Walk a Mile in Her Moccasins: Celebrating the Ruthness of Ruth

 

Walk a mile in my shoes, walk a mile in my shoes. Hey before you abuse, criticize and accuse, walk a mile in my shoes.

There were so many Ruths. Today we walk a mile in her shoes to celebrate all of them. To celebrate the Ruthness of Ruth.

Every day we are different. Every year we are different. The way we were and who we are now can seem contradictory. Mom always said that if we look to the past versions of ourselves, to our mistakes or to the glory or vitality we once had, we should do so compassionately, rather than sitting in judgment. Mom was a big one about not judging—unless, of course, we’re talking about binge-watching Judge Judy, getting deep into crime procedurals (do doo NCIS bad imitation), or pursuing her life-long passion for applying the law as a means for equality and justice. Only natural for a paralegal with strong accounting skills from a union family.

But while she didn’t want us to judge ourselves or anyone harshly, she could be ruthlessly hard on herself. Along with the Ruths she maintained for a lifetime—the feminist, the social activist, the union supporter, the adoring mother and grandmother, and the lover of a good joke played on YOU—there were Ruths she no longer wished to be: drunk-dialing Ruth, to-do list driven Ruth, anxiety-filled Ruth. The Ruth that endured chronic pain for 12 years by ignoring it, fighting it, going from treatment to treatment, giving up, giving in, cursing, praying, and starting again. It was so hard. She was so brave.

There was also the Ruth she wanted to go back to being—the one she never let go of and never stopped missing: Jimbo’s Ruth. Dad’s death, in 2008, brought her to one of the lowest points in her life.

It also brought her to new perspectives, including intense spiritual studies—from the Bible to the Puja Fire at Kashi Ashram—to advancing her Tai Chi practice and earning Tai Chi teacher certification, along with being an active participant in Alcoholics Anonymous here in Sebastian. She cleaned the clubhouse, led meetings, and of course was obsessed with the coffee being brewed just so and on time. Her van was filled with folks needing rides to meetings or errands. And, as was the case throughout her life, there never was an empty belly or gas tank when Ruth Boschard was around. We are grateful for the quality friendships that uplifted her as she embraced the serenity of sobriety—continually working her program even when she faced the contradiction of having to take addictive medications to control the pain. 

The end of a life here on Earth is not its totality. Nor should we dismiss the smoking, drinking, hell-raising Ruth in favor of some saintly Ruth that never existed. She would hate that. I remember when I wrote daddy’s obit, mentioning her as the beloved wife of. “Beloved?” she snorted. “Oh brother. We never called each other beloved. That part can go.” 

There is a story for every one of the Ruths we know and love. She lived large. There’s the go-go cage dancing Ruth who came home without her shoes but still wearing her plush mouton coat with the big brown buttons. There’s the dancing Ruth that boogied in the aisles at Foodtown. There’s the entrepreneurial Ruth who started her own ceramic business (thanks to the artist Ruth). There’s the yoga Ruth who studied at Unity, the fishing Ruth who expected you to bait your own damn hook, the Ms. Magazine pink mini-skirted, shag haircut Ruth, crusading for the ERA including equal pay. There is the bus driving Ruth that Sean Baker and so many other Brooklyn, Michigan students remember:

“Your mom drove my bus back in the day and it was awesome! I was the last one off and I can’t tell you how many times I fell asleep tucked in the back seat and ended up in the bus barn with your mom! She always took me home on her way home. She was an amazing lady.”

There’s muck-racing, tender face-painting, tree-trimming, shop-til-you-drop, take-no-shit Ruth. She once changed a tire in a Las Vegas parking lot in front of two men in suits who simply watched her because a) they didn’t know how to change a tire and/or b) they didn’t want to get their clothes dirty. Ruth was never, ever afraid to get dirty—stuff that would gross others out was only apt to fascinate her (and careful, she might pick it up and chase you with it!). 

One of my favorite Ruths is the I Love Lucy Ruth. Her dear friend Sandy (who says she often asked mom “are you Lucy or am I?”) can tell you about the time that mom put bath salts in the hot tub in Florida, and ended up desperately trying to shovel the copious bubbles out with badminton racquets before Dad and Jerry got home from fishing. Did she ever move the car on any of you when you went into the store? You’d come out and think she left you there. One time, she and Sandy were at Woolworth’s shopping—San didn’t have money with her that day but mom had said no worries, come anyway, she could cover it and San could pay her back. “She could talk me into anything,” says Sandy. When they got to the checkout, mom made her purchases and moved on. Sandy told the checkout person mom was paying—mom said “I don’t know her!” When our family was staying with Aunt Bev and Uncle Dick on McLain, they also cooked up some stunts. I’m thinking in particular about an April Fools’ lunch they packed for dad and Uncle Dick to take to the jobsite, complete with cardboard lunchmeat, peppered Fritos, and not-hardboiled eggs. There’s also the prankster Ruth who would roll into a driveway when I was a self-conscious pre-teen, beep the horn and shout “Boys, here’s Cyndi!” Yeah, did that happen to you, too?

