Mrs. Ruby got her rings.

Which is a euphimism for Mrs. Ruby died.

Mrs. Ruby lived down the street from us growing up, in our little 1970's cul de sac neighborhood. She was as good hearted and enjoyable a lady as you could ever want to know. She lived in a modest sized 2 bedroom, 1 bath house that was built on the same floor plan as several of the houses on that street before they took one-by-one renovations. Her yard was always neatly mowed.

Mrs. Ruby had two sons older than us, I never really knew them except to know they were her sons. I don't recall them living there, so if I'm 40 they're . . . well, older.

Mrs. Ruby was also quite lively. Her living arrangement was the product of a divorce from a gentleman in town who had a fairly decent reputation. Mrs. Ruby once told my mother that the minute he turned 60, she was at the social security office filing off of him. Because you know, she could. So she did. I think Mrs. Ruby found special joy in knowing that his wife knew she'd done it. I love that story about Mrs. Ruby.

Our neighborhood was cut into a hill and a deep (or so it seemed) ditch ran down the back property line, with a board across it some places so the kids could access the hill. Behind Mrs. Ruby lived Charlotte and there was a board there. One day I was walking across the board and walked into a blue racer snake. It went one way and I went the other. Mrs. Ruby tried to catch me but I didn't stop til I was near home.

Mrs. Ruby also had a score of house helpers. It seemed perfectly normal at the time, and I think it helped everyone out. Mrs. Ruby took to a young lady, I don't know how she met her, but the young lady started coming over after school and helping Mrs. Ruby cook and clean house. I think Mrs. Ruby eventually employed several young ladies from that family. Looking back, I think the family was not well off financially. Not that I think Mrs. Ruby had much money, but I think the bit she paid them helped them more than it did her. And in doing so, helped her.

Mrs. Ruby in her later years went into a nursing home and her body failed her long before her mind. I think of myself quite poorly for failing to visit her. I'm not quite sure when she went in there, when the calls to my parents home stopped. Somehow I just never went. I should have been better for that, for a lady who watched out her open door on the children of the neighborhood for two decades. I should have made the time to go and see her. I was a good kid, I should have been a better adult.

If it crossed her mind when she got to heaven, she probably forgave me. But still I tear up. Thinking about the cooking fragrances in her home,her well kept yard, the sound of her voice on the phone, how Mom really borrowed "a cup of sugar" from her in a coffee cup.

She was the best.