Visitation: Tuesday (7/17) 8-9 AM
Mass: Tuesday 9:30 AM @ Our Lady of Angels R.C. Church
Cemetery: Long Island National Cemetery (Farmingdale, NY)


MARTIN, Ruth V. (nee Grady) - On July 13, 2018. For my mother, my sisters and me, Ruth was always there for us, for our whole lives. So many little things come to mind. Taking the three of us to see Mary Poppins, my first movie. The porcelain doll she brought back for me from Germany. The vests she crocheted for my sisters and me. The way, when she took her little size-five-and-a-half shoes off, they pointed outward a little, and looked adorable. Her laugh. How she seemed to be from another era—maybe Victorian—and blushed and got flustered so easily. She once called me after spending an afternoon making Norwegian cookies—the kind you have to roll out very carefully and then curl up just so and bake for just the right amount of time so they cook but don't burn. Clearly exhausted from the whole ordeal, she said, "I had to lie down afterward." And answering machines always made her so nervous, every message ended up sounding urgent. After a few halting seconds of silence and sometimes a sigh, I'd hear, "Janet, this is your Aunt Ruth. When you get this message, call me as soon as you can."

Mostly I remember her with Bob, and how much they loved each other. We spent every holiday, and lots of just plain old days, with them. So many parties we had at their apartment—so many Christmas gifts we opened there, so many birthday cards we read, so many candles we blew out.

To know Ruth was to want to know her forever. Her closest friends, Aurora and Peggy, she had known since girlhood. But she made new friends just as easily. I remember once, after she was hospitalized for a brief procedure, the woman she shared a room with for, like, two days became a friend for life. Whatever you told her was safe with her, and you were safe too.

She and Bob loved to be near the water, and spent many vacations in Montauk, where she'd also gone with her girlfriends. Later, for years, they loved spending time at my sister Trish's house there. The last time she was at our house, upstate, we took her on a day cruise down the Hudson. She was already ill by then, but when she looked out at the water, as the breeze wafted across her face, she seemed so at peace.

Ruth was absolutely crazy for old movies—of course, they weren't old when she was growing up, and she and my Mom went to the movies together all the time—and TCM was always on at her house, unless she was watching her stories or Bob was watching golf.

When she was a teenager, she and her girlfriends went to see Frank Sinatra—who she also loved all her life—at the Paramount in Brooklyn, and then, after he emerged from the stage door and escaped the throng of girls waiting for him, they followed him down the street to the barber shop and watched him get his haircut. And according to Ruth, "He never knew we were there." Uh-huh. Because you can just imagine how subtle they were…

But one day, Ruth got to live her movie dream. Like most of us, she hated going to the doctor, and every year, when she had to go get her physical, she treated herself to a trip to Bloomingdale's afterward, to pick up a perfume or a pillow, something fabulous and frivolous to smooth away the memory of cold tables and cotton hospital gowns. And one year, a miracle happened. There she was in the Linens section, frolicking in the fancy fabrics, when she looked up and straight into the eyes of… Van Johnson, her favorite actor from the time she was 14. He was starring on Broadway at the time.

Well, oh my God. From everything she told us later, it was clear they talked for quite a while. I have this wonderful image of tall, dashing Van regaling Ruth with tales of old Hollywood. And Ruth, all five feet of her plus a few inches of bun, teetering in her pumps and hanging onto a rack of blankets to keep from fainting.

When she got home that day, she made straight for our house. She walked, or kind of wobbled, into the living room, all woozy, and threw herself across the sofa like Greta Garbo in Camille.  She had just come from the doctor, and my Mom and I were like, "Oh my God! It must be something horrible!"

Mom ran and got the Harvey's Bristol Cream, pretty much the elixir of life in our house, and Ruth clung to her glass and composed herself. "What? What is it?" we asked her, as she still struggled to catch her breath. Finally she told us:

"I just saw Van Johnson in luxury bedding."

Even after losing most of her memory, she loved old movies, especially musicals. One day, I went by for a visit, and Meet Me in St. Louis, with Judy Garland, was on. Since I'm also crazy for old movies, I of course sang along with "Clang Clang Clang Went the Trolley…" and Ruth smiled and tapped her knees and swayed back and forth. At some point, her home aide arrived back from shopping, looked at me like I was slightly crazy, and from then on called me "the clang clang lady."

But it was clear that day that even after her illness had stolen so much from her, that dreamy teenage girl, who'd swooned over Sinatra and cast herself in her imagination in every musical she ever saw, was still there. And now the illness has lost its grip, and she is at peace.

I'd like to close by reading a few lines from a poem called "Going Home," by Colin Moffett.

Often in my heart, so deep is a yearning, A longing for Heaven's bright distant shore. The hand of time so swift in its turning, Will stop in its circle and move for me no more. Then I will go, happy in the leaving The ties of this earth no longer will bind. A mansion in Glory, the reward of believing, And the cares of this world left far behind.

I am but a pilgrim and stranger on this earth, Aimless and restless its paths I will roam. It may know me now this place of my birth, But Heaven is waiting and I am going home.

And Bob will be there, with open arms, waiting for her.