There are, if you look in our family photo albums, the occasional blurred shots of Candid Camera Ruth in action. She’d fling open the bathroom door, or whatever, and start clicking away. Or start a water fight without provocation. Even at the very end of her life journey, she pretended, like Red Foxx in Sanford and Son, that the big one had come, closing her eyes and going limp and silent as we anxiously looked into her face, then popping up and screaming baaaah! in our faces. 

There is also the environmentalist Ruth. She was an early adapter who embraced recycling like nobody’s business the minute it became possible to sort and separate. It seems fitting, given the orderly way she kept her homes—so clean that the cleaning helpers she had come in occasionally remarked on the absence of things to clean. Although if you ever stayed at her house or traveled with her, you know that “if it’s mellow let it yellow” was a toilet rule if you needed to piddle. 

She conserved water, but she never skimped on the gift giving. 

So, we brought some gifts to share this weekend, because that’s who mom was—she was generosity defined and if she gifted herself she wanted to gift everyone else. Like this palm tree dress, her signature fish dresses, dancing and singing Christmas decorations, scrub daddies, silicone oven mitts, stretchy mesh bags—Billy Bass—you name it. If Ruth liked something she bought 50 of them for family and friends (that’s why we didn’t bring any laughing pills today, we figure most of you have at least one!). 

Ruth also demanded that others share their special gifts. She made me try out for cheerleading and forced me into auditioning for the school talent show—if I didn’t realize I was good enough, there was only one way to get over that and that was to do it and succeed. We ruled 4-H Share the Fun performances at the Monroe County Fair one year—mom had her girls, Jodi and Heidi Grimes, and Dana Bows in every conceivable group configuration we were eligible for and all our routines took the ribbons. This was, as all involved will remember, accomplished by hours of rehearsal trapped in the basement until the routines were perfectly synchronized. Whether it was academic performance or the school musical, mom taught us that gifts can’t be developed without practice, practice, practice.   

She also knew how to give one-of-a-kind presents. I still have the yellow jacket I looked at 100 times when I was visiting one year and we went shopping at Beall’s. I decided it would be too much of a splurge to buy it. It arrived in the mail the week I got home. Out of the blue she gifted me with the laptop computer I wrote my first novel on—she had a gift for knowing what would lift your spirits, like  a knitted rainbow sweater to cheer up a dreary U.P. winter.

Mom did this for lots of people. For example, I know of a certain young lady named Grace who had a thing for mermaids. Florida is a great place to find mermaids and mom kept them coming! 

I have a daughter who’s really, really good at giving the perfect gift. I think she gets it from Grandma Ruth. 

Which brings us to Grandma Ruth: nothing more precious to her than Shanny Mike (the Queen), Scotty, Josh, Jordy, Jackadoodle, and Cole Mac. Her love and Pa’s is with you always. 

COME UP AND GET YOUR PILLOWS

 

Mom’s friendship was its own gift. I considered her, along with my sisters, as my best and closest friends. There was nothing she and I couldn’t talk about—and aside from some volatile teen years, it’s always been that way. What I wouldn’t give to be four-year-old me again, lying on the couch with mom, brushing her hair and watching General Hospital back on Springdale Road in Toledo. Or to lounge on her bed in Sebastian, Nottingham, or Northwood, holding hands, eating delicious snacks, and offering eye-rolling running commentary on the antics of The Real Housewives. To watch her napping with the Bru-She combo—Sheba on her head, snoring (for years I thought it was mom who snored, until I slept with her in the weeks after daddy died) … my favorite memories of my mother are the times we simply abided, resting together, breathing together, a good day’s work done—or starting our day sitting at Wabasso beach, Dunkin Donuts coffee in hand, watching the crabs come out of their holes to join us in greeting the sunrise.

But I also cherish the adrenalin-rush times, like when she created the perfect cornstarch-and-baking-soda dough diorama for a homework assignment I didn’t tell her about until the night before, helped create and record a “Let The Sunshine, Vote For Candy” jingle when Can was running for elementary student council, and took us on a whirlwind shoe-shopping spree when Chris was freed from her brace. I was with mom when she won a sleek black leather coat in a shady poker tournament, flung some mansplaining cowboy’s hat into the sink behind a bar at Las Vegas dance hall, and took over the dance floor with dad on numerous occasions, from my junior high Sadie Hawkins to an outdoor clam bar in Mico. They sure could shuck and jive, those two, and I bet they still are!

