DCphdman
07-08-2007, 08:15 PM
I just wanted more so to let the world know who she was then to just deliver bad news. RIP Grandmama you live on in me... :(
For You, Rusty: Area Consumer Succumbs (And What a Loss for the Neighborhood)
Not a week after she had cemented her place in history by chastising a neighbor on a matter of style, correcting a retail clerk's grammar and delighting much of the block once again with the story of how she had come to terms with moving all the way out to the "East Jesus" section of Washington, Rusty Ruskin surprised everyone but herself and left us.
Rusty lived a couple of doors down the block, and when we moved in, she was described to us as the grande dame of Harrison Street.
"No," she corrected me when I first met her, "I'm just O-L-D, and there's nothing worse to be."
But Rusty -- who died on the Fourth of July at the age of 86 after having predicted her own demise for long enough that everyone figured her for immortal -- did allow as how she had been living on the block longer than anyone else. Therefore, she said, she knew all. She proceeded to give me the lowdown on pretty much everyone, including the sort of details you dare not put in the paper, in language that might raise eyebrows even on the Internet.
Rusty, who worked at the New Republic, I.F. Stone's Weekly and the National Journal in a time well before the phrase "working mother" had entered the language, hated old people, Dr. Phil, stupidity and organized religion -- not necessarily in that order.
She loved dogs, debate and the riches of the English language.
She long ago selected the headline she wanted over the story reporting her death: "Area Consumer Succumbs."
In the early 1960s, when Rusty moved out to the Chevy Chase section of the District, she was initially appalled by the notion of living in what seemed to her a rural outpost far from the buzz of the city. But then she happened upon a news report about a 56-year-old real estate man who was charged with shooting his wife to death while she kneeled beside her bed. The neighbors said the couple's quarrels could sometimes be heard all along the block. And the best part was that the incident took place just a few houses from Rusty's new place, and the woman who called the shooting in to police -- indeed, the woman who had been on the phone with the victim at the very moment she was executed -- lived in the house immediately next to Rusty's new place.
This, she decided, was going to be an okay place to live after all.
Rusty was a woman far ahead of her time. In 1952, this paper featured her in a story about the then-curious phenomenon of combining "marriage, motherhood and a career." Rusty worked at the New Republic while a maid cared for 5-year-old daughter Diana. "Don't let anyone tell you it's easy to work and bring up a child at the same time," Rusty told The Post. "It's really terribly difficult. It's the quality, not the quantity, of time you spend with a child that counts." (The article went on to marvel that when Rusty had to leave town on a trip, her husband, Alan, "took almost complete charge of Diana, had great fun taking her on outings, and even out to dinner.")
If some people attributed Rusty's acid tongue and frank manner to her age, they clearly had not known her for very long. In 1974, The Post's Tom Donnelly devoted a column to a classic Rusty encounter with a sales clerk at Sears. Rusty sought to buy four pairs of jeans for her son, Tony. When Rusty presented a check for the total, the clerk asked to see a driver's license. Rusty said she didn't have one, which wasn't true.
Rusty saw no good reason why she should have to present a document that revealed her age when some other form of identification would suffice. "The insane nerve of Sears," Rusty said. "Expecting a woman to tell these things to the whole world when her best friend to whom she has lied for years is standing right next to her!"
Hold on, the reporter said. You didn't say your best friend was with you. Well, Rusty said, her best friend was actually not with her, but she might have been.
Rusty was not one to take no for an answer. When she didn't get her way at Sears, she found a way to put her story before a million or so newspaper readers.
When she went to work at a new job at the National Journal, she was assigned a spot on the editing desk.
"You mean I don't get my own office?" she asked. No, everyone works on the common desk.
"What about my obscene phone calls?" Rusty inquired.
"You get obscene phone calls?"
"No, I make them."
She didn't get an office, but she got their attention.
She was a hoot and a character and a bit of a crank, but she was usually right and always passionate. She got on me for lazy language; I once referred to someone in print as so-and-so's mom, and for a year thereafter, Rusty would collar me on my way into the house: " 'Mom' is what you call her, but 'mother' is what she is."
Rusty brought people together, around her table, wherever she might be. She gave us something to talk about, and something to aspire to. She made it plain just how bland and safe and boring we've made our lives. It made some people uncomfortable. It made me love her.
