CREEK ROAD GANG
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Aunt Jen's Ring
Jackie Kearins Echteler
copyright 2009
Sunday was visiting day at our house which meant that rain or shine, we were going to get in the car and go visit someone. We would always see my grandparents and then frequently, my mother’s Aunt Jen. Jen had recently become confined to a wheelchair, so my mother had put her on the priority list of visits.
I was about five years old at the time and didn’t care about or understand any of this. I only knew that I absolutely hated going to the house that Aunt Jen shared with her daughter Aunt Pearl and Pearl's son Billy. This wasn’t because of Aunt Jen, but because of my big, fat, mean cousin Billy. He was an only child, about nine years older than me. His Mother had been overly generous with him, and he always got his own way. I remember that he would not let me touch his toys even after he had bullied me to run here and there to get pieces of his army or his prized electric train set. One day, after having he’d bossed me around too much, I hit him and he went crying to his mother. A near riot ensued between my aunt Pearl and my Mother about whose child had the worst manners. I enjoyed this immensely, because my Mother rarely stood up for me and I wondered why she was doing so now.
All too soon, I recall Aunt Jen stopped the spat by simply saying, “Stop it, Pearl. It’s about time someone hit that spoiled brat!”
Unfortunately, Aunt Jen’s compassion for me didn’t change my mind about the long visits to her home.
“But there’s nothing to do there,” I would whine to my mother.
“You’ll have to find something to do if you don’t want to play with cousin Billy,” she’d say.
I had found things to do at Jen’s house, but was thwarted at every attempt to have fun. Jen’s house had miles of oak floors and hallways just meant for sliding on, and long, heavy drapes just waiting for someone to hide behind them, and ornate furniture just begging for a kid to bounce upon it. This potential always remained unproven due to my parent’s evil-eye looks and mean Aunt Pearl’s commands: “Sit down, get your feet off the couch and don’t touch anything.”
Afterward, I would pester my mother about why, oh why, we had to go there, and she would never give me a reason except just “because we do.”
And so the lengthy car rides and long walk from the parking lot to Jen’s door continued. I would trudge slowly along through the slushy snow in winter, fallen, lilac blossoms in spring, through orbiting, oak leaves in autumn.
Time passed and it wasn’t long before I became a grumpy, pimpled, ugly adolescent. It was right around the peak of my repugnance that Aunt Jen gave me her ring. I have no doubt that I was likely slumped in a chair, half listening to the conversation, being as unpleasant as possible when she said, “Come here Jackie, I want to show you something.”
I remember that she wheeled her chair around her bed and opened a drawer. She pulled out an ornate, white and brown box and turned her chair around to face me. She opened the box and there sat a lovely, feminine, silver ring with a tiny diamond sitting in an iridescent inlay of onyx in the center. She said that her recently deceased husband had given it to her as an anniversary gift. Jen said that she would like me to have it and my mother proceeded with her "No, we couldn’t!" and "You should keep it!" and "It means too much to you!”
“I want her to have it,” Jen stated in the same tone that I suddenly remembered from when she stood up for me when I hit cousin Billy. I already had the ring on my finger.
“But Aunt Jen, it’s too big for me,” I said.
“You won’t always be this age,” she said, “ You’ll soon be grown and dressing up pretty. Take it, and enjoy it.”
All that I really heard was that she thought I wouldn’t always be twelve, and that I might have a reason to ‘dress up pretty’ one day. I remember giving her a long hug, our first real, mutual embrace ever.
As usual, no deed, good or bad went unexamined in my family. My mother fired up the telephone when we got home and began talking to this relative and that, trying to figure out why Jen gave me the ring. Soon the whys and wherefores of the gift became as entwined as the filigree of the ring itself. From my eavesdropping I learned that one cousin ventured that maybe Jen wanted to give me something to encourage me to more feminine. (“Thanks for complaining about my ‘tomboy phase” to the whole family, Ma,” I thought.) Next, I heard that another of Jen’s nieces guessed that it was because I reminded Jen of herself at my age. Finally, my Grandmother settled the debate when she visited, viewed the ring and stated simply, “Jen just didn’t want Pearl to have it”. The end. Fini.
And so, as usual with my family, any hope of feeling that you might be just a little bit special was ruined.
Still, after receiving the good news that I might be happy someday, I complained just a little bit less on the way to Aunt Jen’s house. I even began to listen to some of those God awful “when I was your age" stories that my Mom would tell. I learned that Jen’s husband had spoiled Pearl terribly, much to Jen’s dismay. Pearl had flaunted her belongings in front of my Mother, just as Billy had done to me. This news made sense of the fact that Mom had stood up for me against Pearl in the “Jackie hit Mean Billy” case. I further learned that my mother’s father had abandoned Mom when she was just an infant. Jen, her father’s sister, had tried over the years, to arrange get-togethers at her house so that my Mom could get to see her father as she was growing up. Sometimes my grandfather would visit and sometimes he wouldn’t. Jen tried to be the facilitator but instead was often my mother’s comforter, both woman and child feeling sad, angry and disappointed with the man who couldn’t bother to stop by.
The visits continued and I began to see Aunt Jen with a greater appreciation of what she and my Mother meant to each other. I finally realized that was why Aunt Jen had given me the ring. She appreciated the fact that my Mother was teaching me that family is like a ring that should remain unbroken. That and sometimes, just showing up to visit someone can be the greatest gift of all.
