A very good friend of mine linked me to this article this morning. It's stories of unassuming items that are in our lives; potatoes, quilts, knives, a chair. Behind those every day items are stories of love and memory.
And I thought: I, too, have a story like this.
Although, to be honest, it's not my story per se, it's my husbands.
But as I was there to witness a good portion of it, I will tell it the best way I know how (ie. in my own words).
It's not even really about the armoire but more about what it carried for several years unknown to anyone except the original owner.
Like anyone who has to divvy up an estate after a loved one passes, I can't even imagine what it was like for my husband and his brother as they went through their mother's things after Judy left this world. In the years to come, I would get to know my mother-in-law through neighbors and friends, my husband, and his brother. My children's grandmother cast a long shadow of love and laughter wherever she went, it would seem. And in the town she had once lived in for many years, well, this place was no exception.
We moved to my hubby's hometown right around 2000 and settled into our rental home. We had no jobs, a little money, and an almost two year old. Looking back all I can think of was just how very insane it all was and that we must've had an angel looking out for us.
Either way, we moved into that house and into our bedroom went the armoire. Kenny had gotten it in a coin toss when he and his brother were dividing up their mother's belongings. Simple yet effective, Kenny won the toss and proceeded to move this piece of furniture everywhere with him for several years. I think we counted one time and it had been moved at least a dozen times if not more over the years.
We moved again into the house we are now paying a mortgage on and moved that large piece of furniture up into our master bedroom. And one day, I pulled out all of the drawers in the top portion to clean out the dust bunnies. I might've been nesting at the time, but I'm not sure. Either way, something made a clink-clink-clink and I peered into the back of the wardrobe. There, sitting in a dark corner, was a ring. Pulling it out, I slid it onto my index finger and got a good look at it. It was a class ring proudly touting 'The Class of '84'.
It was Kenny's class ring.
Walking down the stairs, I rounded the corner into the living room. I vaguely remember the conversation we had and he thought it was lost many years ago to an old girlfriend.
Instead, some time in all of those years, his Mom must've gotten the ring somehow and tucked into the armoire.
When I open up my jewelry box and see our class rings tucked in together in a tiny white jewelers box, I smile. It's an amazingly simple story of a piece of furniture and a ring.
And the woman who owned it once upon a time.