The Gift Horse
1978 Family Picnic for Aunt Pauline’s Visit
My great-aunt sat next to me on my grandma’s floral couch. Squeezing in closer, she presented me with a little box.
“How I enjoy all of your letters! They are so well written and full of updates on the goings-on in Remsen.”
I smiled at the compliment. An avid letter writer, I frequently visited our small-town post office. A favored spot in my room was writing on my desk pad with matching pink side rails. A ballpoint pen stayed prominent in its stand, waiting for me to write my next letter.
After her last visit a year ago, Aunt Pauline had been added to my recurring writing list. Following her flight from Burbank, California, to the closest airport, 50 miles from our Iowa town, many gatherings were organized to celebrate her arrival.
My Grandma Gib was the main hostess orchestrating the Aunt Pauline meet-and-greets, offering her home and hospitality to an aunt by marriage but not by blood. Picnics were planned, and relatives were invited to Grandma’s home during the visits. With a smile, my grandma ensured everything was in order for a successful stay.
On this visit, Aunt Pauline had taken a particular interest in me. Although I was one of many great nieces and nephews to choose from, my detailed letter writing had unintentionally won her favor. Following each letter sent, a reply letter would swiftly arrive in my Remsen, Iowa mailbox. Although our ages spanned 60 years, we became avid pen pals.
“I have something I want to give you.”
With frail hands, the box was opened to display a delicate ring. Dyed brown curls surrounded a small face covered in thick glasses. Her squinting eyes were further closed by a wide grin.
“Yes, it is for you. This was a gift from someone special to me. I have no daughter to give it to. I want you to have it.”
I tentatively accepted the gift and gave my aunt an enthusiastic thank-you.
With a hand-off of the box, I had just been gifted a diamond engagement ring at age twelve.
I later learned from my grandma that there was once a fiance who had died before Pauline became a bride. Grandma offered few details. The stories I knew about my great-aunt centered on how she was born in Luxemberg and traveled by boat to the United States as a young teenager. Her poor eyesight was the outcome of testing done on Ellis Island. A seasoned newslady, she had once owned small newspapers throughout Iowa.
Her appreciation for me and my letter writing likely stemmed from her love of the journalistic word. I shared family and small-town news with her like an aspiring reporter. I would document the local scoop in my frequent postal deliveries. In return, she would write back on how life looked and felt under the sunny skies of Southern California. On her 1979 trip to the Midwest, she brought a ring to give to her treasured pen pal.
As her new favorite, I was also added to the invite list for the gatherings at my grandparents’ home in Aunt Pauline’s honor. From morning coffees to weekend picnics, various relatives traveled to Remsen. Like a mouse in the corner, I would observe the adult interactions. Grandma would dutifully serve a variety of her homemade cookies with fresh coffee. Snacks were always available, with plenty of seating for guests. All were welcome.
My child's eyes took how Grandma gave her time and energy to entertain a visiting aunt. Family gathered in her home, with Grandma expecting nothing in return.
I also noticed that my Aunt Pauline did not reciprocate with gratitude. Instead, she was demanding with rare words of thanks. My grandma’s goodwill seemed an expectation. Slowly, I started feeling bad for Grandma. My warmness toward my great-aunt began melting away. What was portrayed in her sunny letters from California was not portrayed in her actions.
One rainy day in the middle of Aunt Pauline’s visit, I was invited to join other family members. Grandma was preparing a hot lunch. Seated at the table, I could smell the chicken and vegetables simmering in the oven. Living just down the street, I had grown up with the treat of joining many meals made by Grandma. Like most Midwest housewives, she cooked food rich in flavor with the juices of the meats blending piping hot ingredients into the best comfort food.
As Grandma set the steaming casserole on the table, I anxiously waited my turn. The first in line, Aunt Pauline, blurted out a food complaint. In her strong accent, she condemned my grandma without taking a bite.
“Look at that grease! So much grease in your food. I get a stomach ache with the greasy food you make. I can not eat this.”