I was about five years old at the time and didn’t care about or understand any of this. I only knew that I absolutely hated going to the house that Aunt Jen shared with her daughter Aunt Pearl and Pearl's son Billy. This wasn’t because of Aunt Jen, but because of my big, fat, mean cousin Billy. He was an only child, about nine years older than me. His Mother had been overly generous with him, and he always got his own way. I remember that he would not let me touch his toys even after he had bullied me to run here and there to get pieces of his army or his prized electric train set. One day, after having he’d bossed me around too much, I hit him and he went crying to his mother. A near riot ensued between my aunt Pearl and my Mother about whose child had the worst manners. I enjoyed this immensely, because my Mother rarely stood up for me and I wondered why she was doing so now.
All too soon, I recall Aunt Jen stopped the spat by simply saying, “Stop it, Pearl. It’s about time someone hit that spoiled brat!”
Unfortunately, Aunt Jen’s compassion for me didn’t change my mind about the long visits to her home.
“But there’s nothing to do there,” I would whine to my mother.
“You’ll have to find something to do if you don’t want to play with cousin Billy,” she’d say.
I had found things to do at Jen’s house, but was thwarted at every attempt to have fun. Jen’s house had miles of oak floors and hallways just meant for sliding on, and long, heavy drapes just waiting for someone to hide behind them, and ornate furniture just begging for a kid to bounce upon it. This potential always remained unproven due to my parent’s evil-eye looks and mean Aunt Pearl’s commands: “Sit down, get your feet off the couch and don’t touch anything.”
Afterward, I would pester my mother about why, oh why, we had to go there, and she would never give me a reason except just “because we do.”
And so the lengthy car rides and long walk from the parking lot to Jen’s door continued. I would trudge slowly along through the slushy snow in winter, fallen, lilac blossoms in spring, through orbiting, oak leaves in autumn.
Time passed and it wasn’t long before I became a grumpy, pimpled, ugly adolescent. It was right around the peak of my repugnance that Aunt Jen gave me her ring. I have no doubt that I was likely slumped in a chair, half listening to the conversation, being as unpleasant as possible when she said, “Come here Jackie, I want to show you something.”
I remember that she wheeled her chair around her bed and opened a drawer. She pulled out an ornate, white and brown box and turned her chair around to face me. She opened the box and there sat a lovely, feminine, silver ring with a tiny diamond sitting in an iridescent inlay of onyx in the center. She said that her recently deceased husband had given it to her as an anniversary gift. Jen said that she would like me to have it and my mother proceeded with her "No, we couldn’t!" and "You should keep it!" and "It means too much to you!”
“I want her to have it,” Jen stated in the same tone that I suddenly remembered from when she stood up for me when I hit cousin Billy. I already had the ring on my finger.
“But Aunt Jen, it’s too big for me,” I said.
“You won’t always be this age,” she said, “ You’ll soon be grown and dressing up pretty. Take it, and enjoy it.”
All that I really heard was that she thought I wouldn’t always be twelve, and that I might have a reason to ‘dress up pretty’ one day. I remember giving her a long hug, our first real, mutual embrace ever.
As usual, no deed, good or bad went unexamined in my family. My mother fired up the telephone when we got home and began talking to this relative and that, trying to figure out why Jen gave me the ring. Soon the whys and wherefores of the gift became as entwined as the filigree of the ring itself. From my eavesdropping I learned that one cousin ventured that maybe Jen wanted to give me something to encourage me to more feminine. (“Thanks for complaining about my ‘tomboy phase” to the whole family, Ma,” I thought.) Next, I heard that another of Jen’s nieces guessed that it was because I reminded Jen of herself at my age. Finally, my Grandmother settled the debate when she visited, viewed the ring and stated simply, “Jen just didn’t want Pearl to have it”. The end. Fini.
And so, as usual with my family, any hope of feeling that you might be just a little bit special was ruined.
Still, after receiving the good news that I might be happy someday, I complained just a little bit less on the way to Aunt Jen’s house. I even began to listen to some of those God awful “when I was your age" stories that my Mom would tell. I learned that Jen’s husband had spoiled Pearl terribly, much to Jen’s dismay. Pearl had flaunted her belongings in front of my Mother, just as Billy had done to me. This news made sense of the fact that Mom had stood up for me against Pearl in the “Jackie hit Mean Billy” case. I further learned that my mother’s father had abandoned Mom when she was just an infant. Jen, her father’s sister, had tried over the years, to arrange get-togethers at her house so that my Mom could get to see her father as she was growing up. Sometimes my grandfather would visit and sometimes he wouldn’t. Jen tried to be the facilitator but instead was often my mother’s comforter, both woman and child feeling sad, angry and disappointed with the man who couldn’t bother to stop by.
The visits continued and I began to see Aunt Jen with a greater appreciation of what she and my Mother meant to each other. I finally realized that was why Aunt Jen had given me the ring. She appreciated the fact that my Mother was teaching me that family is like a ring that should remain unbroken. That and sometimes, just showing up to visit someone can be the greatest gift of all.
* * *
Biographical Note: Jackie Echteler was born and raised in Massachusetts. She studied Medical Assisting in college and has worked in doctor’s offices, clinical hospital and basic research laboratories ever since. In 2005, Jackie left her profession to become a full-time homemaker. She began taking an autobiographical writing class in January 2009. She lives in the Philadelphia suburbs with her husband, three children and two cats.
See the September issue for Jackie's story "Ruthie," and the November issue for her story "My Dining Room Table."
See the September issue for Jackie's story "Ruthie," and the November issue for her story "My Dining Room Table."
