Finders Keepers

When having an eagle eye comes in handy.

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A memory from 1968.

Mom needs some more wood stain for the kitchen cabinets that she and Dad are refinishing. That’s what they do on the weekend. Every weekend. They do projects, and engage in parallel play. Stripping the paint off the cabinet doors, sanding, and staining. The work is smelly and messy.

It’s a weeknight and Dad’s still at work. Or he may be traveling, I don’t remember, he was gone a lot. It’s dark out when Mom loads us into the car after dinner. We don’t usually do errands at night, but she wanted to get this done so she could stay on top of all the renovations they were doing together. My parents were smart about money, careful. Funds were limited, so they took on the things they were able to do, learned how to do some of the things they’d never done, and hired people to do the work they couldn’t or wouldn’t do on their own.

We drove to the lumberyard, which also had a big hardware store inside. My mother was discussing her latest needs with a tired-looking guy at the cash register. He wore a short-sleeved, slightly dirty, white button-down shirt; his breast pocket was stuffed with pens and pencils and a ruler that kept hitting him in the chin. I wandered the aisles, browsing and finding very little that was of interest to me.

I was walking down an aisle lined with pegboard, wondering what all the gadgets hanging on hooks were for. There were door hinges, doorknobs, and lock sets. As I moved down the row of hardware, I came upon a spinner standing to the side, with small cardboard boxes that had little plastic windows. The boxes were filled with screws and nails in order of size and sorted by types and colors of metal. I looked at all of it, thinking about things I’d like to build––I once built a small desk from a wooden fruit crate. My gaze moved down to the bottom of the spinner, and I saw a glint of something sparkly on the floor, tucked underneath. Squeezing myself between the spinner and the wall of tools lining the aisle, I bent down and saw a gold ring, lying on the scuffed, gray-speckled linoleum tile. I stretched my arm out for it carefully, trying to avoid knocking the spinner over, and holding it in my hands, I took a closer look. It was a huge ring, meant for a big man. There were diamonds and rubies set in the gold. It was the biggest ring I ever saw. The first thing I thought was that I wanted to give it to my grandfather, my Poppa. He had large hands and his fingers were thick and strong. It would be perfect for him!

I was always finding things. My parents called me “eagle eye” because I walked with my head down to avoid stepping in dog poo in the days when we still lived in the city and there were no pooper-scooper laws yet. Not only would I avoid those messes, I’d also find money sometimes. “Always keep your head down,” that was my motto, because you never know what you might find. When I finally looked up, in my adult years, I was amazed at the things I’d been missing all those years. But the soles of my shoes stayed clean from all the down-gazing I did.

Still alone in the aisle, I looked both ways, and then I stuffed the ring into my pocket and thought to myself that if I could leave the store with no one knowing I’d found the ring, that once I was in the car it would be mine. At 7, I was already showing signs of great talent in the magical thinking department. I made that bargain with myself to justify taking what didn’t belong to me.

I hovered at the cash register while my mother completed her purchase. My little brother was getting impatient. He was tired and wanted to go home. Leaving the store, my hand buried deep in my blue jeans pocket, I clutched the ring tightly. I couldn’t wait to tell Mom about it. Sitting in the back seat, I leaned forward as she backed out of the parking lot. I pulled the ring from my pocket, and said, “Guess what I found in the store?” and without waiting for her response, I burst out with my story, proudly showing her the ring. Mom frowned, her brows furrowed and said, “Well, you can’t keep that! It belongs to someone and it’s valuable. We have to go back and turn it in. There’s probably someone who’s missing that ring.”

Feeling crushed, and so disappointed, I didn’t even think that the ring might be important to someone else. That they’d be sad when they realized it was gone. Was I being selfish? Maybe. But the thought that made me the saddest was that I wouldn’t be able to give the ring to Poppa.

We pulled back into the parking lot and returned to the store. I could feel my face flush red, heating up as I prepared to admit my crime. I felt small, embarrassed and hopeful. Mom escorted me to the counter where the man who’d just helped her was standing. She nudged me forward to tell him what happened, and I produced the ring and explained my discovery. I held that ring tight, hoping that he’d tell me to take it. I imagined him saying, “Finders, keepers,” then handing it back to me, a big smile on his face.

My hopes dashed, he took the ring from my hand, and kindly said, “We’ll keep the ring here for thirty days, and if no one claims it, it’s yours.” So, “finders, keepers” with a catch. Okay. I was in. He took our phone number, and said he’d be in touch.

I marked off the days on my wall calendar, the one in my bedroom that had photos of animals in nature. It was a gift from the bank. Right before bedtime, I’d cross off each day, and I said a little wish, a little prayer that I’d be able to give that ring to Poppa. The thirtieth day came, and I didn’t want to wait for the store guy to call me. So, I called the store. The man told me that no, nobody ever came to claim the ring. It was mine!

We picked it up, and brought it home. Daddy admired it and nodded his head and smiled tightly when I asked him when we’d see Poppa next. He gave Nanny a call, and we made a date to visit. The day they came over, I presented my treasure to my grandfather, and he was stunned. He placed the ring on his pinky finger; he had REALLY thick fingers. He wasn’t fat, he just had big hands.

Poppa loved that ring, and to my knowledge, he wore it every day for the rest of his life. The ring represented a special bond between us.

Years after he died, my father admitted to me that he’d felt hurt that I hadn’t given him the ring. He said he didn’t understand why I hadn’t. I said to him, “I was seven years old. The ring size was so large, that the only person I could think of who it might fit was Poppa. I had no idea that rings could be sized.” That ring disappeared after Poppa’s death. I think it was lifted by my aunt, who took care of him in his old age. I’d love to have it back. I tried to track it down, but no one’s talking.

Oh, yeah. Finders, keepers.

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