Meet Rufus...

Ben got lots of great birthday mail over the weekend, including a sweet card from my maternal grandma, affectionately known as Rufus. She's one of those people that you'll never forget once you spend any amount of time with. Lately I've been toying with the idea of somehow celebrating some of the best people I know, and talking to her on the phone last week convinced me to do so. I called her up to thank her and catch up on her life in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. She was born and raised there, seen a lot of change. Since high school, her girlfriends have called her Rufus, a nickname they derived from Ruth. And when my mom was pregnant with my older sister, Rufus thought “Grandma” sounded too old, thus insisting on being called Rufus. Rightly so, because Rufus is unlike any grandmother that I've ever met. Just last summer she went jet-skiing with us.

There is a certain smell that takes me back to her Pompano homestead; a mixture of clementines, sweetness, baked goodies, and the smell of a kitchen late in the day when it's filled with the sun's last rays. Every now and again, in the early morning just after Ben's finished his coffee, there's a remnant of that nostalgic, comforting aroma and I cling to him in effort to take it all in.

The woman is amazing. She raised four fabulous children, giving each one the same pug nose and almond shaped eyes – my own mother being the second oldest and the spitting image of her. Rufus made all their clothes, polka dots being the preferred pattern. The excitement about said pattern is written all over their faces in family photos. My favorite story consists of Rufus chasing my Aunt Liz around the kitchen table in effort to punish her for her most recent creative and mischievous doing. In one quick, defensive swoop, Aunt Liz grabbed my mother, who was followed by my uncle, and the four ran around the kitchen table until Rufus was laughing so hard she had to dismiss herself to the restroom. Punishment successfully averted.

As children, my sister and I were carefully packed into the car along with the luggage and selected Christmas presents when it was still dark out. We slept for the better part of the fourteen hour drive from Tennessee to south Florida, keeping ourselves distracted with bubble letter drawings that said things like “I love you” or “Merry Christmas” that we would proudly present to Rufus and Papa amongst arrival. Our anticipation grew with the first sighting of Palm trees (which my older sister called Pampano trees for years). There was something magical about this far-away place that was warm at Christmas time. The driveway to their house felt at least two miles long. We would gather our drawings, throw on our shoes and push our faces against the window knowing that as we pulled up, that big wooden door would swing open and we'd hear a familiar “YoooWhooo!” They had a gigantic lawn with real grass and the largest ant population I'd ever encountered. There was a mysterious warehouse in the back that contained all sorts of goodies we didn't care much about back then. Rows and rows of things piled on top of one another, waiting for the day they'd be used again. Bicycles, type writers, tools, luggage bags and other things that set off my allergies. She's in a different house now, but the same greeting occurs with every visit. I drove by the old house last time I was down to find that the driveway and the warehouse had shrunk significantly.

There is a perpetual lemon iced pound cake in her kitchen and a brunswick stew in the refrigerator. She used to slip money in our pockets when we were done doing the dishes after a big family meal. Her coffee is made with a percolator every morning and she drinks out of rose china. She has a glass of wine every night and when I visit, we watch old movies. She brushes her teeth with baking soda, which I never understood when I was little. Each time I'm down, we set aside one morning to go see the sunrise at the beach. We share a delightful breakfast at a nearby cafe in the same booth next to a large open window. I flipped through her desk calendar once to see that every family member's birthday was clearly marked, with a reminder four days in advance to send a card. She is affectionately known as the family girl scout because when she travels, her suitcase is packed, days in advance, with outfits bagged and labeled according to their contents. Her medicine cabinet is the same. Her garage is no different. She knows exactly where everything is. My great-grandmother labeled all her belongings with a permanent marker and some masking tape with the name of the individual whom she wanted the item to go to once she passed on. Earlier this year Rufus gave me some fabulous old mason jars to take home. As I was unpacking them and filling them with my carefully selected items, I turned a lid over to find the words “All mason jars to Lily Anne” typed on a label and I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

We talk a lot when I visit. I was down for a few days one winter when Ben and I had recently broken up. She had been all caught up on our drama and met me at the door to hold me tight as I returned from the porch after a long phone conversation. I told her what I'd told him, that I just needed some space and time to think, so please stop calling me. She continued to hold me tight but sighed and said “Oh! Poor boy!” She's that kind of wonderful. The kind that can hold you tight but tell you the hard stuff that you need to hear, but don't really want to hear. She's the first to cry with you and the first to laugh with you. And when she laughs, she laughs hard. She has one of those fabulous giggles that becomes silent as the intensity increases and her body just bobbles up and down, her eyes squinted. Her whit is quick and it's not unusual for the group of us to end up bent over, side aching, and dabbing our eyes for the tears that our laughter has brought as a result of any given dinner conversation. And she's honest, too. Sometimes brutally, but you know she means well when she tells you that the sweater you're wearing would look better on someone else. She's so full of wisdom and understanding, an obvious byproduct of years of experience. I feel blessed to have had twenty two years with this woman to know her as a grandma with a mean pound cake, but also as a intelligent, poised woman with a lot to learn from.

see those squinty eyes? and that's my mom- told you, spitting image.

