Instead of going down to brave the crowds and see Bruce Springsteen and Bono on the Mall this afternoon, I got in my car and drove north, up Connecticut Aveune, to vist my Aunt Ruth in Silver Spring, MD.
She’s not my aunt, actually. She’s my great aunt — my father’s aunt — 98 years old, and still capable of smart, engaging conversations. She’s one of my father’s only living relatives from that generation, and all those years I lived in Washington, in my 20′s, I made it a point to get to know her.
It amazes me that she was my grandmother’s sister. My “grandmother” on that side, Lillian, died when my dad was three. But Ruth will tell me stories about Lillian, stories that make me think she really lived, once.
I pick Ruth up this afternoon at her apartment, where she lives with an aide, Virginia, who has become a friend, too, over the years. On this day, we drive out to the Olney Grille — one of Ruth’s favorite haunts. She orders Rockfish, no butter, no sauce, no nothing, and a side of fries.
I knew that she voted for Obama — this 98-year-old, four-foot-something Jewish woman with flaming orange-red hair. She was not exactly Obama’s most reliable demographic. So I ask her: Why?
“I like him because he’s black,” she says. “I like him because he’s handsome. I like him because he’s reached the top of the ladder in an adverse society.”
Also, she says: “I hated the Republican.”
Odama, Ruth says, at one point. Obada …
“Uh uh,” Virgina says. “Oh-bama.”
Virginia, a native of the Ivory Coast, offered that after the election, Ruth had confided in her — she never thought she’d live to see a black man elected president.
“America is great,” Aunt Ruth says.
Aunt Ruth, who grew up in the town of Grodno, Poland, not far from Krakow, in the shadow of what would later become Auschwitz. She lived there with her brother, Isaac, and her sisters Anne and Lillian, until she was 9. Her father imported lumber from Koenigsburg, Germany, and ran a small business.
Ruth still remembers the days in the Old Country. They were robbed. Her father and brother were incarcerated. She tells a story — I can see her struggle with the details — of the day a woman came up to her mother screaming “don’t ask questions, run, run, run.” Her mother immediately went down to a military yard, and found that her son and husband were about to be shot. She distracted the assailants; her brother managed to escape — he clambered to a nearby roof, and hid. Her husband escaped as well.
I ask Ruth: Why did they do these things to you? What was your crime?
Ruth is nearly incredulous. “Being a Jew!” she says.
She’s sitting across from me, dwarfed by the bench and table. She wears a white knitted cap, a red and blue striped shirt, and a pearl necklace with a low hanging, ornate green rose. The whole time we are in the restaurant, she never takes off her coat. On the TV at the bar behind her, the Philadelphia Eagles are mounting a furious comeback.
Her earliest memories of a U.S. president involve Calvin Coolidge, who served in the White House from 1923 to 1928. Of FDR, she says: “He was alright, until he didn’t let the Jews in.”
Make no mistake. Ruth is a tough critic. I onced asked her if she liked my short stories, which I’ve sent her over the years. She says, to be frank, that she prefers longer stories and larger print.
She can be equally tough on herself. “My thoughts about Obama are worthless, because we haven’t seen him yet in action,” she says. “It’s a new philosophy and a new day and there are a lot of new things to come.”
You’ve lived a long time, Aunt Ruth. What advice would you have for President Obama?
“Two things,” she says, without hesitating. “Help Israel. Work against anti-Semitism in this country.”
President-elect Obada, take note: You’ve got your work cut out for you if you want my Aunt Ruth’s support in 2012. Don’t take the 102-year-old red-headed Jewish women for granted.
“You’re the light of my life,” Aunt Ruth tells me, whenever she sees me.
She finishes the last french fry. Leaves one small bite of fish on her plate.
And I truly treasure her. I’d never come to Washington without seeing her. I don’t care who’s getting inaugurated.