The ‘Bling Rings’ + One!

Christine walks down the memory lane and tells us the tale of bling rings, a dazzling diamond ring, and a lovely pearl ring – two rings with two amazing tales. An exclusive for Different Truths.

My three true ‘bling’ rings live on my left hand, confirming my marital status to the world. At the moment, they have been there for well over half a century… imagine that! 

My wedding ring is slim with three tiny diamonds set in white gold diamond shapes on the yellow gold band. I had always planned a wide, plain gold band, until I began trying some on. No… far too heavy for my long slim fingers. Somehow, this slimmest of wedding bands, with its own dear ‘blinginess’ was the perfect match for my solitaire diamond engagement ring with its simple shoulders set with tiny diamonds on each side. 

My eternity ring had been my mother’s … one I inherited 34 years after our marriage. It’s another delightfully slim ring set with tiny diamonds that happily nestle right in alongside the ‘big brother’ (or sister?) diamond ring – creating a perfect balance – a bright and shiny harmony. How I love the thought that a part of my beloved Mother lives every day with me, sharing victories and tragedies and all the shades of Life in between. 

But this story belongs to the ‘show-stopper’ diamond engagement ring that featured in a most unexpected way in the first weeks of Summer one year, here on our retirement farm. Living in the Southeast of South Australia produces a population well acclimatised to the cold and wet – but suffering the heat of summer temperatures our Northern cousins would find acceptable as perfect, warm and sunshiny days. Consequently, the cool of the evening and the gentle breeze that creeps across the land from the sea just 15 kms (9 miles) away, are welcomed and enjoyed most gratefully. On such a night, following drinks and relaxing time, I had a lengthy romp with our long-haired German Shepherd dog, Benji – both of us enjoying a tumble and roll around on the cool grass until bedtime. 

The next morning followed the usual bleary-eyed, gradual waking up routine of – nature call; wash hands and quick comb through of hair; make first cup of coffee; turn on computer; sip coffee whilst idly checking fingernails. Hmm-mm – those thumbnails need attention – stretch fingers out, and… my heart stopped for several beats, I swear, and then began to pound painfully in my chest and unbearably loudly in my ears. I could scarcely breathe. A great black hole existed where my diamond should have been. It just couldn’t be true. I gently felt the claws of the ring… there was nothing cradled within them. 

I checked my desk and keyboard (and upturned the keyboard and shook it). I was sure it would be lying there, innocently twinkling at me. Maybe the floor? I retraced each step back to the bathroom… had it dropped out as I dried my hands? I painstakingly studied every square of the tiled floor and then the polished wooden boards of our kitchen and dining area, around the kettle and the cupboard tops. Nothing. 

In our bed? Now there was a possibility. Perhaps caught on the bed linen through the night as I slept? Again, no. As I woke my husband and told him the shocking news, I began to cry. He comforted me and in his usual practical fashion, first checked every inch of our bed and the carpeted floor underneath, and then ‘walked’ me through every move I’d made since I awoke. We swept floors and vacuumed and examined our dusty collections with a magnifying glass. That magnifier quickly became an essential heavy-duty tool in our investigations of every nook and cranny; every knothole and joint between floorboards and skirting. 

The search went on for hours as the area widened to include the front lawn where I had played with Benji. This area slowly and painfully emerged as the most likely spot because I had gone directly to bed afterwards, and the diamond could well have been lost then and there. Can you just imagine how many tiny droplets of dew on the grass can glisten in the sunlight – for all the world like a diamond – and how many times hopes, and spirits raised up, only to be dashed down, once again? Even Benji himself couldn’t escape a thorough search of his fur – just on the remotest possibility the diamond had become entangled somewhere on him. How I wished! 

All searching proved fruitless. The black hole in my engagement ring loomed even larger and emptier each time I looked at it. At last, we had to admit defeat and phone our insurance guy, the one who had known us for some 30 years at that point – the one who had never let us down when we were in need. 

