Just Like Your Aunt Ruth

Ever since my San Francisco Chronicle pet column was bumped up to weekly (versus monthly), I get tons of reader feedback, which I really enjoy. Even the negative ones...heck, at least they're reading a newspaper, I say.

Coupled with my personal email, I usually have a lengthy stack to answer. However, I've found I can get through all of them pretty quickly if I first scan all emails in "preview mode" and return to each one later for responding. And that's what I was doing late Sunday evening.

"Loved your last tale about Elvis..."
"This is to confirm your Amazon order..."
"Chris Slattery has added you as a friend on Facebook..."
"Mom passed away today..."
"Here's your DHS alumni newsletter..."

Whoa, whoa, whoa. Back up here.

I returned to the email from my cousin Brent. What the heck--his mom passed away? But wait. His mother was my beloved Aunt Ruth. Did that mean... honest to God, it took a second to register.

Aunt Ruth died today?

That couldn't be. Although 89, Aunt Ruth was ageless, vibrant, a fiery redhead that I always described as "Julie Roberts as a senior." I had to admire her from afar since she never lived nearby, but distance didn't matter. In fact, it added to her allure. I felt like I knew the mysterious and glamourous Aunt Ruth, thanks to Dad's countless stories about his older sister. Her modeling and acting days in New York. Her television talk show in Texas. A recognized artist who was commissioned to paint for celebrities such as Pavarotti, Ann Margaret, Cesar Romero, Ginger Rogers and Charlton Heston.

Well into her late eighties, Aunt Ruth was still teaching art at a local community college and active in her Christian Science faith. Only recently, she had moved to New Mexico to be near her son, my cousin Brent. But she was still living independently, still enthusiastic about exploring yet another phase in her life, and still chuckling that deep, throaty chuckle that belied her age.

Only after her death did I learn she had been in declining health for several weeks. She never once complained, never once dropped even the slightest hint that life was anything but wonderful. That's why her passing came as such a shock.

Dad often groused that his big sister was stubborn. Too much a "woman's libber," he complained. Too independent. Too determined. Too feisty and free-spirited and spunky. And many times, when I'd rub him the wrong way as I so often did, maybe vote for the wrong candidate or support the wrong initiative, he'd look at me and bellow, "You're just like your Aunt Ruth!"

And when I'd respond with a heartfelt "thank you!" he would simply shake his head and mutter again, under his breath and honestly perplexed, "Just like your Aunt Ruth."

Indeed. I should be so lucky.