Ruthie

When I play the two-truths-and-a-lie game, I usually tell people the following:
1. I have 5 stepsisters
2. I have a tattoo
3. I had at least 30 babysitters as a kid

I don't have a tattoo. I have had five stepsisters since age 15, when my mom remarried. And before that, my family quirk was that I had at least 30 different babysitters. Thirty is no uncommon number for single-parent families. My mom worked full time, often nights. That's how it works if you want to support your two kids, and own a little Ford Tempo that you have to get repaired every month, and pay rent, and pay for food, even with the help of food stamps and certain economical cookbooks. Amid the parade of babysitters, some were worse than others. Most were trustworthy. Some were so caught up in themselves, unsure of what to do with two youngsters who fought constantly, that they backed away. I might have, too. Shoot, we were an awful lot of work. My brother and I became pretty adept at being unimpressed with our babysitters. Until Ruthie.

She was a junior in high school and my mom was working daylight hours in the summer of 1994. The first conversation I remember having with Ruthie was about music. I was five years old, and she asked me what kind of music I liked to listen to. What a smart question for a five-year-old. I responded that I didn't like music, "it's all just old men singing together without instruments. It's so boring." My mom has always been a fan of a capella men's choirs. I guess she was listening to that a lot in those days.

"You don't like music because of that? Well, 50% of singers are women, you know. Maybe you just need to listen to more music." I was so impressed with her command of statistics, her ability to counter my conversation instead of leaving me to think something false.

She was special in lots of ways, but that conversation was the first one that I can remember where I felt that my opinion mattered. And if my opinion mattered, I was sort of a grown-up. And if I was sort of a grown-up, I could talk to other grown-ups. And if I could talk to grown-ups, then I could certainly talk to people my own age. A shoot of confidence began to grow in me, from this tiny seed, these small conversations that Ruthie couldn't have any reason to remember.

We walked everywhere. We went to the library, and to the pool. We went to her house and helped her mother in the kitchen, or played badminton in their postage-stamp backyard. She took a general hold over the chores of the house, and what was once so disorderly became livable, a safe and homey place. She was like Mrs. Doubtfire, except younger and cooler... and actually a woman, not just pretending.

One day while she was ironing, she looked out the window, and I noticed that she was cross-eyed. It had never occurred to me before. Then she burnt herself with the iron, exclaiming, "¡Dios bendiga a los niños!" And I learned that she also spoke Spanish, which she had learned from her former stepfather. Every fact about her fascinated me. I wanted to grow up to be just like her.

Ruthie made the summer good. She read The Little Princess out loud to me, then we watched the movie together. She helped Stephen and me get along by engaging us in meaningful discussions. We three sat around the kitchen table and talked about the Great Depression one day. I asked Ruthie why we needed money, why everyone couldn't just give each other what they needed? If we all agreed to it, it would work. She looked at me, and said that was one question she wouldn't answer.

For two summers, Ruthie was our all-in-all. Then she went to college. She still cared about us, still kept up with us. But way leads on to way. And geography is so important. She eventually got married and had a son. Then got divorced, I think.

How do I make this post all come together? Ruthie mattered. As I look back, I see so much of her in how I relate to others. I see a turning point in my life.

Here's to you, Ruthie.