they did what he asked. At this time, they had been married for 62 years.

        She became more forgetful, started hoarding and hiding things-- packets of Splenda from the dining room, hundreds of them. Ten bags of frozen collards from her home freezer, garnered during a trip home facilitated by a well-meaning friend and neighbor, stashed in the closet… and a stinky mess a few days later. Things began to disappear from their room--money, his wallet, her prized wedding band. The list goes on…

        He spoke of how she’d wake up during the night and get dressed for work, although she had been retired for over twenty years. He’d remain awake most of the night--sitting in a chair blocking the door, so she couldn’t leave their room.

        “You just wouldn’t believe it”, he’d say, knowing that he wouldn’t have anyone else share in the responsibility. He had vowed to take care of her, and that was exactly what he was going to do.

        His daughters began cleaning our their childhood home, and were heartbroken to find many precious items missing-- family heirlooms, old family pictures and 8mm movies…jewelry.

        As time passed, his health deteriorated as well. Parkinson’s disease was taking its toll on his body..,. and his mind. The dementia that came with advanced Parkinson’s began to manifest itself in semi-regular (and sometimes violent) outbursts.

        His daughters made plans to move them south, where both could receive the medical attention they deserved. The impending move also meant family would be nearby, and could assist in their care. He didn’t want to go, and made many excuses to stay in North Carolina.    During the drive to South Florida, he had one of the most intense “episodes” ever.

        He never made it to the new apartment his daughters had prepared for them.

        We buried my Dad on September 27, 2004. I took him back to Rockingham for burial, just as I had promised.

        Months passed, spent settling his estate, closing accounts and moving Mom from the new apartment into a Memory Care Unit at the same facility, where she could be supervised 24/7. With Dad no longer there to take care of her, it was a necessity.

        I was at work the day I got the call from the bank where, for years, my Dad had maintained a safe deposit box. Before his passing, Dad had assured me that there was nothing in the box-- but I had continued to pay the bill every three months “just in case” he needed it.

        In December, when they told me his rent was overdue, I was incensed. I asked them to simply close out his account, and make the box available for someone else. They told me that they would be happy to “close it out”, as soon as I had returned the key.

        The key? OHMYGOD. I have no idea who has the key. I don’t even know what a safe deposit key looks like. Was I stressed? Just a little…

        I had recently buried my father. Within two months, I had also lost a favorite uncle and a close friend. We had just had to put down our family pet of 15 years. And now, this lady is insisting that there is NO WAY to forfeit this safe deposit box (and not have to pay the overdue rent) unless I FIND A KEY???

        “Fine”, I told her. “I’ll look for this key if you insist… but I can tell you that I’d much rather pay the rent on the box FOR YEARS than to worry about it.”

        Then, “Just what does a safe deposit box key look like anyway?” She gave me a description of the elusive key, and I hung up the phone.

        I sat at my desk for a few minutes, almost in tears. Then, I remembered that in the glove box of my car, I had stored my Dad’s key ring-- the one we took from his pocket when he was admitted to the hospital for the very last time.   I had not removed it since the day I tossed it in. I walked out to my car, opened the glove box and removed the key ring.

        I had used this key ring before, to enter Dad’s home, or to drive his van. Rolling my eyes, SURE that the key would NOT be there, I began to go through the ring-- key by key. There were: car keys for at least three vehicles, master lock keys for locks that were LONG GONE, house keys, shed keys, pool keys, even a skeleton key… and then… an oddly-shaped flat key. Matching the description the lady had given me half an hour earlier, this was clearly the safe deposit box key!

        …and beside it on the key ring was--- a thin gold band! It was my Mom’s lost wedding ring, the same one that was mailed from France during World War II, taped onto the back of a postcard!

        I seldom remove it from my left hand since discovering it that cool December day. It’s a reminder of my parents’ steadfast relationship-- and one of the sweetest love stories ever told.   It’s a reminder of how proud I am to be their daughter.

        For several years after Dad passed away, we could mention his name and Mom’s face would light up. She’d ask us where he was, and we’d remind her that we lost Dad in 2004. We’d also remind her that we still love him and miss him every day.

        Now nearing 90, and suffering from “end stage dementia”, her face no longer shows any sign of recognition when we mention his name… or ours. We visit and talk with her as if she understands-- but sadly, she doesn’t. We hold her hand, and tell her we love her… in case we never get another chance.

        On this Veterans Day, I’m missing my Dad, loving my Mom, and praying for strength as we approach the end of this journey.