Aunt Ruth was neither my aunt, nor was she named “Ruth.” Through a set of circumstances I don’t have time to relate, “Aunt Ruth” was what I wound up calling her.
Aunt Ruth had eyes that danced long after her feet were unable to. She defied aging – said she didn’t have time or sense enough to grow old. She detested religiosity and people who took themselves too seriously. “Fuddy Duddy Christians,” she called them. Aunt Ruth was wise. Through her sometimes-sharp exterior, she loved me. And she taught me one of the most important lessons I ever learned.
“Life’s full of mysteries,” Aunt Ruth said. In fact, she said it a lot. Aunt Ruth loved mysteries. Not the murder-type, but those principles in life that defy logic. It always amused her to get me in an argumentative mode and throw out one of her “mysteries.”
Like the time I was angry because someone had been spreading lies about me. “I’m gonna find out who started it, and set them straight!” I informed her.
“Forget it,” Aunt Ruth said. “Get to the bottom of it, and all you get is some stirred up mud and a mad catfish.” [click to continue…]
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