Mother’s Day, The Ring Of Truth

A few years ago: Sleek, sweaty, thoroughbreds headed into the final stretch of the Kentucky Derby. The dirt-coated jockeys and horses were tightly clumped in a running pack, and positions were changing faster than women wearing thong underwear at an all day lecture. I bounced on the couch, clapped at the television, and willed my favored horse to go faster. I also seriously wanted the jockey to stop using his whip to force my horse to go faster. (I’m complex.)

Many years ago: Watching the Kentucky Derby was a tradition. Mom, Dad, me, and perhaps a bored brother or two would gather in front of the television to watch the event. We’d each select “our” horse, and cheered as the mile-long run produced winners and losers. I will never forget watching Secretariat, or his Triple Crown accomplishment. What a horse. What a story. As I grew into adulthood* my parents would phone in the afternoon on the first Saturday in May. They didn’t ask how I was or what the kids were doing. It was a quick, “The Derby is going to start soon. Are you watching?” Click.

A few years ago: With mere moments to go before the Kentucky Derby winner crossed the finish line, my son and daughter ceremoniously marched into the room with my Mother’s Day gift on a velvet pillow. They jointly bowed, presented their offering, and smiled with pride and expectation. I glanced at them, back at the television, and then back at them. The horses were. Almost. There! “Oh, you’re so sweet. Um, could this wait just a few more seconds?” I said. Their faces registered shock, and then drooped. How could I choose a television show over their gift and presentation?

“The race is almost finished,” I pleaded. “Look!”

They glanced at the TV, maybe noted the race, but the damage was done. I had popped their balloon of happiness as surely as if I’d knocked the gift on the floor and spat on it. The Derby ended, the crowds roared. I don’t even recall if my horse won… I was too filled with guilt to really cling to the moment.

As it turned out, their gift to me was a gorgeous mother’s ring. A ruby, a diamond, and a peridot stone nestled in two bands of gold. Years earlier I had mentioned that someday, someday, when they were rich and famous and had surplus funds, I would love a ring set with each of our birthstones. We’d been through a lot together over the years, and a ring like that held a unity and significance hard to explain.

While neither my son nor daughter had reached rich or famous levels by cultural standards, they nonetheless pooled their money and purchased my longed-for ring.
I was enthralled and humbled at the same time. There was no way I could take back the “can you wait a minute?” statement. In just a few words I had managed to deny them the pleasure of giving me something incredibly special. Ugh.

This year: My daughter and I were on our annual chick weekend. Our hotel beds made perfect lounges as we hunkered down to watch the Kentucky Derby on television. My daughter picked a horse, and allowed me to select not only the odds on favorite, but the one with an underdog story. I’m a sucker for an underdog, or, underhorse in this case. My mother’s ring sparkled in the sunlight that eased through the window. Almost unconsciously I found myself touching the stones, tying together the past and the present. The gates opened and the horses bolted. The announcer quipped, “And they’re off…” We bounced on our beds and hooted for our favorites.

As the last stretch unfolded I glanced at her, ducked my head, and said, “This is about the place in the race where you and Bryce entered the room with my …”

She smiled. “Yeah. I know. When we decided it was time to give you the ring we had no idea you were watching the Kentucky Derby, or that it had such history for you.”

“I love the ring,” I said.

She smiled again and nodded. But her eyes were on the race.

*Some still question that accomplishment.