As I write, it is 54 years since Kanute's wedding ring first took up residence on his 'ring' finger. Most of our generation felt the same - wedding rings were like a key unlocking our future together - the wedding day like stepping over a wonderful new threshold. We were 'legal' now. A special comfort grew in looking at our rings in situ, whilst never being able to forget that miserable feeling deep inside for the six months one ring went AWOL.

* * * * * * * * * *

"Christine! Christine! Where are you?" Kanute's anxious voice rang out at the same time as the back door loudly banged shut behind him, bringing me running. Something was dreadfully wrong.

"Terrible news. I've lost my wedding ring!"

"Lost? What do you mean? How?" I fought disbelief with a shaking head. No... no... no! It couldn't be true. Not after ten years of realising how much more they were than a simple symbol of our commitment to each other. They were the key to our partnership in every aspect of our lives; everything we possessed would always be in our joint names...

He stomped about, telling me how the unthinkable had happened; his face a picture of his feelings about this bitter truth. With each word the sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach grew... in tandem with the ache in my heart.

He'd been over by the dairy, overseeing the delivery of a load of feed for our 'girls', the dairy cows. A tall 'auger' (an elongated pipe with a corkscrew-like pellet or grain-mover inside) pushed the grain into a feed silo perched high on a stand to provide gravity fall for the contents to flow down through a funnel into bags whenever Kanute opened its base manhole. Perched at the top of the attached metal ladder, he was cleaning out the powdery build-up of grimy dust inside the rim of the top-loading hole. Lacking a cloth to wipe hands on, his trusty jeans sufficed, with a good flick of his fingers now and then to dislodge the finer stuff... until one unfortunate flick saw his wedding ring fly too! High in the air it arced, glinting brightly and bravely in the sun as it soared over the space between silo and hay shed, where a tractor and trailer could usually park. Usually.

"It disappeared somewhere in our bloody hay shed." Kanute shook his head in disbelief. "Of course, it had to be this bumper year with the shed chock-a-block full, didn't it?" And he punched the air with his fist.

"A record year..." I murmured, my eyes filling unexpectedly with tears. We'd been so happy; bursting with pride at our successful hay cut that would make a significant difference to our year's finances. Our despair deepened as we returned to the hay shed for yet another hopeful but unsuccessful search on the forlorn chance an extra pair of eyes would make a difference.

Confronted with the height of our hay shed and the huge stack outside as well, there was finally no choice but to return home for a comforting cup of tea with a large dollop of commiseration added for good measure. Slowly but surely our spirits revived as we reassured each other our treasure would be found. Probably under the next bale he lifted. If we were lucky, could be as soon as tomorrow's paddock feed-out.

Briefly, Kanute's eyes shone as he thought again of the satisfaction he'd felt, stacking the last bale he'd carted on that towering haystack (but maybe you'd have to be a farmer to understand this amazing feeling of a massive task completed; a job well done). I'd been the only one helping him at the beginning, but there were SO many bales to cart, and our time between milkings was limited. Luckily, our neighbour - with the hugest hands AND strength - was free to work with us for several days. And as I took over the milking, the men handled the mammoth task of carting all that hay to the shed... Whenever he tells the story, Kanute can't help himself. Has to gloat once again over our best statistic. "More than three thousand bales from only four acres of pasture. What a year... what a cut!"

Avoiding the current reality, he took advantage and shelter in a memory we treasured - but never wished to repeat. Our first year of dairying. "Bit different back then, hey?" We nodded in unison. Unforgettable. We were SO poor, we owned only a small wooden trailer on wooden wheels, able to cart a mere 25 bales at a time, stacked precariously high. Its great bouncy springs and the slope of our land ensured we would lose a large part of the load any time we hit a hole or a bump... and there were many of them on the trip back to the hay shed.

"How much did we cut again? Over 2,000 bales?"

"WELL over!" Kanute blew a hefty sigh and I shook my head; great for our pockets, but murderous for backs. Youth, grim determination and absolute necessity do have distinct advantages when the going gets this rough.

Reluctantly, we dragged our focus back to our loss. For days afterwards, Kanute searched high and low – not for the proverbial 'needle in a haystack', but for one bright, shiny golden ring tucked away somewhere in the mountain of glowingly golden hay.

"I know. Me too... every single time I helped with the milking." Every visitor had a hopeful but luckless look. Even kids were lured into the quest with the promise of $20 to the lucky finder. "Not bad dough in the late 1970s," I said. "A small fortune for a kid." Every time Kanute lifted a bale of hay to feed out to the stock, he searched again; eternally optimistic it would be miraculously uncovered, but all hopes were consistently dashed. Months went by and the shrinking stack of hay saw us finally abandon all hope, convinced now it must have been in a bale fed out to the cows, somewhere on our 165-acre farm! Or had slid between the bales, to be buried forever in the deep layer of broken-down hay beneath the current stack. Kanute's eyes would sadden once again. The feeling of hopelessness weighed heavily on both of us. Life went on, but the pale dent in Kanute's finger remained, along with the sad space in our hearts. You don't feel a wedding ring on your finger after some years of wearing it – and yet you certainly DO feel the loss when it's no longer there.

* * * * * * * * * *

Some six months later, on a day no different than any other, Kanute was lifting bales of hay onto the back of our utility to feed out to the cows. Nothing new there – except that in those six months the exposed hay had weathered to a dull brown on the outsides.

Although the tale is indelible in my mind, Kanute can never resist telling me and anyone else who will listen, all the details ALL over again.

"As I turned back from the ute, ready to lift the next bale, there it was - gleaming cheerfully as it sat patiently on the top of the next bale." His wedding ring! Shock, disbelief, wonder and then the greatest joy flashed by as he studied this longed-for find. Similar to a 'needle in a haystack', he had reluctantly put it into the 'impossible' basket. And then he leapt into our 'you beaut ute', spinning its wheels as he headed back home, engine roaring. The unusual speed, followed by a mini dust storm stop grabbed my full attention. The hand-waving was unmissable; and then the joy of seeing that wonderful lost prize, glowing as warmly as ever it had, back in place on his rough brown hand, was breathtaking.

"Can you imagine? Felt like a pirate discovering hidden treasure." Kanute always says this as he tells the tale - and grinning from ear to ear - adds, "Struck 'pure gold', didn't I?"

How I wish I could report the lottery ticket we bought in celebration brought equal joy – but it seemed we had received our quota of good luck. It mattered little. We were more than happy to settle for Kanute's most special windfall.

* * * * * * * *

AFTERTHOUGHT: I guess this episode in our lives may seem bland, even boring to some, but to two young battlers who were SO poor and near-bowed down by their struggle to 'make it' in the farming world that was so foreign to a couple of 'city slickers', the wedding rings were 'pure gold' that incredibly made survival possible, time after time, against the odds.