Im entering to replace my stolen classring. I am 38 yrs old and took care of my jewelry. Recently I had to put a few things in storage my jewelry box bring 1 of them. I had it pad locked and safe from being lost or stolen, so I thought. The girl and her boyfriend that owned the garage where we stored our belongings went and broke into our locked boxes and stole a number of things. Including my 1st mothers ring to I had given to my daughter this past or for her 1st mothers ring, my wedding see, silver necklaces that i received from my parents for a birthday gift for my 17th birthday, and numerous unreplaceable items! This has broken my heart and i feel very empty without my belongings that meant lit to me.. I am taking them to court however, those things I just can’t put a value on and rather have it replaced somewhat.

Help me replace my classring please

3 thoughts on “Help me replace my classring please

  • September 9, 2017 at 11:00 am
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    Many years ago, when one of my children was four years old, I had put my ring on the toilet tank before I cleaned the tub and sink. Well seems my son picked up my ring to look at it an accidentally dropped it in the toilet. I was no able to retrieve it. So bye bye ring.

    It was a nice ring . 14 Ct. gold with a blue sapphire stone, made in 1953. An F on the stone for Fabius. Not Fabius Pompey at that time. Had 19 on one side and 53 on the other.

    Would like to know if it is possible to replace that style. And the cost of doing so.

  • September 9, 2017 at 11:01 am
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    My ring was purchased from Balfour.

