- Joined
- May 28, 2010
- Messages
- 21,751
- Reaction score
- 35,407
- Golden Thread
- 1
- Location
- White Plains, New York
- 🥇 Banner finds
- 1
- Detector(s) used
- Nokta Makro Legend// Pulsedive// Minelab GPZ 7000// Vanquish 540// Minelab Pro Find 35// Dune Kraken Sandscoop// Grave Digger Tools Tombstone shovel & Sidekick digger// Bunk's Hermit Pick
- Primary Interest:
- Metal Detecting
- #1
Thread Owner
Lost and Found
By Terry Soloman
I’d been researching new spots for metal detecting when I learned that an overgrown field behind the local supermarket had once been a park—from 1925 to 1980. I decided to give it a try.
I pulled around back of the store and saw no other cars. Good. I grabbed my gear and slipped quickly into the woods before anyone could yell at me about trespassing. Old aerial photos from the 1940s and recent Google Earth images hadn’t prepared me for the fight ahead. I thrashed through a nightmare of thorn bushes, brambles, and thistles that snagged my hat, ripped my sleeves, and tore at my skin with every step. After several minutes of scratches and quiet cursing, I finally broke through into the clearing.
The field was bigger than I expected. I scanned it once, powered up my detector, and dialed in the settings. I started working my way toward the far side when I turned—and nearly jumped out of my boots! An older man was already there, sweeping a metal detector not a hundred feet away. His back was to me. When he reached the opposite edge and turned around, I waved. He either didn’t see me or chose not to acknowledge me. I shrugged it off and headed to the east end of the field to give him space.
I started finding coins right away—1970s pennies and quarters, then a few silver dimes from the ’50s and ’40s. I was so focused I’d almost forgotten about the old man when a friendly voice asked, “Finding anything?”
He stood about ten feet away, smiling easily. He looked around seventy, in good shape, wearing a tweed cap and carrying an old Garrett detector from the mid-1970s that looked brand new.“ A couple of silver dimes and a war nickel,” I said. “How about you?” He told me he was searching for his daughter’s lost wedding band. It had belonged to his late wife.
A shadow crossed his face as he explained, “I had it engraved with ‘R.I. Loves C.I.’—our initials. My wife passed before our daughter got engaged, but it turned out the engraving fit perfectly for Ray and Cindy Ingram. I knew her mother was smiling down on her.” I promised to let him know if I got a hit on it. He touched the bill of his cap, thanked me, and went back to swinging.
A minute later I thought about asking him for the easiest way out of the woods. I turned and pulled off my headphones—but he was already gone. I shrugged and resumed detecting. Almost immediately I got a strong, sweet high tone: Zip-zip! I crossed the target at ninety degrees. Same strong signal. I dropped to one knee, cut a neat plug, and flipped the turf back.
There it was—a small gold ring gleaming in the dark soil. I knelt there a moment, just staring. Then I did a silly little happy dance on my knees, picked it up, and wiped it clean. 18K gold. Inside, clearly engraved: “R.I. Loves C.I.” A strange chill settled over me. I was thrilled about the find, but something about the old man still felt off. How had he vanished so fast?
I hunted a little longer, then decided to call it a day. I looked for the path he must have used, but after fifteen frustrating minutes I gave up and fought my way back through the thorns, bleeding like I’d tangled with a bobcat. That evening I cleaned my finds and laid them on the kitchen table. Several old silver coins, a little modern change, and the beautiful gold band.
After dinner, my wife flipped through the phone book and found a “R. Ingram” living just a block from the supermarket. I left a message. Then another. And another. No reply. A week later I drove by the house with my wife after work. Cars in the driveway, lights on. I rang the bell.
A woman in her forties answered. When I asked if she was Cindy, her face shifted from surprise to anger. “Are you the one who’s been calling about a lost wedding band?” she snapped. “I don’t know what kind of sick game you and your partner are playing with my mother, but I’m calling the police.” My wife and I stood there stunned. I tried to explain, but she cut me off. I said, “Look, I met an older gentleman named Mr. Ivers out behind the supermarket. He told me his daughter had lost her wedding band while playing with her kids. I’m just trying to return it.”
The woman’s anger melted into confusion. “Can… can I see the ring?” she asked softly. I handed it to her. The moment she read the inscription, tears spilled down her cheeks. My wife put an arm around her. A man stepped out onto the porch. “He found Mom’s ring,” the woman whispered, handing it to him. She looked at me, eyes wet. “What did the man look like? What did he say?”
I described him. When I mentioned Mr. Ivers, she started crying harder. My wife comforted her while the man—her brother—walked over and took her hand. “Mr. Ivers was our grandfather,” he said gently. “Pop-pop had a heart attack and died in that park thirty-six years ago. He was out there looking for Mom’s ring with his brand-new metal detector.” My legs went weak. I sat down hard on the curb.