As Grandma calmly and kindly offered to make her a sandwich, Aunt Pauline stormed out of the room.
“That bitch!” I thought as the shock set in.
I sympathetically watched my embarrassed Grandma change the subject. As she served her remaining guests, they continued the conversation like nothing happened.
Finishing my plate, I overemphasized how much I LOVED Grandma’s chicken casserole. Sharing that it was my FAVORITE.
Grandma smiled at me, knowing that although my gratitude was authentic, it was articulated more strongly than usual.
My view of being the favorite of Aunt Pauline had taken a hard turn for me. I felt I would betray my grandma by basking in my great-aunt’s praise while insults were easily aimed in another direction. Although there wasn’t another blatant insult for the remainder of the visit, I couldn't get the lunch outburst out of my mind.
Guiltily taking my new ring home, I placed it in my desk drawer, no longer feeling enthusiastic to write my weekly Remsen update to Burbank. Although not much thought went into a decision not to write, I didn’t feel motivated. So I didn’t write.
Instead, I began receiving letters from Aunt Pauline complaining of my lack of letter writing. I would eventually write back but was short in my response. My letters lacked the typical detail I had included before her last visit. Ultimately, I received a letter from Aunt Pauline hinting that I might return the ring because I wasn’t deserving.
I didn’t respond.
My non-response wasn’t a show of objection but probably more of pre-teen apathy. The letter-writing task, which was once fun and intriguing, now felt like a chore. I would rather spend my time hanging out with Grandma Gib.
One afternoon, I sat quietly by Grandma while she needled into a large quilt whose setup had taken over their dining room. Cookies were left on the kitchen table for me to partake in at my leisure. While we enjoyed each other’s company in the quiet of an ordinary day, Grandma took the opportunity to talk privately about the ring.
“Aunt Pauline seems to be upset that you are not writing her. She mentioned that she wants the ring back.”
I looked at Grandma silently, not knowing how to respond. Leaving no time for me to feel uncomfortable, she gave wise advice.
“You are not to return the ring. It was a gift, and you keep it. I will talk to Pauline. But how about you send cards with nice notes on all the big holidays like her birthday and Christmas? Can you do that?”
I nodded my head and followed through on my end of the deal.
That day, Grandma gave me the gift of understanding how to give grace, even when not deserved.
I sent cordial cards throughout the year, although they lacked my journalistic detail. Eventually, our card correspondence trickled to occasional exchanges and then finally ended. A request was never made again on the return of her ring.
In a bit of guilt and a lack of attachment, I never wore the ring. Instead, it was placed in a wooden jewelry box and not thought of again until recently.
About the same time Grandma Gib died in 2010, I lost a diamond out of the mother’s ring my ex-husband gifted me. Our three boys all have April birthdays, with diamonds as their birthstones. One of the diamonds fell out shortly after we divorced and was never found. I put the damaged ring in a jewelry cabinet, like my wedding ring, and forgot about it.
Last year, I started thinking about my mother’s ring tucked away and thought it silly that I hadn’t replaced the diamond. Nothing should take up space and collect dust in drawers or closets. Wear it and use it frequently is a motto I follow.
Tearing through my jewelry cabinet, I located the mother’s ring, less a stone. My childhood jewelry box, untouched for years, was tucked deep in the back of the bottom shelf. I opened it to take inventory. Inside, I found the forgotten engagement ring from Aunt Pauline.
Holding it up to my mother’s ring, I noted the diamonds’ exact matches in size and quality.
A trip to a local jeweler brought me the answer I was wanting. She had no problem moving the solo diamond from the engagement ring to join the duo of diamonds on my mother’s ring. I now wear my new consolidated ring. Each time I place it on my finger, I am reminded of those early lessons in giving.
Grandma showed me how life is just a series of give and take. I am solely responsible for doing my part of this equation. A critical assessment or response doesn’t belong in the gift-giving circle, whether it be a meal prepared or an expensive ring.
And regardless of monetary value, gifts received free of expectation have the longest shelf life.
