Imagine, if you will, that you have to have a medical procedure. Imagine too, that prior to this procedure you are required to remove all your rings.
If you’re at all like me, you never remove your rings. The chance of losing a displaced ring, such as it slipping down a drain, is way higher than losing one to sink or even ocean waves if it’s on the finger.
Attached to your finger, your knuckles stand guard. Knuckles can definitely stand guard, especially if they have become a bit more gnarled and knuckle-humpitty. Therefore, I knew that the prospect of removing my thin gold wedding band and the family heirloom engagement ring (from his side), was going to be a daunting task.
Finally, the day before the procedure, I summoned up the courage. I held my hand up above my heart as instructed (it will lessen the swelling.) Next, I lubricated, smearing my finger with soap and a few squirts of olive oil. Then I got down to brass tacks — the wrestling match.
The gold band was first in line and had to come off first. I shimmied and twisted. Tugged and turned. It went about a centimeter then braked at the knuckle. I coaxed and begged some more; it was a no-go. I applied a bit more whine and determination, then my husband, with his stronger, longer workman’s fingers, joined the operation. As I whimpered, he tugged but when he too failed, I realized we needed Plan B because the rings were not going to come off with any amount of elbow grease or EVO. They would have to … sigh … be cut off.
Imagine now that you know someone who makes jewelry. In fact, you may know one of our town’s greatly missed and recently retired jewelers. Actually, you know his wife. So you make that sort of emergency call at 9 o’clock on a Sunday morning. Your friend, thank goodness, is awake and answers the phone. She assures you that you aren’t interrupting and while she’s sympathetic, they no longer have the right tools. But not to worry, she’s knows exactly the next step: “The fire station,” she says. “Go to the fire station. They are the ring removal masters.”
We go straight away. It’s a bright, clear Sunday morning and all seems peaceful at the fire station when we push the door buzzer. Two firemen welcome us, offer up a seat, tell a few funny jokes and set to work. They have all the right tools, which grip the bands and snip the metal leaving both the ring and the finger salvageable. It’s all done and over in a few minutes though we are thinking we’d like to hang around for more jokes and conversation. It was just that nice.
Years ago, we did hang out at the fire station when one of our little guys was in love with everything firemen: the trucks, the uniforms, the sounds (ouch, the sounds) and all the stories of daring rescue. If things were quiet, the firemen allowed children to inspect their trucks and sometimes drive the hook and ladder, (as long as it wasn’t going anywhere.)
But really the main take away, for me, was not about jewelry. It’s was how lucky I felt to live in a community where people offer up neighborly assistance with so much civility, even to strangers. In this time of Trump’s coarsened rhetoric and antipathy toward towards our nation’s neighbors, I take particular notice and find refuge in the sanctity of every small kindness, I do.
Later, but sometime soon I hope, I’ll have to have my rings soldered and re-sized. And maybe then it will be time to consider a different strategy for ring security. For now, it’s only an imprint etched into the finger. So I am looking forward to the restored bands, their perfect circles, symbols of loving and enduring commitments, reminders too of the bonds we share and the many ways we can make each other’s days a little easier, a little friendlier and a little more connected.
Ruth Charney is a resident of Greenfield.