  • June 30, 2018 at 3:46 pm
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    I was in an abusive, chaotic marriage, after being a single mom and earning my master’s degree-working so hard to get a good neighborhood for my son. I was a 3-time AP/OK awarded editorialist/journalist/writer for 34 yrs (still am, esp NOW) but that all ended when I worked at the University of Arkansas for almost 10 yrs doing PR for IT (Computing Services then). I began to get sick Oct., 2002. Got sicker. Diagnosed w/a disease many women do not know they have (& 90 million suffer from but have no idea) – Painful Bladder Syndrome, also known as Pelvic Floor Dysfunction/Interstitial Cystitis. Quote from the American Urological Association: “This disease is equivalent to stage 4 cancer. These patients are in genuine pain…” Then I found out I had also been walking around w/adrenal tumor the size of a watermelon (I weigh 110-always been small), as well as lung cancer. Adrenal tumor removed, even though I had 30% chance of surviving, I did. Oncologist here in the state of AR blew off 5 ‘small’ tumors in my right lung, January, 2009. He declared me cancer free, told me to stop taking pain meds, unwittingly and stupidly not looking at the history of records I had brought with me. My medications were for my auto-immune disease, not cancer. My disease (painful bladder syndrome) slowly eroded away my ability to walk, go anywhere, ride in a car, be free to play Journey as loud as I wanted as the muscles deteriorated. Five months after declaring me ‘cancer-free’, went in for my check-up in May, 2009. Had a gut feeling I should have made an appt in March, but ignored my gut & left it at that. NEVER IGNORE YOUR FIRST REACTION/YOUR GUT. My right lung was covered in tumors, resulting in another surgery on June 1, 2009, when the lung was removed and I was harpooned with five lung tubes emptying blood into glass bottles that sat on the floor of my bed in ICU. I suffered in ICU due to the spasms in the pelvic floor, bladder, cystitis, urethritis, vulvadynia-all are a part of my pre-existing disease (see ic-network.com for more information if you have had bladder infections over and over and over-90 million women have this and do not know. They suffer, take antibiotics, and end up back in the doctor’s office a month later for the same thing). I am a survivor of sexual abuse from age 8 to 14, rape @17 and 25. The pain I was in was also masking cancer, for five years as it grew worse & worse. The average age of onset for this disease is 38. At 39, was washing dishes and watching my bluebirds when I fell, as if everything had become paralyzed & I had no ability to get up. Yoga folks call the pelvic floor your ‘core.’ The diagnosis, took 9 surgeries until I finally got a name. (Diagnosis must be done under anesthesia using a Cystoscope). The more pain I was in, the more I thought it was my auto-immune disease–but there was cancer I carried for 5 yrs, miserable, awake, pain that went above the prescriptions I had. It was a fluke pre-admit for surgery (again) that found the cancer.
    Stage 4 lung. Stage 4 adrenal. I was paying for what had been done to me, paying for things I was innocent of, as my health just kept going down, down, down. (My perpetrators are walking around, driving, have lives, I’m sure). I used all leave I had at my job with the University of AR, & was forced to resign just a few months shy of 10 years, which would have extended my benefits from the University -not relying only on SSD (I’m one of those cripples that was made fun of during 2016 campaign by a certain man). I was in a wheelchair by 2006, but I can still type & can still write editorials, opinions, essays, poetry (political commentary especially when things like, oh, our Constitution and freedoms are at stake)… Am a 3-time AP-award winning journalist/writer, and my master’s in counseling just enhanced my ability to help people tell their story. – I knew how to make them safe to tell their stories, poison many people keep only to themselves. I never counseled anyone. Every job I ever had, even as a typist at 16, turned into writing…At 53, I am bedridden now, as this disease is degenerates more every single day. (One cannot think when pain is encompassing, that is the only issue insofar as my ‘gift’ of writing, but my fingers can still move…). PAIN-CHRONIC PAIN – erodes one’s life. Friends of 25 yrs called me a drug addict, buying into the story my partner had spread while secretly moving in w/their ‘new’ walking, healthy lover a mere 2 weeks after dropping me onto the couch. Ignorance is dangerous, and this auto-immune disease requires a different drug for a different area “down there.” Each does something different for each area affected by not only the cancer, but the Painful Bladder Syndrome. My partner was abusive, needy, brought me home from the hospital, put me on the couch and said: I won’t watch you die. You bring me NO JOY. I am sick of this – and left me. I had been opened from ‘stem to stern’ & was literally ‘stapled’ together. Calling me a ‘drug addict’ covered the real reason my partner left me at such a critical point: an affair had been going for months. To make it more hurtful, my X partner told everyone, even people at the University I worked with, that I was a drug addict so it was “Bad Guy Me” & “Oh, let us comfort this crying person who was living with an addict.” (And partner was/is a consumate actor, cry at a moment on cue kind of thing). Colleagues were lied to about the reality. Friends & the church was lied to and an entire congregation of Unitarian Universalists (supposedly progressive, open, loving to anyone – not true in this case) comforted my fake crying partner, when the fog of the lies of my “addiction” was nothing but a cover for the affair I was too sick to know about, too sick and in too much pain to pick up cues or hear myself. It has been 17 yrs now of constant hospitalizations, ERs, living in a room w/no friends, no contact (except my two Yorkies-my joy and my heart). I have a loving caretaker, but have not seen the inside of a stupid Wal-Mart or any store for years now as I began to be unable to drive three years ago…. road conditions cause me pain (road conditions are so bad I get sick-and the parasympathetic nervous system just blows everything apart – so the pain from cancer, my auto-immune disease, my two broken feet from falls, etc.), ratches up on roads that need construction (let’s not even discuss speed bumps)-I am now only a passenger, and only leave this room to get to my plethora of doctors. My multiple doctors & nurses, who know me & the pain I have suffered are such good ‘friends’ … no family support, because even THEY believed the lies. No matter how many medical records I showed, PDFs I printed off about this disease, not a single person has HEARD. And yes, one does die of heartbreak. It is hard to breathe, and my heart aches in a way that an EKG will never record. *(More research should be done on heartbreak & how it affects health and could help with pain we carry from our past, from so many losses). With my master’s, I know myself. The problem is not being able to see perpetrators (abusive partners) coming or not trusting ME. When you lose your body, you lose freedom.
