“I love it,” I said, folding my fingers around it. “It stays.”
   “You going to share the story? Or is it just for family?”
   Tim leaned back against the seat. “It’s a neat story,” he began. “My grandma was named Amethyst. Amethyst Amelia. When grandpa decided to propose he wanted an amethyst ring, although he had never seen one. He couldn’t find one in town, so he went into Austin, the big city. He found one in a second hand store there, only he didn’t have enough money. He asked the clerk to set it aside for him, said he would be back to get it.”
   “Did he save up for it?” I was as curious as Sharon.
   “Nope. The rodeo was in town. That was the excuse he used to get to town in the first place. He entered the bull riding and won twenty bucks. He took that to a backroom poker game in a bar and won the rest of it.”
 “That’s a nice story,” Sharon said.
   “Not the end of it,” Tim grinned. “He found out after he gave it to her that it wasn’t an amethyst. Turned out to be plain glass that had turned color sitting in the window for so long. By the time he found a real one, and bought it, they had two kids and another on the way. She never wore it. That one went to my brother Matt. Grandma wore this one. She wore a silver chain around her neck with a safety pin on it. When she was cooking, she’d clip this ring on the chain with the pin. Always said she didn’t want to bite it in a biscuit. She was buried with the chain and the safety pin.”
   We sat for a minute absorbing the story.
   “That’s wonderful, Tim,” I said, reaching to squeeze his hand.

 

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