Latin is not loaded on my language baked potato. Smooth, melancholy melty music, yes. A dash of algebraic indulgence? Absolutely! Perhaps some salty, humerous sarcasm at times. All of these enhance a fluffy tuber of spoken word experiences during my daily go-abouts. I can hear music, figure out simple quadratic equations, or consider an edgy joke, or two, … all the while speaking words. To be clear, I do not give thought of this as a gift. Most could do the same, to be sure. Rub belly, pat head.

Just that Latin never was – nor shall be – on the plate. Given a choice between any difficult language, I’d pick Mandarin Chinese before divitis-diviti-divitem into Latin. My research has provided me some solace, however. “A dead language”, is how Latin is currently chronicled by popular search engines. With that information in hand, I feel somewhat Latinally requievit.

For the purpose at hand, er on finger … I have to only know one word: signum. It’s a “sign”. Specifically, used to denote a family crest imprinted in hot wax to seal important documents. Worn by emperors, popes, and various other hi-dee-hoy-dedees, signet rings were high society thingys, apparently. I did not know this.

Imagine learning of this majesty soon after finding a small ring back in a drawer earlier today. Now, I seriously doubt there was a pope in my lineage. If papal blood is coursing through my inner springs, I gots lots of splainin’ to do. Emperors? Hmm. There’s a notion. Possibly an inch closer to reality than pope, but still unlikely. Had a dog named Queeny when I was just a lad. Does that count?

The ring is tiny. Like, really small. Ten-K gold scribbled on the envelope enclosing the memories all these years. A name identifying my long-remembered relative is also penned. I knew of him, but never set eyes on him. What makes no sense is the sizing. I fear it would be easier for a camel in a needle than this ring to slip-slide down a man’s finger. The thing’s diameter barely exceeds my tolerance of the self-check-out voice lady nagging me over and over with bagging instructions THAT I ALREADY KNOW HOW TO DO AFTER DOING IT ONE-THOUSAND TIMES BEFORE!!!!!

But I digress.

I’m in possession of a family hot-press waxing signet ring. It has value, I guess. Never met my relative, although I do know him some-what. He was my grandfather. A remarkable man in his own right. Hard worker in the mills over in Pittsburgh when those hot chambers actually meant something to the world. Steel, iron, coal … backbone industries at the time. This ring was, truly, a symbol – form over function; although his life was markedly function over form. I see the signet as a weight to counter-balance his life.

He died before his time. A shorter than expected lifetime. A disease-ravaged body from what I understand. The story is he died close to the year – if not THE year – I was born … after surviving a birth late in the previous century. Efforts to pull up his obituary to confirm details have been tough, though.

I wish he was across the table now – albeit in his third century – to answer my nagging query: “Why such a tiny signum?”…

(Granted, pre-defining terms must be done with exigentia due to the apparent nature of the question. A slap in the face may be immediately forthcoming if this is not done. Nobody wants their undefined signum challenged – especially if appearing tiny).

My grandfather isn’t here, I don’t appreciate Latin, and this ring, quite possibly, is smaller than my appreciation of the Oompa Loompas playing water polo.

With that, it’ll go back into the really worn, pencil sketched envelope I found it in and heretofore will remain. Until someone with pencil-diameter sized fingers shows up – who, quite frankly claims to be part of our family AND has some emperor dude/dude-ess blood in ’em, this ring is staying put.