    It was my partner who told me to take off my class ring, and it disappeared. It was a ring I cherished & never took off – as one side was the beautiful image of a quill pen with TRUTH (the sign for journalism & frankly, everyone right now must consider a generation to come-the laws laid out in our Constitution and the blood that has been spilled so that we can write, speak, march -that is why we-as reporters- ask, dig, search, find TRUTH). We report facts & fact check to give people the WHOLE picture…A ‘Recovering Baptist,’ I am Cherokee, English, Irish. My ancestors were slaughtered, separated from their stewardship of the earth and their children/elders and forced to march – much like what we are seeing now. The last time people were put in ‘detention centers,’ we had the Holocaust. History is to be learned from, not repeated and words are powerful tools – they take you on a journey to Laura Ingalls Wilder’s home or even current events. Words are a NECESSITY, as is the freedom to write them and I cannot be apologetic about my commentary because I was and remain a writer, a journalist, a Sunday editorialist. I know when it is time to do exactly what Martin Luther King, his arms spread open on that bridge in Selma, when he said. “HERE I STAND.”
    My class ring means so much to me it was another loss. My body is small. It has been used, abused, and it finally BROKE. But I always had my words, my authors, my silent mentors whose writings I read daily, depending on what I need at the moment. I have grieved and grieved so much, lost everything I had ever worked so hard for (house, car, etc., in 2009) & walking away from all I had been able to give my son as a single mother was a shame. It was also a crack in what is now a very delicate heart. I believe in TRUTH. I believe in FREEDOM of the PRESS – because I had that freedom for so long. Our Democracy is delicate, just as my beautiful ring was, and it is passion and fervent perseverence that eventually exposes everything. We have stories, and we have news. Had two reporters not been brave enough, Nixon would have stayed in the White House. My life was written on that ring, scratches from this or that for so many years until it was literally thrown in the ocean as a cruel act, along with my mother’s class ring, which I also wore. My ring is my heart, as are my words. It was going to be given to my son, who also writes. But it lies somewhere in that wonderful ocean we must protect and cherish, living amongst creatures we have yet to know, but threatened by our selfishness and ignorance of our own ridiculous gluttony.
    I graduated in 1983. I got that ring on my finger and it stayed there until 14 yrs ago when it was pulled off (my mother’s class ring of 1958 was also yanked off) and, supposedly as a joke, thrown into an ocean by a domineering, abusive, empty-shell of someone I once loved. My hope is that both lay embedded in sand, not ingested or hurtful to some sea creature we haven’t even discovered yet.
    Those 2 class rings – 1959, 1983 are a lifeline for me, connecting me directly to the smell of news print, cheap & thin paper that will, someday not exist. My ring was Freedom of the Press, Friday night at the drive-in, laughter with friends, drinking & hating beer, prom, a writer for my school paper. An editor of my grad school counseling newsletter and a witness to so many events that exceed this box. My mother’s ring represents a carefree time of bobbie socks and saddle oxfords, poodle skirts, seeing JFK, MLK and a decade that, had things gone differently, John Lennon might never have written ‘Imagine.’ Each held a special world and gave hope to a nation struggling with its own norms and mores, what examples do we want to follow in the “bible?” People pick and choose when it is convenient. (Learn Hebrew. Read the real Bible-it is surprising how much was left out to instill fear and control, much like a leader we have momentarily).
    I wore my mother’s graduation ring -class of 1959 – from a small town in Oklahoma that may not exist soon as the cemetery is larger than the town itself. That, too, has disappeared through the chaos of events of life – and it was precious to me- representing a time one can only find in that small town where she was prom queen and dad was football quarterback. Time was slower. Home phones were a staple. TVs were rare and cars were fantastically beautiful. After marrying, my parents headed into a new decade of chaos and change, with Civil Rights, MLK and Robert Kennedy – the time of Rogers & Hammerstein’s broadway plays that still live, and Natalie Wood as Maria still stands frozen in time on a balcony in LATINO/Puerto Rico NY- with dreams of inclusion, not division, based on where she came from. THAT is all in my mother’s ring.
    Getting both back, whether I have to re-design/order them again, pay again (mine was Balfour) – right now, in this bed as I write this, would lift my heart just as Maria does with The Sound of Music. Times gone, but times that had moments, not seconds. Times when computers weren’t even on our radar, but I could type 120 wpm on an old IBM typewriter, yank that piece of paper out, hear that wonderful roll of the bar, ding of the bell – not cords or drivers or printers, firewires, USB cables. Google was NOT in the dictionary.
    Recovering my class ring and my mother’s is more than just an order. Those rings are both witnesses to times when families did eat dinner, there was no fast-food, and ‘TRUTH’ was my very soul and peace my endless hope.
    That is my story. As detailed as I can write it in such a small box on a machine that didn’t exist in 1959 (mom’s class ring) or mine, 1983-although I would start on an Apple IIE a decade after putting that ring on my finger. Both, most important, are love, memories, 2 cent bubble gum and $1.50 movies. Class rings not only mark a passage, they represent and witness lives, time, grandparents, my first car-a 1967 restored cherry red Mustang with bench seats (only 11,000 made then) and friendship, laughter, love. They are cherished icons, especially now as I fight from bed on a battleground known as “Twitter” without the comforting smell of newsprint filling the room and the familiar scratch of my class ring on the paper when I sat quietly in the breakroom of the newspaper, the press running Sunday’s inserts, deadlines, building the pages by using wax from the bottom up (ads were first, then space was allotted for news). Both rings would fill a tiny hole in the gigantic sinkholes of so very much loss.
    Thank you.

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