Aunt Ruth died last fall. She wasn’t really my aunt, but she sure acted like one.

She cooked me sausage and eggs in the morning, and let me run her mutt Frisky along the shore of Lake George when I was a kid. She was my mom’s best friend.  

When mom’s first husband died, it was Ruth who came and cleaned the house after the wake. It was Ruth who would invite her friend Dolores over for dinner, when other couples forgot about the widow with three kids.

After Ruth and her family moved to Lake George and mom remarried, Ruth would invite our entire blended family up to the lake for long weekends. I guess that’s why we called her aunt.

It’s unlikely that anyone reading this story will remember Ruth Walker. The family left the Adirondacks decades ago, migrating to Florida after a less than successful attempt at running some house keeping cottages near Diamond Point on the shores of Lake George. Their little establishment was called “The Place”.

But, like those radio telescopes that keep searching for responses from deep space, I guess I’m taking this opportunity to send out one last message to anyone who might remember Ruth, or might just remember the days when station wagons full of kids rattled up and down Route 9N in search of family memories.  

“The Place” consisted of a Victorian style home with a wrap around porch, and a half dozen or so plain housekeeping cottages; no different from the hundreds of other forgotten mom and pop resorts that were destined for extinction. On Google Earth, I think I can see the traces of the road that we would walk down to the lake on. Tennis courts are now near the spot where the house used to be.

Several times a year our family traveled up the Northway. Four hours sitting backwards in the jump seat of the station wagon seemed a small price to pay to exchange my buttoned up suburban life in New Jersey, for the cool water and open air of the Adirondacks.

We would pile into the car after my dad finished his shift at the factory, eat liverwurst sandwiches for dinner, and arrive late in the night. Half asleep, I would stagger into one of the dozen or so bedrooms of the main house, and awaken to a breakfast of fried eggs, sausage, and Aunt Ruth’s smile.  

The rest of the day was all mine, I would run down to the lake with Frisky, fishing pole in hand, no rules, no people, no one but my adopted dog for company, and the clear water to skip stones across and pull smallmouth bass out of. I was especially glad to be away from all strange people who hung around that house.

One of my favorite things to do down at the lake was to sneak out onto the private docks in the marina. I would lay on my belly, and peer into the shadows, and after my eyes adjusted to the low light, a secret aquarium would appear; an underwater world where sunnies and rock bass darted after bits of dried worm I would toss them.

On the last night we ever spent there, just before “The Place” was sold, my dad and I went fishing at the public dock up at Bolton Landing. It was dark when he said it was time to go, and a pang hit my stomach. So I asked for, and was granted the one final cast all sons have a right to. Before the last cast, I skewered every night crawler in our can onto my hook.  

I casted the octopus-looking mess as far into the lake as I could. A little later, pop said it was time to go like he meant it, and I slowly started to reel in. The wrenching ache in my gut returned in earnest; as thoughts of long division, homework, and boredom ate at me.   

It was then that a landlocked salmon came and ate the whole ball of worms. I don’t know how we ever landed that fish, but we did. Someone took a picture, and Aunt Ruth cooked it with my eggs the next morning before we left.

Ruth, I should have written to you before you passed. I was grown up before I started to understand some of the things I saw and heard at that house when I was a boy. Looking back on it now, I’m sure those were some difficult years for you. But I just wanted take this opportunity to say thanks for letting us stay at your house, and cooking me breakfast. Thanks, for being kind to my mom when she needed a friend, and smiling at her new son. Thanks for letting me play with Frisky down by the lake, and for giving me a place to discover the Adirondacks for myself.    

Ruth, I think you also should know that Dolores is not doing well. But I’d like to think that you two will have plenty of time to catch up soon. I’d also like to think that, just maybe, one of those big houses up there has a wrap around porch and a view of a lake; a quiet place, where two old friends can sit and have a good long chat.

Jeff Ell’s book Ruth uncensored is available on Kindle, Nook, and Amazon.