For You, Rusty: Area Consumer Succumbs (And What a Loss for the Neighborhood)
Not a week after she had cemented her place in history by chastising a neighbor on a matter of style, correcting a retail clerk's grammar and delighting much of the block once again with the story of how she had come to terms with moving all the way out to the "East Jesus" section of Washington, Rusty Ruskin surprised everyone but herself and left us.
Rusty lived a couple of doors down the block, and when we moved in, she was described to us as the grande dame of Harrison Street.
"No," she corrected me when I first met her, "I'm just O-L-D, and there's nothing worse to be."
But Rusty -- who died on the Fourth of July at the age of 86 after having predicted her own demise for long enough that everyone figured her for immortal -- did allow as how she had been living on the block longer than anyone else. Therefore, she said, she knew all. She proceeded to give me the lowdown on pretty much everyone, including the sort of details you dare not put in the paper, in language that might raise eyebrows even on the Internet.
Rusty, who worked at the New Republic, I.F. Stone's Weekly and the National Journal in a time well before the phrase "working mother" had entered the language, hated old people, Dr. Phil, stupidity and organized religion -- not necessarily in that order.
She loved dogs, debate and the riches of the English language.
She long ago selected the headline she wanted over the story reporting her death: "Area Consumer Succumbs."
In the early 1960s, when Rusty moved out to the Chevy Chase section of the District, she was initially appalled by the notion of living in what seemed to her a rural outpost far from the buzz of the city. But then she happened upon a news report about a 56-year-old real estate man who was charged with shooting his wife to death while she kneeled beside her bed. The neighbors said the couple's quarrels could sometimes be heard all along the block. And the best part was that the incident took place just a few houses from Rusty's new place, and the woman who called the shooting in to police -- indeed, the woman who had been on the phone with the victim at the very moment she was executed -- lived in the house immediately next to Rusty's new place.
This, she decided, was going to be an okay place to live after all.
Rusty was a woman far ahead of her time. In 1952, this paper featured her in a story about the then-curious phenomenon of combining "marriage, motherhood and a career." Rusty worked at the New Republic while a maid cared for 5-year-old daughter Diana. "Don't let anyone tell you it's easy to work and bring up a child at the same time," Rusty told The Post. "It's really terribly difficult. It's the quality, not the quantity, of time you spend with a child that counts." (The article went on to marvel that when Rusty had to leave town on a trip, her husband, Alan, "took almost complete charge of Diana, had great fun taking her on outings, and even out to dinner.")
If some people attributed Rusty's acid tongue and frank manner to her age, they clearly had not known her for very long. In 1974, The Post's Tom Donnelly devoted a column to a classic Rusty encounter with a sales clerk at Sears. Rusty sought to buy four pairs of jeans for her son, Tony. When Rusty presented a check for the total, the clerk asked to see a driver's license. Rusty said she didn't have one, which wasn't true.
Rusty saw no good reason why she should have to present a document that revealed her age when some other form of identification would suffice. "The insane nerve of Sears," Rusty said. "Expecting a woman to tell these things to the whole world when her best friend to whom she has lied for years is standing right next to her!"
Hold on, the reporter said. You didn't say your best friend was with you. Well, Rusty said, her best friend was actually not with her, but she might have been.
Rusty was not one to take no for an answer. When she didn't get her way at Sears, she found a way to put her story before a million or so newspaper readers.
When she went to work at a new job at the National Journal, she was assigned a spot on the editing desk.
"You mean I don't get my own office?" she asked. No, everyone works on the common desk.
"What about my obscene phone calls?" Rusty inquired.
"You get obscene phone calls?"
"No, I make them."
She didn't get an office, but she got their attention.
She was a hoot and a character and a bit of a crank, but she was usually right and always passionate. She got on me for lazy language; I once referred to someone in print as so-and-so's mom, and for a year thereafter, Rusty would collar me on my way into the house: " 'Mom' is what you call her, but 'mother' is what she is."
Rusty brought people together, around her table, wherever she might be. She gave us something to talk about, and something to aspire to. She made it plain just how bland and safe and boring we've made our lives. It made some people uncomfortable. It made me love her.