In short order, he was able to give us our first good news in this nightmarish situation – our insurance would cover a new diamond and its replacement cost. Later, only needed a written quote from our jeweller to be sent to the insurance company for approval. 

Later, on close examination, the jeweller found a tiny distortion of the claws on one side, which led him to believe the diamond had slipped out of that side. Having only moved here a few weeks before, I sadly remembered a couple of knocks to my hands as we man-handled the endless boxes – with no harm to be detected by the naked eye, I relaxed. As a consequence of this unforgettable loss, ever since I visit my jeweller regularly, for his quick peek with his trusty one-eye magnifier for any early signs of damage or wear. So far, all is good. 

Finally, my treasured ring was back where it belonged, sparkling at its customary level of brilliance, as though this drama had never happened. Absolutely nothing about the setting had been changed, as requested. I’m not into the updating and remodelling trend that many women embrace (even to the point of getting a larger diamond as their days become more affluent). 

We are convinced the final resting place of my late dearly departed diamond is down a small crack or ant-hole maybe, in our front lawn. If we’re correct, can you imagine someone, someday, new owners digging to create a new garden bed – and turning over a shovel of dirt to find a diamond? 

Will that be rich soil, or what? 

AND another ‘… truly!! 

In another Bling Ring’ biting the dust bizarre ‘losses’ to our visible marital status, my ‘Old McLarsen’, Kanute, had taken his turn many years before, on our dairy farm, when he walked with dragging feet into the farmhouse one day. 

“Terrible news.  I’ve lost my wedding ring!”  His miserable face told me it was the bitter truth. 

Next to our dairy was a feed silo high on a stand to provide gravity fall for the dairy feed to flow into bags from an outlet at its base.  Kanute had been at the top of the metal ladder attached to the side of the silo, cleaning out the powdery build-up of dust inside the rim. This had become sticky with the moisture from fogs and heavy dew, and his fingers had become encrusted in a thickening layer.

Without a cloth to wipe hands on, the trusty jeans had to suffice with a good flick of his fingers from time to time to dislodge the finer stuff – until one unfortunate time his wedding ring went too!  It flew high in the air, glinting brightly and bravely in the sun, over the space next to the silo where a tractor and trailer could usually pass through. 

“It just disappeared somewhere in that bloody tall hay shed.” Kanute shakes his head in disbelief, as he did back then. 

“It had to be the year the shed was filled with a record number of bales of that golden hay, didn’t it?” 

“Oh yes… SO many they were stacked outside as well. Remember how they filled more than half the space between the dairy and the hay shed? What a year… what a cut!” 

Luckily for us, a few weeks earlier the carting of this bumper year’s hay-cut was achieved with the help of friends AND a large trailer behind our tractor capable of carrying 90 bales of hay at a time.  

“Bit different from our unforgettable first year of dairying… hey?” We nod in unison. Unforgettable was right. We were SO poor, we could only afford a small wooden trailer on wooden wheels, able to cart 25 bales at a time, stacked precariously high. It’s great, bouncy springs and the slope of our land ensured we would lose a large part of the load any time we hit a hole or a bump… and there were many of them on the trip back to the shed. Its price at a clearing sale ensured it wore our name – in neon lights. 

“How much did we cut again” Well over 2,000 bales, wasn’t it?” 

“WELL OVER!” Kanute blows a hefty sigh “Try 3,000 bales from just four acres of pasture! THAT was a bumper cut, all right.” 

I shake my head — great for our pockets — but murderous for our backs. Youth, grim determination, and absolute necessity do have distinct advantages when the going get this rough. 

Meanwhile, back at the site of the unimaginable loss, Kanute searched high and low – not for the proverbial ‘needle in a haystack’, but for one bright, shiny golden ring tucked away somewhere in that mountain of glowingly golden hay. 

“I searched for weeks and weeks – over and over the same area, again and again.”

“Me too,” I say wryly. 

 Every visitor had a hopeful but luckless look, and even kids were lured into the quest with the promise of $20 to the lucky finder. 

