My Jewelry: What’s In a Name?

I’ve described before some of the problems I’ve faced because my parents decided to call me by my middle name. My awkward appellation has apparently been too much for certain jewelers tasked with inscribing my name or initials onto pieces I’ve been given.

During my current decluttering initiative, I found a bracelet I’d been given for my First Communion in the fall of 1962. I’d forgotten all about this bracelet, though I remembered one I had when I was even younger. That first bracelet has been lost, but this one survived.

My First Communion bracelet is broken now, so I don’t know why I kept it. It was tucked in a box of things from my childhood that my mother sent me many years ago—probably not long after we moved into our current house in 1984. I doubt I’ve looked in that box since it first arrived, which must be why I’ve forgotten it.

The bracelet is inscribed “MARY THERSA” on the outside and “10-27-62” (the date of my First Communion) on the inside. Do you see the problem? My middle name is actually spelled “THERESA.” I don’t know if the jeweler couldn’t fit the second E on the bracelet or if it was a simple mistake. I think my paternal grandparents gave me the bracelet, which I thought was very pretty when I received it, though it always annoyed me that my name was misspelled. Maybe that’s another reason I forgot about it.

The bigger problem, however, is the second piece of jewelry to get my middle name wrong. In fact, my middle initial was completely omitted on this piece—my wedding ring! That ring is inscribed “ARH – MC 11-26-77.” My husband’s initials (ARH) are correct. The date of our wedding (11-26-77) is correct. But I get only the initials for my first name (Mary) and maiden name (Claudson). No reference to Theresa—the name I go by—at all. I always wondered if my husband was marrying the right girl.

I’ve mentioned before that my engagement and wedding rings were made from my husband’s great-aunt’s ring during the Kansas City flood in 1977. The jeweler’s Plaza store was destroyed in that flood. My rings were at the downtown store (thankfully), but I’m sure the jeweler was distracted with mopping up and salvaging his other store. Still, it’s always bothered me that my “real” name, the name I use, is not on my wedding ring.

“We can get it redone,” my husband told me when I complained one time.

“That’s all right,” I said with a heavy sigh. After all, I didn’t want to give up the ring, even for a few weeks. Or he might find another girl to marry. Though today, March 4, 2019, is the forty-second anniversary of our first date, so he is probably barred by laches from seeking someone else.

Now, after over forty-one years on my finger, both the wedding and the engagement ring could use some refurbishing. But I still don’t want to give them up. It will be a race to see which lasts longer—the rings or me.

What stories do you have related to your name?