08/13/2025
One summer night in 1970, I rolled over and asked the girl next to me if she wanted to get married.
— We’ll talk about it in the morning, she said. Right now, I need to sleep.
The next day she told me marriage was probably a bad idea — in fact, a really bad idea — but she agreed anyway. She was right: it was a bad idea. Tabitha Spruce was still in school, I had graduated but couldn’t find a teaching job. I was working in an industrial laundry for barely more than minimum wage. We had student loans, no savings, and no benefits. I owned two pairs of underwear, two pairs of jeans, one pair of shoes — and a drinking problem. Still, we picked a date: January 2, 1971.
That fall, we took a bus to Bangor, Maine, to a well-known jewelry store. We asked to see the cheapest set of wedding bands they had. The salesman, with a perfect professional smile free of any judgment, showed us two thin gold bands for $15. I pulled out my wallet — attached to my belt loop with a biker chain — and paid. On the way home, I joked, “Bet these will leave a green mark on our fingers.”
Tabby, sharp as ever, shot back, “I hope we wear them long enough to find out.”
About ten weeks later, we exchanged those rings. My suit was borrowed and too big, my tie looked like something Jerry Garcia would have worn. Tabby wore a light blue pantsuit that had been a bridesmaid’s outfit at a friend’s wedding months before. She was stunning — and scared to death. Our reception? Tuna sandwiches and soda, in my old Buick with a dying transmission. I kept running my thumb over the ring on my finger.
A few years later — three, maybe five — Tabby was washing dishes when her ring slipped off and went down the drain. I tore apart the plumbing but found nothing except a hairpin. The ring was gone. By then, I could afford to buy her a finer one, but she cried over losing that first real ring. It wasn’t worth even eight dollars — but it was priceless.
Life’s been kind to me in my career. I’ve written bestsellers and earned millions. But I’ve never taken off that cheap ring since the day my wife, with trembling hands and shining eyes, slid it onto my finger. Yes, I know — it sounds like a country song. But life often does.
That ring reminds me of our tiny three-room apartment, the creaky floors, the noisy fridge, the winter drafts, and the sign above the sink that read: FRIEND, WE’RE OUT OF GAS. It reminds me of who we were (two crazy kids) and what we had (almost nothing). It reminds me that price and value are not the same thing.
It’s been 42 years now — and still, no green mark.
— Stephen King