Eight months later, my wife and I sat in a small church as “Here Comes the Bride” filled the air. Sunlight streamed through stained glass, catching the gold band the bride wore on a delicate chain around her neck. I glanced toward the back of the church and saw him standing there, Mr. Ivers. He smiled at me, touched the bill of his tweed cap and vanished.
By Terry Soloman
I’d been researching new spots for metal detecting when I learned that an overgrown field behind the local supermarket had once been a park—from 1925 to 1980. I decided to give it a try.
I pulled around back of the store and saw no other cars. Good. I grabbed my gear and slipped quickly into the woods before anyone could yell at me about trespassing. Old aerial photos from the 1940s and recent Google Earth images hadn’t prepared me for the fight ahead. I thrashed through a nightmare of thorn bushes, brambles, and thistles that snagged my hat, ripped my sleeves, and tore at my skin with every step. After several minutes of scratches and quiet cursing, I finally broke through into the clearing.
The field was bigger than I expected. I scanned it once, powered up my detector, and dialed in the settings. I started working my way toward the far side when I turned—and nearly jumped out of my boots! An older man was already there, sweeping a metal detector not a hundred feet away. His back was to me. When he reached the opposite edge and turned around, I waved. He either didn’t see me or chose not to acknowledge me. I shrugged it off and headed to the east end of the field to give him space.
I started finding coins right away—1970s pennies and quarters, then a few silver dimes from the ’50s and ’40s. I was so focused I’d almost forgotten about the old man when a friendly voice asked, “Finding anything?”
He stood about ten feet away, smiling easily. He looked around seventy, in good shape, wearing a tweed cap and carrying an old Garrett detector from the mid-1970s that looked brand new.“ A couple of silver dimes and a war nickel,” I said. “How about you?” He told me he was searching for his daughter’s lost wedding band. It had belonged to his late wife.
A shadow crossed his face as he explained, “I had it engraved with ‘R.I. Loves C.I.’—our initials. My wife passed before our daughter got engaged, but it turned out the engraving fit perfectly for Ray and Cindy Ingram. I knew her mother was smiling down on her.” I promised to let him know if I got a hit on it. He touched the bill of his cap, thanked me, and went back to swinging.
A minute later I thought about asking him for the easiest way out of the woods. I turned and pulled off my headphones—but he was already gone. I shrugged and resumed detecting. Almost immediately I got a strong, sweet high tone: Zip-zip! I crossed the target at ninety degrees. Same strong signal. I dropped to one knee, cut a neat plug, and flipped the turf back.
There it was—a small gold ring gleaming in the dark soil. I knelt there a moment, just staring. Then I did a silly little happy dance on my knees, picked it up, and wiped it clean. 18K gold. Inside, clearly engraved: “R.I. Loves C.I.” A strange chill settled over me. I was thrilled about the find, but something about the old man still felt off. How had he vanished so fast?
I hunted a little longer, then decided to call it a day. I looked for the path he must have used, but after fifteen frustrating minutes I gave up and fought my way back through the thorns, bleeding like I’d tangled with a bobcat. That evening I cleaned my finds and laid them on the kitchen table. Several old silver coins, a little modern change, and the beautiful gold band.
After dinner, my wife flipped through the phone book and found a “R. Ingram” living just a block from the supermarket. I left a message. Then another. And another. No reply. A week later I drove by the house with my wife after work. Cars in the driveway, lights on. I rang the bell.
A woman in her forties answered. When I asked if she was Cindy, her face shifted from surprise to anger. “Are you the one who’s been calling about a lost wedding band?” she snapped. “I don’t know what kind of sick game you and your partner are playing with my mother, but I’m calling the police.” My wife and I stood there stunned. I tried to explain, but she cut me off. I said, “Look, I met an older gentleman named Mr. Ivers out behind the supermarket. He told me his daughter had lost her wedding band while playing with her kids. I’m just trying to return it.”
The woman’s anger melted into confusion. “Can… can I see the ring?” she asked softly. I handed it to her. The moment she read the inscription, tears spilled down her cheeks. My wife put an arm around her. A man stepped out onto the porch. “He found Mom’s ring,” the woman whispered, handing it to him. She looked at me, eyes wet. “What did the man look like? What did he say?”
I described him. When I mentioned Mr. Ivers, she started crying harder. My wife comforted her while the man—her brother—walked over and took her hand. “Mr. Ivers was our grandfather,” he said gently. “Pop-pop had a heart attack and died in that park thirty-six years ago. He was out there looking for Mom’s ring with his brand-new metal detector.” My legs went weak. I sat down hard on the curb.