We eat a lot, too. Rufus is one of the best cooks I know. One flip through her recipe binder, and you'll see notes scratched on every single one, improving the recipe with every trial. In addition to the cake and stew, a seven layer salad is always prepared before our visits. I recently learned that just after she was married, she approached her next door neighbor and asked if she would teach her how to cook, because she didn't know where to start. Now look at her.

Marriage. When I asked her one visit how she and Papa met, she giggled before elaborating. He was a handsome older gentleman from Massachusetts trying his hand at bar-tending in a warmer climate. As he was examining the cigarette selection in the nearby vending machine, she was examining him. My feisty, confident grandmother, who had never smoked a cigarette in her life, turned to her friends and said, “I think I need a smoke, ladies.” I can see her now, blonde bombshell strutting over in her stilettos, it wouldn't take much more than that. A year later, and they were married. Fifty years, four kids, and eight grandkids later, she had a lung removed due to cancer...

These were both taken around age 19. How do you ignore that, right?

And when did we stop looking glamorous on a daily basis?

Papa was an Irishman with the red hair and the short temper to prove it. His scratchy, strong voice always greeted us with a “Hi-ya” and for years a little snappy white dog he called Mister adorned his lap and clung to his side. And then there were his eyebrows; corse, salt and pepper decorations that took up one-fourth of his forehead. He studied fashion design and just recently we've been able to recover some of his beautiful illustrations. There's a whole wall in our kitchen bare and neglected, just waiting for the prints to be framed. I'm the only one of eight grandkids with the red hair. Once when we were reminiscing about Papa, Rufus' face became soft and content and she looked at me the way moms and grandmothers look at you when they become sentimental and said, “You have his eyes .” I love that. Here's to hoping I don't inherit his eyebrows.

The year I was born, Papa began to show signs of dementia. One of my first memories of Papa consists of him holding a large snake around his shoulders at the zoo. I told Rufus this once and she giggled, remembering that as one of the first red flags that something must be wrong... The Alzheimer's got worse, making the house harder to find after a walk, and continued until even his own son became a stranger to him. It was hard to watch, but even harder to understand at a young age. The next fifteen years were difficult ones as the family struggled to care for and love this man in the best way possible. Life has been full of ups and downs, trials and celebrations. She is one of the strongest women I know, and she's candid about her mistakes, but always concludes with a thankful heart full of appreciation for the grace she's received. I wanna be just like her when I grow up.

She still lives in West Palm Beach and shares dinners with my Aunt Liz and her little boy Sterling on a weekly basis. They venture up to Tennessee a couple times a year (pound cake in-tow), and we share good laughs among the rolling hills of the south. We'll be heading down to Florida for Christmas this year, for the first time in a long time. The trip and the driveway are shorter, but the times still as sweet and even more cherished.

Needless to say, she's taught me quite a bit. Just last visit I learned that it's possible to over-beat a cake batter. Egg shells are good for your plants -- who knew? Don't wear stilettos, she says, you'll pay for it when you're sixty. Don't smoke cigarettes, you'll pay for it when you're seventy. You can't take too many vitamins. Bubble baths are an appropriate way to end any day. We've been given a lot of grace, so we should give it to others. One can never be too organized. Laughing and crying and then laughing again in the same conversation is completely acceptable and sometimes necessary. We are so blessed. Fiesta ware is virtually indestructible. Dear friends are hard to find, but once you find them, you do all that's in your might to keep them close. You can never own too many pairs of long underwear. And when in doubt, choose the polka dots.

this photo was taken at our breakfast cafe just after the sunrise one morning.

To top off my tribute, I've included the coveted pound cake recipe. Yes, the very one. But don't expect it to come out like Rufus' on the first try... She's had some practice.

Rufus' Pound Cake

1 lb Butter, Soft

6 Eggs

2 C sugar

1 Can Condensed Milk

3 C Cake flour

Beat softened butter and sugar. Add eggs one at a time, beating well. Beat in condensed milk. Add flour 1 cup at a time. Pour in well greased and floured bundt pan or angel food pan. Bake 325 degrees 1 hour or more.

Mix approx. 3 cups (or more) of confectioners sugar and 3 to 4 Tablespoons key lime or lemon juice in blender or mixer and drizzle over cake once cooled.