I met Ruth at work in 1998 while she was getting her second master’s degree at the age of 60. Her first was in Fine Arts from the University of Miami. We were like oil and water at first. From day one, she was blunt and didn’t sugarcoat anything. I met my match.
While working together at a work event she said.
“You’re too nice. That’ll get you eaten alive.”
“I’m not that nice.” I said with raised eyebrows.
And on another occasion. “You’re gaining weight. You need to exercise more.”
“I’m over 30!” I insisted.
We both laughed, even as we held our ground. Over time, I realized Ruth was usually right, and she always had my best interests at heart, even when her delivery was sharp.
She was manager of a library in the city of Miami for a decade until the age of 70. Ruth didn’t just run a library; she orchestrated a cultural hub. She brought in performers, artists, and managed to secure donations for countless events. Night and day, even after retirement, she was on the go.
“I have a show at the New World Symphony this week, a play in Coral Gables Friday, and am going to show my jewelry to a boutique on Saturday,” she’d say casually, as if that weren’t enough to exhaust three people.
Most museum gift shops in South Florida carried her jewelry pieces. Her jewelry was colorful, striking, and unique.
Years later, a developer bought her building on Biscayne Bay. She called me the day the offer came in.
“They want to pay me to leave. Can you believe it? I have no choice.”
I helped her navigate that transition. Her health was fragile, and living alone was not going to work much longer.
“I don’t like the idea of giving up my independence,” she admitted.
“You’re not giving up independence,” I told her. “You’re choosing a place where you can keep living, fully.”
She moved to a nearby independent living residence, just a few miles from me. I visited her as often as I could despite my work schedule.
I visited Ruth one last time in the fall of 2024.
The door was ajar, latch undone, so I walked right in.
“I left it open for you,” she called out from her chair. “Saves me the walk and you the knock.”
Her trained service dog, a Bichon Frise, Loli, greeted me with a wagging tail and no bark. Just pure joy.
Her apartment was spotless, every wall covered in her oversized, vibrant paintings. Recessed lighting complimented the art and stained-glass lamps. Her black leather L shaped sofa sprawled across one wall. Peruvian runners and statues adorned her side tables.
“We’ll go in a few minutes. Sit down. I’m almost ready.”
Her dear friend Matt was there too, giving me a warm hug and a peck on the cheek.
“You’re just in time,” he said. “She’s been talking about this lunch all morning.”
She carefully packed up her traveling oxygen machine.
“I hope we see some people I like in the dining room today.”
“Our reservation is for 2 p.m. We better go.” She slipped on her sandals, put on her blue sequins jacket, put her traveling oxygen and small purse over her shoulder, asked Matt to lead Loli on the leash and off we went.
As we walked, I admired her sparkling jacket.
“I love your jacket!” I said.
“Consignment store. Last month.”
Matt leaned towards me and whispered,
“She’s had it for ten years and won’t let it go.”
We laughed softly. The sequins were patchy, but Ruth strutted like a queen. Her ballerina frame still graceful, her black taffeta pants flowing behind her.
At the front desk, she greeted the hostess.
“We’d like the window table. The one overlooking the patio.”
The staff smiled, happy to see her. She knew them all.
“How’s your sister and the baby?” she asked the waiter.
“Did you finish that last exam?” she asked the hostess.
But once we sat, I could tell she’d overdone it. Her breathing was shallow, and she quietly slipped the oxygen tubes back under her nose.
“Bring me whatever looks good,” she said. “No Shrimp.”
I returned with a plate of roasted lamb, vegetables, and a slice of cheese cake. The chef was known to be five stars, and today’s buffet lived up to every expectation.
As we ate, old friends stopped by our table.
“Ruth! You look beautiful! When are you inviting me to see your paintings?”
She waved them off.
“I’ll let you know”
Her art had been featured on the resident’s website, but Ruth was selective about who she let in her apartment. You could always tell who she liked.
We talked about symphonies and plays, about old friends, former husbands, and colleagues.
I went home by 9 p.m. with a full heart.
A few days later, on the way to a coworker’s viewing, I got a text that Ruth had passed. Just like that, the world dimmed a bit.
Her life came flooding back. Stories she’d shared: living on a kibbutz in her 20’s, working in marketing in New York City in her 40’s, spending years in Bahrain in her 30’s with her husband.
“I wore capri pants and rode a bike through the neighborhood. You’d think I was starting a revolution,” she once told me, laughing.
She had an insatiable lust for life. Always present, always bold.
And I’ll never forget how she pinched my husband’s butt every time he hugged her.
“He’s a good man! Don’t lose him!” she’d say, making him turn beet red.
Once, I told her, “You remind me of that line from West Side Story. ‘When you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet all the way, from your first cigarette to your last dying day.’”
“Oh I don’t know, she said humbly.”
Ruth was family. A woman who inspired others to embrace joy, seek beauty, and never say no to a meal with a friend.
