Harry and Ruth

Summer began its reign without warning, with a blasting x-ray heatwave. New life abounded as the tulips bowed, making way for the roses, poppies, and irises. The days grew longer as birds chirped with felicity and like animals slowly awakening from their slumber, people trickled outdoors eager to feel the sun on their shoulders. I was inside looking out, planning my wedding day.

I was in love and felt like the universe let me in on a mysterious secret. There was a quickening in my step, an urgency, but at the same time a harmony or symmetry with the world. The sun shined only for me and held a spotlight everywhere I went. I was fascinated by couples of all ages and like a diver standing on the edge of the board with curled toes, I was ready to take the sweet plunge, driven to lunge purposefully to the bottom, only to glide back to the top, anticipating that refreshing release of breath. I wanted the day to hurry so I could breathe again.

A call from my mother changed my mood that day and I found my heart divided between my own selfish happiness and grief for my mother and the two people who gave her life, and inadvertently gave me her, my grandparents, Harry and Ruth.

My grandmother, Ruth, who we called Mamaw, had suffered a massive heart attack and was placed in intensive care. My grandfather, Papaw, was at her side, along with the rest of our family three thousand miles away. I felt helpless, unable to comfort the ones I loved most in the world.

I hung up the phone and thought about Mamaw and Papaw, Harry and Ruth. Together they raised a family, built a home and created a marriage that lasted fifty-five years. They spend more years of their lives together than apart. I realized how I was just beginning a life with someone and theirs might be ending. I wondered what my grandfather thought as he held her hand and stared at her lying in the hospital bed with closed eyes. Did he see her as the smiling twenty-year-old on her wedding day slicing cake and licking the icing from her fingers, as we had seen in so many photographs? Maybe he saw her in the moonlight the first summer they kissed, when he knew he would ask her to marry him. Or if he heard her exasperated, “Oh Harry,” when she tried to conceal her laughter at one of his corny jokes. I hoped he saw her face every Valentine’s Day, when she opened one of his homemade Valentines.

Harry and Ruth met on a June day in the summer of 1941 and married on the same day the following year. Harry said when it’s right you just know it, and I instantly knew what he meant when I met my fiancé, Steve. I remembered Mamaw telling me how angry she was at Harry the night before their wedding when she told him he couldn’t come over because she had so much to do, but he came over anyway. He stuck his foot in the door and demanded a goodnight kiss. She said she was so mad she almost called off the wedding; how could she marry such a ruffian?

The world was on the brink of war, though Harry’s flat feet kept him out of the army. He soon inherited his father’s Doyle Heating Company business, but sold it when the bill collecting became too much of a hindrance.

Before Ruth accepted Harry’s proposal she moved to Washington D.C. for a year where she worked as a secretary. She told me she wanted to experience life before settling down. After they married, she worked for Naval Avionics, a facility the government commissioned to produce the Norden Bombsight, along with other highly classified technology.

They were the perfect combination as grandparents; Mamaw’s rosy cheeks always smothering us with kisses, and Papaw standing silently by slipping us a piece of candy or a dollar bill. When we were little, their house was our favorite place to go. We played dress-up with Mamaw, adorning ourselves with her costume jewelry, scarves, and gloves; then promenaded through the house feeling glamorous. Though as soon as The Young and the Restless started we had to be quiet. Papaw pretended to read the newspaper, but knew all the character’s names and crazy plots. He preferred to spend most of his time working out back in his little white work shed that resembled a smaller version of their house with a slanted roof, screened door and windows.

Mamaw taught me to play gin rummy and kept an ongoing scorecard that she had with several of my cousins as well. She’d captivate us with stories of her childhood adventures while Harry stood in the background, smiling and smoking, shaking his head.

They had always worked as a unit. Before he agreed to his hearing aids, Ruth heard for Harry and interpreted for us what we were trying to say in the only voice he clearly understood. In return Harry remembered for her; the night of their favorite television show and when to take her pills. Their home was quiet in the latter years. They didn’t talk much because they mostly communicated telepathically; a question was answered with a simple look or smile.

Ruth passed away soon after my wedding; she was too sick to attend. She had not felt right since her heart attack. Fortunately, she was at home as she took the arm of the man she loved and walked to their sofa to rest. She was holding Harry’s hand as she made the heavenly transition from this world to the next.

When I saw Papaw last Christmas, he smiled and laughed with us but still seemed wounded, and I wondered if he would every recover? I thought that must be the price you paid for taking the plunge. This summer I celebrated my one-year wedding anniversary with my husband Steve, and as I looked into his eyes, I thought in fifty-five years we could be Harry and Ruth if we’re lucky.