RIngs 'n' Things

Grampy and Cheli came up this weekend and Grampy brought me Grammy/Nana/Ma's diamond. I will have it set and in time it will pass to Amy and then Karie, etc. So, here's the story of the diamond. Ma and Pa (Martha and Peter Rasmussen--parents of Nana --Reta Beaman--Grammy's mother) owned a really tiny shed-like building in National City--community south of San Diego in the 1920's or 30's. They rented it out to an old guy--a bachelor. Well, in time he fell in love and bought a diamond solitaire to give his girlfriend. He popped the question. Well, she moved in, cleaned out his bank accounts and left before she got the diamond ring. When his rent was due again, he was out of money because of the girlfriend, so he brought the ring to Ma and Pa and asked them if they would hold the ring until he could get some cash for rent. They said yes, they'd to that. Well, before he could bring the money, he died. They tried to find relatives, but alas, that was unsuccessful. So the ring came into the family and Ma wore it for a time. By the 1950's when we were living next door to Nana--with Ma and Pa next to Nana and Gramps--you remember I explained that situation in an earlier blog--Nana was wearing the diamond. I was practicing piano one day at Nana's house and she was sewing--Nana could sew beautifully--even tailor--and I started watching her sew. I noticed the ring on her finger, and told her it was sooooo beautiful (I must have been around 10 or 11). She said that ring would go to my mother and in time to me--to be passed to the oldest daughter down through the generations. I thought that was pretty cool--at that age I hadn't considered how exactly I would get that diamond--that I would have to lose not only my grandmother, but my mother as well. That part isn't so great, but the diamond is beautiful, and I am going to have it re-set and will pass that ring on to Amy and then Karie. It's a beautiful 1.25 carat flawless white diamond. When I was 12, Grampy gave me a beautiful opal ring with sapphires all around--eight in all--four on each side. He had gotten it from a girlfriend in the Philippines. He had the opportunity to go home early unexpectedly, gave the ring back to her, she got mad and threw it down. He saw where it landed and put his boot (he was in the Army--it was during World War II) down on it and hid it. She decided she shouldn't have thrown it down and was looking for it, but failed to find it and went off in a huff--nothing changes in the world, does it? So, after she was gone, Grampy picked it up and took it home. He gave it to me when I was 12. Many years later it was gone from my stuff. I couldn't find it and I looked all over--it's a long story that you really don't want to hear. During this last visit, Grampy told me he had the ring--apparently, the kids' dad had taken it over and left it on a table at their home when we left after a visit. Daddy thought I had brought it back and wondered about it but kept it. He told me he had it and I was SO happy to hear it. I had looked all over Provo for it but it was gone. The next time I'm in Texas, he said to remind me and he'll give it to me again--after being lost to me for abut 35 years. Yippee!

Janus sight

This is the season for Janus (say "jay' nus"). In fact January was named for him. Janus was the Roman god of portals and gates, of beginnings and endings. He had a face on both sides of his head, enabling him to see backward and forward. This is where I am in our family. I can see back several generations and forward a few, too. I remember my great grandmother, Martha, and also know my tiniest grandchild, Allie--a span of six generations. At the beginning of each year, I am always reminded about precious lives that are no longer with us--probably because that's when we lost Jason. Becoming a grandparent creates a profound change in one's perspective. I saw tiny Jason and knew him--and loved him--immediately. I could pick him out of a group in the hospital nursery--even though we couldn't see the name on his little bed. I experienced a connection that I never expected and was unprepared for. The level of love I have for my grandchildren is inexplicable. Surely it is due to the fact that they're the offspring of my own children, but still, I was unprepared. We believe that our little people belong to us and will always be there. Of course, this flies in the face of the obvious fact that they'll become their own people with distinct personalities from us, grow up and leave us, possibly move far away from us with their sights on their own families and away from us, but we don't think about those things when they're little. Losing my little son was the cruelest event. It became a dividing point in life--before Scott died and after. I thought I couldn't experience more hurt than that. Then I lost little Jason, and not only felt that loss, but also the pain of my own child. I discovered that the anguish of my daughter was not only unbearable, but it was compounded by the loss of the precious grandson. All of this is seen from my own perspectives, of course, and I know I was not the only person in the family affected by these events. But this blog is all about the view from my eyes. Grandma Amy Brown lost two little ones: Irene and Roy. Roy was poisoned when he was two years old playing with rat poison. He and his brother John and a cousin were all poisoned, but Uncle John and the cousin lived. Roy was the littlest and was lost. Irene died of pneumonia at two weeks of age. One of the last things Grandma talked to me about was how hard it was to lose those little people from her life--and this was from a perspective of about 60 years, in the 1990's. She said she looked forward to meeting Irene and Roy and telling them about how wonderful their brothers and sister were! Ma (Martha Rasmussen, my great-grandmother) lost two children, and her response in later years was to put it far from her-and not discuss it. With life experience, I can see that this was due to the great pain she had when she thought about it, and I understand it, but would love to have heard the stories about those two little ones. One of the stories I heard from Grandma Brown was that one of her older brothers was killed (murdered) in Durango, CO many years before as a young man, after leaving a saloon with poker winnings, which were stolen. She told me how her mother (my great grandmother, whom I never knew) mourned for the rest of her life. Grandma was always hurt that nothing she ever did in her life was good enough to compensate for that terrible loss. It was a good lesson for me--long before I knew I would need it. These musings about those gone doesn't make my day (week, month, year) sad. It just brings back poignant memories, little faces no longer here, and makes me even more grateful for the beautiful family I still have.