A beautiful ring, an elegant watch, and memories of a girl in a world at war
By Joyce Reehling
Time ticks away, and now my mom is 91 and living on her own for over 17 years, not far from my youngest sister in Pennsylvania. In the last several years she has taken to divesting herself of things now rather than waiting for the “Will” to do it for her. “Why should I miss the look on your face when I give it to you?” she rightly asks. Each of us “girls,” of which there are four, has received items from her ranging from very old cookie cutters to beloved jewelry.
And so it is that I was given two items, both of which held memories and surprises.
Mom asked me to close my eyes and hold out my hand. I felt a small box. I opened my eyes and saw my Nana’s engagement ring. I burst into tears because I had not thought of the ring ever being mine. I was stunned to have it, a lovely old-cut diamond sitting in a setting that screams early 1900s.
My Nana wore it all the time. She could sit for what seemed like hours and stroke my hair while we listened to radio soap operas and lulled me into a state of bliss. She had the most beautiful hands, which I can see to this day. And she was always wearing this ring.
Mom wore it for many years until arthritis made it too difficult. Linked by this ring, I feel both women with me more keenly. I love it and it will go to one of my nieces in what I hope is about 30 years. Like Mom, I will do it in time to see the look on her face.
I always try to get Mom to talk about old Baltimore, the life of the city, her family and her life before me. For some reason on my last visit she wanted to talk more about her youth. Then she went into her bedroom and emerged with a little bundle of tissue. Inside was a watch. Her parents had given this to her when she graduated high school. It was without a strap and no longer working.
“Please have it. If you can get it to work, fine, but it is such a lovely old thing.”
And so it is that it traveled home to Pinehurst. I took it to Cotes Watches in Southern Pines and presented it. The gentleman said, “Oh, an Eska, that is lovely. So, your mom was a nurse.”
“No,” I said, “but during the war she worked for a photographer in Baltimore developing prints.” Another vocation that required seeing and timing in the dark.
Well, he held it like a newborn babe and said it needed either new hands or, for a little more money, he could send it to a place that would restore the original glowing hands.
“Let’s keep it as original as possible,” I said, and off the watch went to find its glow and be cleaned and ready to keep time for me.
I just got it back and bought a bright red strap to match the sweeping second hand and now wear it daily. A war watch that timed chemicals as they revealed recon photos, photos of friends, photos of young men off to war, photos of life. My mom timed life with this watch, her life as a young girl during a war. The lives of others. One photo at a time.
I asked her just yesterday to tell me more about that time, but her only ready memory was that sometimes going out to lunch or on her way to the streetcar to ride home, she would put one foot in the gutter and one on the sidewalk to bounce up and down like a kid as she walked.
“I wasn’t always serious, ya know; it was just fun. I must have looked crazy, but no one said anything.”
And who would? She was just 18 and it was a world at war. A good time for a good time.
Now when I look at the watch I see a young girl, as yet unmarried, then comes a tall Marine for a husband, whom she would outlive, and the young girl has reached the age of 91. And she keeps on ticking. PS
Joyce Reehling is a frequent contributor and good friend of PineStraw.
