The small community of Mayville touched me with its quaintness when I was assigned to work there in a banking office during the early 1980s. Covering a land area of slightly more than one square mile, the past and the present blended together with ease in a town that had mastered a slow paced atmosphere despite the hectic scramble of neighboring communities.

Outside the downtown area to the east, the land was predominantly rural. Farmland and large expanses of undeveloped property graced the eyes with lush green fields and thick wooded areas. To the west was a busy main corridor populated with businesses. The office I worked in was located “downtown” on the corner of the main road through town and the east-west connector to its more populated neighbor.

Separate from the charming visual aspects of this small town, my experiences with the people are what most deeply touched me during my two years of service there. Across the street Fred ran his ice cream parlor which looked like a drug store soda fountain from the 1950s with wooden booths adorned with high backs and fancy carvings at the top. The floor was black and white checked tile. A glass display counter that once held assorted confections and penny candies now sat mostly empty except for a few candy bars and bubble gum. On top of the counter an ornate antique cash register completed the old time ambiance. Fred would simply round off the cost of the ice cream in his head and press the appropriate keys for the total. Large numbers visible through a glass window at the top of the register popped up with the amount owed. If you were short some change, Fred would tell you to bring it back next time and still give you everything you ordered anyway. He was an endearing fellow who has left an impression on me because of his good-natured personality and his will to hang on to a lifestyle that was slipping away.
 
During the half hour before the bank opened, I sometimes heard a knock on the glass doors. There stood Eli in his John Deere hat and overalls holding a large paper grocery bag and smiling. He had been a farmer all his life and now while semi-retired still maintained a very large garden. The bag he held was full of fresh grown tomatoes that burst with flavor when you sunk your teeth into one.

There was also Mr. Barnes, another elderly gentleman, who loved to chat and wasn’t always aware of how many customers may be waiting. He was not trying to be rude. He simply wanted to chat about everything from the weather, to growing up on a farm, to purchasing his first automobile.

Then there was Mrs. Wimple, a petite hunched woman who hobbled very slowly from the bus stop to the bank relying upon her cane for support. Mrs. Wimple always rested in the chair beside my desk while we talked a bit before I helped her out the door. The distance to the corner, although a short sprint for most of us, was too far for her unstable legs so we crossed the street right outside the bank door, about twenty feet from the corner. Barely putting one foot in front of the other, we caused traffic to stop as it backed up into the intersection, but no one beeped their horn or yelled profanity at us. After all, this was Mayville.

One of my most unforgettable experiences from working there involved a frequent customer and a casual phrase that brought us together in a special way. My job responsibilities included an audit of the items stored in the Safekeeping vault. The first time I opened the safe where those items were stored I discovered an old-fashioned diamond ring reminiscent of one my grandmother had from 1920. A silver band with intricate engravings held a small diamond in a raised setting. The ring was in a plastic bag with a handwritten note explaining the ring had been found behind furniture during a remodeling of the office. The owner had never been identified.

Every month I performed the audit and wondered what the history was behind that ring. Who did it belong to? How did it come to get lost? Would the ring ever be reunited with its rightful owner?

After working in the office for about a year, Mrs. Hansen, a woman in her fifties, came into the bank with her husband and while I assisted them the three of us carried on a pleasant conversation. Mrs. Hansen mentioned the passing of her mother a few months earlier and how no one had ever been able to find her mother’s engagement ring. I asked more details about the ring feigning casual interest. She described the ring in the bank vault that I had been wondering about for the past year. I didn’t tell her my suspicion, that her mother’s ring may be in the building, for fear of a legal issue.

After checking with the bank’s Legal Department, I received authorization to contact Mrs. Hansen along with documents for the customer to sign should she accept the ring. I called her to explain the situation. She was ecstatic and anxious to arrange a meeting time for the following morning when her brother and husband could also be present.

The next day we gathered in the conference room and I showed them the ring. The sheer joy and emotional “Mama’s ring” spoken so genuinely by Mrs. Hansen confirmed without a doubt in my mind this was her mother’s ring. After so many years, Mama’s ring was back where it belonged.

The overall feelings I took away with me when I left that office were very positive ones. The town flourished with a deep sense of community that most people living and working there could not help but feel a part of, even if only briefly on a busy work day. I have maintained lifelong friendships with two of my co-workers from there, one of whom has resided in town all her life. She explains that while some things in town change many others are still the same. After all, Mayville will always be Mayville.

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