AUNT RUTH

By Louise Stivers

Aunt Ruth was smoking a pipe. A woman smoking a pipe! I knew from movies that women sometimes smoked cigarettes - but a pipe?

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Recently while going through a box of old family photos I came across one of my dad and his two sisters. Old, faded, and a little frayed on one corner, it showed them staring directly into the camera, void of much expression, no emotion. Strong and stoic would have best described the people in this picture, which was accurate. There was not a clue as to the loving and tender people I learned to know and appreciate in the years that followed. Looking at this old photo brought back the memory of the first time I met Aunt Ruth.

One day when I was about 8 years old, there was a knock on the door. My younger sister, six-year-old Linda, and I ran flinging open the door, expecting some neighborhood friend, ready for a game of jacks or jump rope. We stood frozen on the spot, there stood an elderly lady. She was a bit overweight and dressed entirely in black.

A large black purse hung on one arm, the other hand covering the strap as if to protect it. A small hat was perched on her head and on her feet, black oxfords. These were no-nonsense shoes, sturdy, with a small heel, tied with black laces. Sitting on the porch was one small suitcase. My Mother appeared from the kitchen where she had been baking and said,

“Girls, this is your Aunt Ruth. She will be visiting for a while.” Linda whispered, “Who’s Aunt Ruth?”

“Our Aunt, you baby,” I replied.

I was just as confused as she was but not about to admit it.

There was no explanation as to why Ruth suddenly appeared or how long she might stay. Guest rooms were not even in our vocabulary at that time. It soon became apparent that Aunt Ruth would be staying with us. She would be sharing our bedroom. Literally. Linda and I would share one of the twin beds, and this stranger would sleep in the other.

Aunt Ruth carried her small bag into the bedroom and placed a few items on the nightstand. Next, she hung a few things in the closet, leaving most of her belongings in the suitcase.

Ruth seldom spoke, never revealing anything about herself or any reason for her visit. She was polite and offered to help my mother with cooking and cleaning, “I’ll help you with that.” was a long sentence. One day when my mother was chatting with a friend, I overheard bits of a conversation - o.k. I was eavesdropping. Something about Ruth’s only son dying and a mention of peanuts. Her husband had died suddenly of a heart attack only months later. Alone and grieving, Ruth had spent some time with her sister Nona and now it was our turn.

One night, a few days after Aunt Ruth’s arrival, I woke up at what seemed to be the middle of the night. It was very dark and quiet, but I could see her sitting at the window. At first, she appeared to be staring out into the night sky. Then I noticed a small faint, red glow. A pipe. Aunt Ruth was smoking a pipe. A woman smoking a pipe! I knew from movies that women sometimes smoked cigarettes - but a pipe. This was indeed a first. Mr. Miller, the neighborhood curmudgeon, and Santa Claus were the only pipe smokers I had ever encountered.

This became a nightly ritual during her visit. I would watch Aunt Ruth sitting in the window, looking at the sky, smoking her pipe. I never spoke to her, just watched in silence. She never spoke to me.

After about a month, Aunt Ruth packed her few belongings, said her goodbyes, and left almost as quickly as she arrived. She took her pipe.

Now, sixty-plus years later, I too sit by the window, watching the night sky. I think of days gone by, people no longer with us, dreams fulfilled and hearts broken. I appreciate the peaceful solitude of gazing silently at the night sky, much like Aunt Ruth decades ago.

No pipe for me.