Ladies of the Ring
by Ryan Thill
It was a rite of passage. My prepubescent mind envisioned that the event – obtaining a small piece of metal – would feel like walking through a door and coming out the other side a whole new person. The precious piece of metal was a ring made of thin gold and silver bands twisting around each other into a perfect hoop. We all referred to it as the “Thill Girl Ring.” This Ring adorns the thumbs of all of the women on my father’s side of the family, and symbolizes togetherness and unity among the women within the family. The problem, at the time, was that I was the only Thill girl with naked thumbs.
My immediate family lived farther away from the rest of the Thill family, so I was slightly disconnected from its goings-on. This most definitely included the Ring. However, in September 2004, it was Renaissance Festival season, and the whole family had planned a big trip for us all to go.
That meant it was finally my turn. Not only would I taste my first 15th-century-esque meal and clone my hand in wax, but I would also go to the same location where my grandmother, aunts and female cousins had gone to receive their Rings. I anticipated myself becoming complete then and there.
The air on Renaissance Festival day was hot and muggy, and the entire atmosphere felt just like what I imagined it would have 600 years ago. My family was one of the biggest groups roaming the dirt-covered paths, and this gave me an odd sense of superiority. I might not have been a regular at the Renaissance Festival, but most of my cousins, aunts and uncles were veterans. I felt safe in their company, even when a strange man, painted to look like he was made out of wood, suddenly came to life and began tossing a wooden ball to strangers in the crowd. I made obvious attempts to avoid this bizarre entertainer and any embarrassing events that might follow upon interacting with him. Thankfully, my family and I left the crowded square.
As I scrutinized the setting around me, an overwhelming sense of nostalgia swept over me. I hadn’t been to the Renaissance Festival since I was 5 years old and could only remember snapshots of the wooden buildings that housed bedizened princess hats and leather-stringed necklaces. There they were again in front of me. Even though the necklaces were unmoving, I could still hear the familiar pianissimo clinking of the small glass capsules hanging from the leather strips and see the tiny wisps of gold flakes swirling peacefully within. My hand went automatically to the long and merry ribbons sprouting from the princess hat, and I was suddenly 5 years old again.
The day was filled with merriment, whimsical characters and delightful absurdity. We successfully claimed an empty bench by the food court so that we could blissfully gorge ourselves as though worldly restrictions like calories, cholesterol and food poisoning did not exist.
The time soon came, however, for my ascension into a new level of adulthood. We made it to a small wooden stand in the center of the festivities where I could easily see rows of carefully placed jewelry. My aunt went up to the “merchant” sitting behind the shiny treasures and held up a small plastic bag. He made an expression of immediate comprehension and took a moment to rummage around a bit. Then he revealed in a callused hand the beloved trinket that I would soon wear.
To my surprise, however, my grandmother presented me with her old Ring instead. When I had dreamed about this moment, I had always pictured myself receiving a shiny new Ring that I could show off to my friends. I never imagined how such a tiny gesture could change my whole outlook on the experience. Of course, I know now that it was merely for convenience’s sake that my grandmother gave me her Ring, but in that moment, I felt like part of me instantly matured. After obtaining such a prized possession, I began to picture myself at my grandmother’s age surprising my granddaughter with her first Thill Girl Ring. My whole life flashed quickly before my eyes with the Ring accompanying me the whole time. I was ecstatic; I felt as though my grandmother had entrusted me with a great responsibility by giving me her Ring.
After that momentous day, I was very good about keeping the Ring safely in my possession… for about four months. My thumb became accustomed to the Ring and started to mold itself into its tiny crevices. The indentations left in my skin seemed to become more and more permanent. Calluses formed around the knuckle from my constant removal and replacement of the Ring. I even picked up the habit of toying with it, using my ring and index fingers.
When the swimming unit in my gym class began, I was concerned about my ability to keep track of the Ring because I would have to take it off and leave it in my locker before entering the pool. Although, I figured it would be impossible to forget something that had become such a primary aspect of my self.
My trust proved to be too ambitious. I actually remembered for a couple swimming-unit days that the precious heirloom was hidden safely in my shoe. But as it turned out, new priorities ultimately overrode my desire for Ring security.
My gym teacher usually gave us little time to change before and after class, but one day he was feeling even less generous. Before class, I merely set the Ring in the locker and not in my shoe. After class, I raced against the clock to dry my suit, stealthily change back into my school clothes and rip a tiny comb through my sopping hair. I found myself going through the motions as if no ring existed at all. Reality would only hit me after I was sitting in my next class.
The moment I realized my oversight, my ears burned, my eyes fervently checked the clock every two seconds and my heart felt as though it had sunk into a deep hollow near my stomach. I was the first one out of class and ran straight to the girls’ pool locker room. On my way there, I tried to cast away the thought that I was chasing a lost cause, but I knew all along that the Ring would be missing when I got there.
As I slunk out of the locker room and up the stairs, I thought of what my family would think when they saw my bare hand at the next family event. Of course they would never scold me, but my heart hurt with the heaviness I already felt from their internal disappointment.
Eventually, I was able to overcome the guilt of losing my grandmother’s Ring. This acceptance only came about because of the irrevocable and immeasurable amount of love among the girls of the Thill family and a more unbreakable link than that of mere metal. When I used to think of family, I related it to the idea of simple kinship, but I am now able to see deeper into the meaning of the word. These women are my aunts, cousins and grandmothers, but they are also my sisters. If one of us has a problem, the rest are always there to lend a hand and seem to understand her issue completely. The fact that we are determined to overcome any obstacles in life serves as the foundation of our family. I see us as extensions of one another – as if there is a piece of each of us inside every one of us. We are bonded, not only through our genes, but through our souls. Now I am able to look in the mirror and still see a Thill Girl, even though there is no physical reminder of who I am.
Another Ring will come into my possession, but until then I will always have my family to remind me of what the ring initially meant: the unique bond between the strong women of the Thill family.