A Circular Journey

A Story of Rings

A Story of Rings One March I was in Arizona—vast stretches of desert, ringed by strange, contorted mountains that look thrust out of the earth by volcanic forces as, indeed, they were. Many years before, on a summer college program, I had had my first experience of Mexico and of seeing among its arts some stunning turquoise and silver jewelry; in Arizona I was seeing the jewelry again—this time of Navajo, Hopi, and contemporary American artisan origin. And I learned how turquoise is mined, extracted from a copper matrix in the Mule Mountains near Bisbee ; how high-grade turquoise has an orangey bronze speckle flecking it and that an all-turquoise-color stone is likely just a powder residue of stones that have been ground to shavings and put together in a paste to form lower-grade turquoise stones. Then there is the famed Bisbee Blue that is a patented trademark intended to increase market value and which is distinguished by dark speckles in its intense blue body. But the former geology professor who had defected from academia to run a stone shop in Brewery Gulch rather absent-mindedly let slip that the most precious quality of all is Persian turquoise and Arizona stones are next in line. I looked at my own ring: three little turquoise ovals of different hues—one light turquoise with dark veins, the second a darker shade, and the third stone, green with no blue, but a crack. Turquoise , in fact, is a soft stone, subject to chipping if knocked around as my ring has been for the past many decades. And yet I 174 find it handsome still, the stones set in a wide silver band separated by little silver spheres that embellish it. It is not a store ring. I purchased the loose stones in Mexico when I was on that class trip led by our Spanish professor. In the heart of Mexico City near the popular Sanborn’s restaurant I found a street craftsman who fashioned the silver band to hold my three turquoise stones. He made my ring and the whole thing, stones and setting, cost around $10.00. I called it my writer’s ring, a visible sign of my promise to myself that I would be a writer. It was my first vow, before my marriage vow, and I wore the ring on the middle finger of my left hand. My ring has often been admired and I myself glance at it often. It is modest, but also elegant and eloquent. It spoke to me long ago of travel, exploration, new experiences, and of putting what mattered into words. Once at a department store where I made a purchase the salesperson (teased hair, maroon fingernails, gum-snapping) had noted it when I was handing her payment and said, ‘‘Oh, I love that ring!’’ Unwilling to engage her in conversation, I said a quick ‘‘thanks,’’ and dropped my hand to my side. But she had continued, ‘‘I’m into that Indian stuff, too— turquoise and silver.’’ For me it was not Indian stuff, nor even turquoise and silver stuff, but something much harder. It was pledging myself to an ideal, becoming a person in my own right, not just the lesser female part of a family or of an ethnic identity. It was not being that department store clerk; not being a stereotype. After college I traveled. In Italy I met Antonio Barolini, a poet and journalist, with whom at first I could not speak, but listened entranced as he read his poetry to me. My Spanish dissolved into Italian and when he proposed, I accepted. The engagement ring he gave me is a beautiful chased white gold band on yellow gold 175 set with a small diamond between two emeralds and was created by the famed Buccialatti jewelers. This ring, together with the traditional gold wedding band replaced the turquoise ring which remained put away during our married years as Antonio’s work moved us between Italy and the United States. I ran our household , raised our family of three daughters, translated Antonio’s stories of his Italian boyhood that appeared in The New Yorker, got a master’s degree and had several part-time library jobs. At Antonio’s sudden death in Rome, my wedding band went into the coffin with him, the poet who had been my partner and inspiration for twenty...