Back in Costa Rica, the sound of a screaming couple in 2A became a norm. The obnoxious, horrible, and hateful things we would hear come out of Ruth’s mouth were sometimes hard to believe. The first time I met her in person I was outside with Niva, who was recklessly guiding her shopping card on the sidewalk. “She’s so cute!’ Ruth would say, in her Jersey accent, with its nasally vowels and glass shattering pitch. “Is she learning to walk?” she questioned. “Yes”, I explain, “she’s just starting to experiment”. With a quickness and sharpness that would startle anyone she responded “Well, I wouldn’t encourage it!” Right Ruth, let’s discourage a child from attempting something she feels naturally inclined to learn. Great idea. Should I discourage her from speaking as well?
That phrase, “Well I wouldn’t encourage it!”, as well as regular Ruth encounters were a common subject of discussion in our house. We barely knew her, yet these short glimpses of her personality all served to develop her into a mysterious old lady. Numerous theories were floating between us. Victim of the Bernie Maddoff financial scandal? How many plastic surgeries did it take before it all went wrong? Why does she wear skirts to the gym? I always tried to be polite to Ruth, as she always yet something entertaining to say, but the images and judgments I created in my head never escaped me. When I pictured her, it was always about 5 pm. Her boney fingers clenched her sweating cocktail glass, carelessly screaming profanities to her seemingly nice-guy husband. Her silver hair was pulled back in a tight bun, wound more tightly than her disposition. Along with our theories about Ruth, we also tried to discuss our need to always be compassionate. Sadly, I think I failed at this with her, but our last encounter left me with warm fuzzies.
On one of my last days in Costa Rica, Niva and I were destroying magazines together in the living room. There was an urgent knock at the door. It was Ruth’s husband (who’s name, embarrassingly, I can’t recall) and he needed to use our phone. His grandkids were suppose to have visited, they hadn't shown up yet showed and “yada yada yada”. Of course we let him use our phone line. The encounter was genuine and human. I attributed his endless apology and nervousness to his fear that I was about the begin screaming the F-work at him for just simply being in my presence. He used the phone, and was on his way. As he was leaving, there was another knock at the door. It was a cute, polite knock, one perfected over years of knocking at the ideal speed and loudness. It was Ruth. She showed up with a bowl of hot chicken soup, a perfectly timed thank-you snack she had made from scratch for her grandchildren. The heavy rains prevented them from arriving that afternoon, so she thoughtfully decided to share. It’s warm, flawless chicken broth, cooked carrots, and hand molded ground matzo balls were a perfect compliment to a cool, rainy, day in closing. She explained to me how to reheat and serve it to Niva, and then shockingly apologized for her yelling as she gently shut our front door. I was boiling over in laughter and disbelief as she left. Looking back, I realize it was more the stark contrast between the cold woman I came to label, and the warm comforting nature of the food she had shared. A few days after moving to Bozeman, I received a text message that Ruth was moving out. No one really knows what happened, so the mystery of Ruth will live on in infamy. And I plan on learning how to make this so called “Jewish Penicillin”.
Of course, I couldn't resist sharing my final video featuring Miss Niva Smith. I still miss her everyday.
Upcoming blogs: A Homemade Indian Dinner, and "Jim and Tim"(my new Chinese bosses at the Thai restaurant where I've been working)