“Not bad dough in the late 1970’s,” I say. Actually, this was a small fortune for a kid.  Every time Kanute lifted a bale of hay to feed out to the stock, he would search again; eternally hopeful it would miraculously be uncovered. But all hopes were consistently dashed. 

Months went by and as the stack of hay shrank, we despaired of finding it. Finally abandoning ALL hope, convinced now it must have been in a bale fed out to the cows, somewhere on our 165 acres. 

“Or had slid between the bales and BEEN buried forever in the deep layer of broken-down hay at the bottom of the stack.” 

“Oh yes… that was THE thick layer remaining after the last bale was lifted.” Once again that feeling of desperate hopelessness returns. 

“Hmm… all that lose stuff made the base for the next years cut. Imagine… then the ring would have been covered even deeper.”  Kanute’s eyes saddened. Life went on, but the pale dent in Kanute’s finger remained, as did the sad empty space in our hearts.  You don’t feel a wedding ring on your finger after a few years of wearing it – and yet you certainly DO feel the loss when it’s no longer there.  Kanute can attest to that. 

Some six months later, on a day no different than any other, he was lifting bales of hay onto the back of the utility to feed out to the cows.  Nothing new about that – except, in those six months the exposed hay had weathered to a dull brown on the outsides of the bales.  

Although the tale is indelible in my mind, Kanute can’t resist telling me all over again. It’s such a favourite. 

“As I turned back from the Ute, ready to lift the next bale, there it was… sitting there, gleaming cheerfully on the top of the next bale.” His wedding ring…! 

Shock, disbelief, wonder and then the greatest joy flashed by as we studied this unimaginable find. 

“Felt like a pirate discovering hidden treasure.” Kanute grins from ear to ear. “Struck ‘pure gold’, didn’t I?” 

How I wish I could report that the lottery ticket we bought in celebration was equally joyous – but it would seem we had received more than our quota of good luck. It mattered little. We were slightly delirious to settle for Kanute’s most special discovery. 

AND the ‘+ ONE’ part of this story?? 

I cannot leave this triumphant moment without sharing a story of another ring in another place, even though it’s an off-farm tale. We were in Western Australia, finding our way around our first Royal Perth Show, when we were attracted to a crowd of spectators in front of an unusual stand in one of the pavilions. A long glass aquarium contained all the usual sea grasses and rocks and small plastic ornaments. Instead of real fish languishing in the water, brightly coloured fake fish and turtles bobbed around above several thick layers of closed oyster shells.

It all began in a most unlikely spot at the end of September 1967, and the first Royal Show we had visited since our wedding.  Due to changing work commitments, this was also our first Show in another Australian State other than our home State of South Australia.

We had enjoyed all the displays and halls full of all the usual delights – cars and cooking; the latest in-home design, furniture and fittings; electrical goods and of course, show bags; and the entertainment epicentre full of dizzying rides, games of skill and a multitude of ‘munchies’ of the sweetest, most tooth-rotting varieties. 

But then we discovered an unusual attraction – a huge glass fish tank on a long trestle table.  Small Asian people with nets on long handles, encouraged the curious crowd gathered around to “Go Fishing” – and then we could see many closed oyster shells in a thick layer on the bottom of the tank. The small Japanese showman cheerfully encouraged his audience. “Give it a twist, a flick of the wrist – and catch an oyster shell.” He would shuck it open and reveal… maybe just a grain of sand, or even nothing at all. 

“So sorry,” he would say. “But because I’m such a kind fellow I’m going to give you a second dip” and he wagged his finger under my nose. …but no more chances after that one!” 

“Only $2.00.  Come on lady – have a go.  Guaranteed pearl in every shell – OR you can fish again.  Maybe you get a great pearl – maybe not.  But for only $2.00, absolutely a pearl of some value! Go on.  Take a chance.  Guaranteed one pearl – maybe you make a fortune?  Go Fishing!” 

