Wednesday, April 07, 2004
Precious memories of the remarkable Ruby
New River Journal
Linda Pharis
±
Pharis runs the education department
at Blue Ridge Public Television in Roanoke.
I am awash in the unique regret you feel when you come upon the obituary of someone you meant to stay close to. I was connected to Ruby Dawson, who passed away March 19, because she took care of my only child for nearly three years while I worked.
As happens to so many parents of toddlers, we found ourselves suddenly in a terrible child-care dilemma. I prayed, only half-kidding: "Please ... send me a grandmother who speaks many languages and knows infant massage." Then I began phoning everyone I could think of, to ask if they could recommend a baby sitter. On the third call, a friend said that her co-worker's mother was looking for a baby to care for.
Ruby Dawson was then 62 and near retirement. She wasn't looking for work; she was looking for a baby, a fresh life to tend. Ruby was a nurse at Catawba Mental Hospital, on duty every night in every kind of weather, driving over the mountain from Roanoke to care for lost and wounded minds.
Ruby lived in a beautiful home she had built; her house was much more posh than mine. In her home, she cared for two ladies in their 90s, unrelated to her, who needed a place to spend their final days being loved and cared for. Her husband, Richard Dawson, was her senior by 20 years. A tall, bass-voiced, elegant gentleman, he was retired from the railroad, loved to garden, and to listen to and sing gospel music.
This was a home where Ruby's eight children and many grandchildren were in and out of the door throughout the day, touching base, having a meal, connecting with her. "They call me Cookie," Ruby told me, "because they say I'm little and round and sweet."
My prayer for a nurturing grandmother was abundantly answered. Ruby was my Virginia's grandmother in every way but DNA. When Virginia first toddled outdoors and noticed airplanes flying overhead, they spent a morning at the airport watching the airplanes take off and land. When each season's decorations sprang up at Valley View Mall, Ruby would take Virginia in one arm and her granddaughter Ebony by the hand and they'd go ride the miniature train through the displays. They'd have lunch and spend the day looking at everything. When I got home there would be a new baby outfit (or two) that Ruby couldn't resist buying for Virginia. I insulted her once by trying to pay her for them.
Once in awhile, I'd come home and find them both asleep after a full day, Virginia sprawled over Ruby's ample bosom. More often I'd return to find them singing and dancing and laughing. They were totally in tune with each other, and in Ruby's care my child was totally safe, immensely happy and learning good things about life.
When my job came to an end in the state budget crisis of 1995, I could no longer afford to hire Ruby Dawson on a regular basis, but we continued to see her occasionally on a purely social basis. "I hope I always know Virginia," she said on one of our last visits. Then despite my best intentions, that old distracter work swept me into its vortex and years flew by with only the occasional remembering to send a birthday or Christmas card to Ruby.
Last spring, we celebrated one of the first warm Saturdays with a trip to the City Market. Virginia and I were walking down the sidewalk arm and arm under the yellow awnings that create golden light that bathes the succulent flowers, fruits and vegetables under the canopy.
"Look at the beautiful woman walking toward us," Virginia said under her breath. A silhouette with tremendous presence, a small, round, elderly African-American woman, was slowly making her upright way along the lush market displays with the help of a cane. As we drew closer I recognized her. Ruby was amazed that her blonde baby Virginia was now a 5-foot-8 teenager, and her face became warm and smiling with the twinkling eyes we remembered.
Ruby told us that all her children and grandchildren were doing well, but she had been struggling with leukemia. "I have just about got it licked," she said, "but I don't have much energy."
Ruby Mae Dawson has finally earned her rest, and no doubt she is in the loving arms of her God and celebrating with all the loved ones who preceded her into this next phase of her being. I am only one person from her lifelong galaxy of associations. What a legacy that great lady leaves all of us who knew her.
±
Pharis runs the education department
at Blue Ridge Public Television in Roanoke.
I am awash in the unique regret you feel when you come upon the obituary of someone you meant to stay close to. I was connected to Ruby Dawson, who passed away March 19, because she took care of my only child for nearly three years while I worked.
As happens to so many parents of toddlers, we found ourselves suddenly in a terrible child-care dilemma. I prayed, only half-kidding: "Please ... send me a grandmother who speaks many languages and knows infant massage." Then I began phoning everyone I could think of, to ask if they could recommend a baby sitter. On the third call, a friend said that her co-worker's mother was looking for a baby to care for.
Ruby Dawson was then 62 and near retirement. She wasn't looking for work; she was looking for a baby, a fresh life to tend. Ruby was a nurse at Catawba Mental Hospital, on duty every night in every kind of weather, driving over the mountain from Roanoke to care for lost and wounded minds.
Ruby lived in a beautiful home she had built; her house was much more posh than mine. In her home, she cared for two ladies in their 90s, unrelated to her, who needed a place to spend their final days being loved and cared for. Her husband, Richard Dawson, was her senior by 20 years. A tall, bass-voiced, elegant gentleman, he was retired from the railroad, loved to garden, and to listen to and sing gospel music.
This was a home where Ruby's eight children and many grandchildren were in and out of the door throughout the day, touching base, having a meal, connecting with her. "They call me Cookie," Ruby told me, "because they say I'm little and round and sweet."
My prayer for a nurturing grandmother was abundantly answered. Ruby was my Virginia's grandmother in every way but DNA. When Virginia first toddled outdoors and noticed airplanes flying overhead, they spent a morning at the airport watching the airplanes take off and land. When each season's decorations sprang up at Valley View Mall, Ruby would take Virginia in one arm and her granddaughter Ebony by the hand and they'd go ride the miniature train through the displays. They'd have lunch and spend the day looking at everything. When I got home there would be a new baby outfit (or two) that Ruby couldn't resist buying for Virginia. I insulted her once by trying to pay her for them.
Once in awhile, I'd come home and find them both asleep after a full day, Virginia sprawled over Ruby's ample bosom. More often I'd return to find them singing and dancing and laughing. They were totally in tune with each other, and in Ruby's care my child was totally safe, immensely happy and learning good things about life.
When my job came to an end in the state budget crisis of 1995, I could no longer afford to hire Ruby Dawson on a regular basis, but we continued to see her occasionally on a purely social basis. "I hope I always know Virginia," she said on one of our last visits. Then despite my best intentions, that old distracter work swept me into its vortex and years flew by with only the occasional remembering to send a birthday or Christmas card to Ruby.
Last spring, we celebrated one of the first warm Saturdays with a trip to the City Market. Virginia and I were walking down the sidewalk arm and arm under the yellow awnings that create golden light that bathes the succulent flowers, fruits and vegetables under the canopy.
"Look at the beautiful woman walking toward us," Virginia said under her breath. A silhouette with tremendous presence, a small, round, elderly African-American woman, was slowly making her upright way along the lush market displays with the help of a cane. As we drew closer I recognized her. Ruby was amazed that her blonde baby Virginia was now a 5-foot-8 teenager, and her face became warm and smiling with the twinkling eyes we remembered.
Ruby told us that all her children and grandchildren were doing well, but she had been struggling with leukemia. "I have just about got it licked," she said, "but I don't have much energy."
Ruby Mae Dawson has finally earned her rest, and no doubt she is in the loving arms of her God and celebrating with all the loved ones who preceded her into this next phase of her being. I am only one person from her lifelong galaxy of associations. What a legacy that great lady leaves all of us who knew her.
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