Ring

In my mother’s house, I came across an object I hadn’t  given a thought during my adult life, but which I instantly recognized as my old Cub Scout ring. It bears the image of a wolf’s head, underneath which is blazoned, “Cubs BSA.” Inside is the numeral 6, which I take to be the size and below that the word “sterling.”

In economics there are varying theories of value.  Marx believed that the value of a good was the labor that went into making it.  There is a utilitarian theory.  If you are freezing for lack of a fire, a book of matches you picked up for free may have enormous worth.  Then, of course, there’s market value.  The ring may be desirable to collectors of Boy Scout memorabilia, but it’s nothing that would cause gasps on “Antiques Roadshow.”

For me none of these theories shed light on my feeling for the little ring.  It has no utilitarian value whatever. I won’t wear it or earn prestige from possessing it.  To others it would be a mere curiosity and not much of a one at that.  I can’t even claim it’s beautiful.  When I saw it, my feelings seemed to precede my thoughts as though the little silver ring had a magical effect upon my heart. 

As a child I wore the totem of the wolf’s head on a ring.  There was a Halloween party in a cottage on Micajah Pond.  We wore blue uniform shirts, gold neckerchiefs and Jeans.  No one sprung for the blue pants with the gold piping on the seams.  We bobbed for apples and ate donuts hung from strings without touching them with our hands.  We cracked wise.  Blindfolded we touched peeled grapes that were dead men’s eyes.  No party today could be so much fun.  We were cubs playing in a den, but we didn’t grow into wolves.