 The end of a life here on Earth is not the totality. Even so, as we celebrate the whole, complete, joyous, messy, beautiful life of Ruth Ann Hammer Boschard, we can look to the end of her life to see what it is to be a courageous human being. 

Flying through the sky on the way to be with her that last time, I looked at the  great blue horizon somewhere above Lake Michigan and marveled at the all-knowing light. This was a place that fit the line of a song mom liked to sing—a song about the peace that passes understanding. 

Mom knew she was making her passage and offered incredible moments of lucidity along with glimpses of what was calling to her on the other side. She was curious rather than afraid about what’s next. “Wow, this is a trip,” she said as she restlessly wandered. “Am I being initiated?” In the ever-shortening intervals of relief before the pain came again, we trailed behind her, watching her literally wrap things up in rubber bands and tissues, pulling down books, writing notes, and occasionally looking up to ask, “am I staying here tonight?” She also wanted to know when we were going to Florida. 

“That’s up to you mumsie,” I said. We wanted her to know it was OK to go. Because she was ready. She called out for dad—it was for her as if he had just died and she cried so hard. She found calm when we put on Tai Chi music. All I had to suggest was “Tai Chi hands” and there she was, parting the clouds in her bed as she made her way to the next plane. I will never forget her graceful hands moving over the blankets, finding peace.

She told us that New Hampshire had never been her home—that she wanted to go home, to her home in Florida, where you don’t need socks and the Ibis flock to the patio every morning for kibble. She laid out the instructions for this very gathering and where she wanted her ashes scattered on the river—where she scattered dad’s.

For her, Florida was family. She missed her sister so much. “Rita Rae! Rita Rae!” she would call over and over. We were so grateful for the technology that enabled them to talk. I knew they loved each other, but never realized how much. It was beautiful and also sad, because I wished they could have been together. It would have been such a comfort to them both. Mom dreamed of returning to Florida. And here she is.

AUNT RITA YOU GET YOUR CHOICE OF PILLOWS, YOU CAN LOOK AT THEM AFTER.

I am so grateful for all the people who cared for mom—and particularly delighted that she was able to enjoy special times with the amazing Meredith, with whom she clicked right away. 

MEREDITH WE HAVE A PILLOW FOR YOU, TOO! 

Mom took care of so many loved ones herself, she could totally relate to all her caregivers. “Nancy Nurse,” as dad called her, tended all of us at one time or another, finding just the right foods, pajamas, TV shows, books, and anything else that could bring us comfort while we healed. She brought us comfort.   

 The Notorious RAB also brought the rules. Here are 10, any or all of which you could honor her by following:

• Let go of all anger, fear, resentment, and the need to punish. Listen to the Louise Hay mediation mom loved best.
• Discuss the big ideas that make the world a better place. Respect differing opinions but stand up for the oppressed. Support unions, feminism, and democracy. 
• Laugh a lot. Listening to kids laugh is also good.
• Pet your dogs and cats. Let them on your bed.
• Feed the birds, the squirrels (and maybe the gators?)
• Love your family fiercely. 
• Flaunt your style. Wear lucite saltine cracker earrings, as many bangles as you can stack, and pouffy fake-feather sweaters—whatever your version of that is, bring the bling.
• Forgive even if you can’t forget. That means forgiving yourself, too.
• Take care of yourself as well as others. Because health is everything.
• Let love in. Let yourself be loved.

On the last night I was able to be with mom, Chris and I were taking one- to two-hour shifts, depending on when the pain would wake mom. I’d just laid down in the sitting room when I heard the now-familiar cry:

“Help me! Help me!”

And then, Chris’s gentle inquiry:

“How can we help?”

I was already rising to get the syringes ready, expecting to hear that she needed more medication, as the pain came faster, harder, more frequently. But this time, her request was different.

“Tell everyone I love them. Tell everyone I love them. Tell everyone I love them.”

She repeated her request for several minutes, as Chris assured her we would tell everyone she loves them.

And so today, I walk a mile in Ruth Hammer Boschard’s shoes to convey her final message to y’all. Her true words. Her human words — and the now-transcendent feeling she transmits as she looks upon us from the next level.

Grandma Ruth loves you. Sis loves you. Mom loves you. Ruth Ann loves you. Know this. Be comforted by this. She loves you. This is the essence of all the Ruths. The Ruthness of Ruth. The Ruth each of you knew. The Ruth we cherish and celebrate. She is love.

Let every sunrise be a reminder: she loves you.