I wear a wedding ring that I bought for 10 bucks at a Native trinket shop in New Mexico a couple of years ago.

It’s wide and tight enough and it looks pretty okay. It’s sort of silver in colour, even though the material, I suppose, is more like tin. It has a gnarled design and it really is not a bad deal at all.

My original wedding ring, a rather pricey gold affair with a square diamond on a flat top is somewhere at the bottom Mary Lake, north of Toronto.

I was swimming there a couple of summers ago. My arm went up and my beautiful gold ring flew like a bird and then went plunk in some unseen location.

When I felt if leave my finger I screamed a sort of primal scream to my nearby wife. For some time, with me in a sort of comatose shock, we searched the muddy waters.

I had worn that ring for 10 years. I then toyed with the idea of a ring tattoo. I wold have to be really careless to lose a tattoo.

But I’ve since learned that my kids don’t really care what sort of ring is on my finger. Yes, a ring is just a ring.

If daddy’s expensive gold ring flew away into some muddy lake, well, that’s too bad. Just as long as Daddy himself doesn’t one day fly away into some muddy lake.