Answering the irresistible challenge, and after much hmm-m-ing and harr-r-ing, I wriggled my net through a few shells and chose one – that looked identical to the others – but a lucky one, to me!  With a great sense of being centre stage, with all eyes riveted on him, the little Asian man prolonged the shucking open of the shell as long as possible.  He was obviously an old hand at this and was accustomed to the tiniest pearl ‘babies’ known to Man – with maybe the odd ‘reasonable size’, often scarred or slightly misshapen – but unarguably, a pearl. 

This time however, it was his turn to be seriously deflated.  He paled, looking near to collapse as a collective gasp came from the onlookers. I could barely breathe and wanted to laugh and cry at the same time… and did! The shock and disbelief on the vendor’s face as he told us this had never happened to him before, was mirrored by those gathered around. The first offers for our ‘treasure’ were made right then and there by envious onlookers in the crowd. Ohh NO. She was not for sale. Not then. Not ever.

The wondrous pearl inside the shell I chose was almost perfect – only the tiniest blemish was apparent, in a spot that could easily be hidden in the jewellery creation process.  But that’s not what caused the showman’s despair – my pearl was huge – 7.5mm (5/16”) diameter, and a glorious glowing cream with pink and gold lights as I turned it in the sun. My $2.00 pearl – totally fantastic!

Due to this bizarre acquisition of such a beauty, it was our conversation piece wherever we went, for a long time. I’m amazed we didn’t wear it out, just looking at it and caressing it.  Soon came our move to the country and our lean years, and my beautiful pearl was tucked safely away for a very long time. 

Back home in South Australia, on our own dairy farm, the year of our 12th wedding anniversary began.  And hubby, Kanute, had one of his rare romantic moments and decided to have my pearl finally made into a wearable piece of jewellery for my present on this, our Pearl Anniversary. 

There is a popular concept on TV and film that a ring or necklace or whatever, is magically chosen by the beloved – and fits perfectly – and is just what the girl always wanted.  Reality happens a whole lot like this – the ‘girl’ discusses settings with a trusted jeweller, and together, they make the choice, measurements are taken, and the jeweller sets to work to create his masterpiece.  This is what happened in my $2.00 pearl story, when we all decided the choice would be a ring. We were not disappointed by the reaction of our jeweller. He was profoundly impressed by this valuable pearl and her whopping size – 8mm across, 5 carats and 1 gram in weight. 

We also decided together to make it the simplest ‘high claw’ setting, to feature the precious pearl as the total ‘feature’, with nothing to detract from its perfection.  And the tiny blemish?  Easy-peasy.  It was the chosen point of attachment to the ring, buried out of sight beneath the pearl forever.   

Our dear old jeweller couldn’t resist displaying my pearl ring in his most prized revolving glass case (he loved the story to death and hugged this knowledge to himself like the precious ‘jewel’ he held firmly in his special treasure trove).  A wealthy customer approached him and offered $400 to purchase this unique creation.  He phoned us on the off-chance we may prefer to sell – with an immediate answer, “No Way!” 

She counter-offered, this time $600!  He phoned us again – and though it hurt, the answer was still a vehement “NO SALE”.  

“I promised to ask if you’d consider selling, but… I warned her you would refuse.” 

How right he was. 

Thankfully, she gave up, and we savoured our ‘pick up and pay’ moment – $180 to turn it into this ‘simply’ amazing jewellery item, after the initial $2.00 pearl purchase. Eternally, I whisper, under my breath…

“How have I loved thee, pearl?

Let me count the ways…” 

Perhaps, in retrospect, the most exciting aspect is to have been on the ‘ground floor’ as it were, of creating an heirloom for our descendants.  How special … and most especially when it carries a story like this. 

Over 50 years now since my beloved pearl emerged, and still her mellow beauty never changes, never diminishes with age. Just can’t seem to dam up the flow of admiration.

‘Those were the days, my friend

… we thought they’d never end …’ 

Value for money? This would have to be the BEST $2.00 we ever spent.

Photo by the author and visuals by Different Truths