From the Latin ruber meaning red, ruby is a gemstone that is pink and blood-red in color and for the longest time I thought sat alongside three other gems on a ring my mother used to wear. The gems on that ring are birthstones - two garnets, one turquoise, and what I thought was a ruby but was actually topaz, for November, my father's birthday. I always thought the ring was a neat little feature, one of the more demure ways to show affection in our home.
My parents have been married for a long time. For their silver anniversary, I gave them a fun photo frame featuring them on their wedding day with "25 YEARS" engraved at the bottom. In the photo, my parents are all smiles and looking good like most Nixon Administration newlyweds did back then. My grandparents stood on their opposite sides - my mother's parents next to my father, his folks next to my mother. I wonder if during the days leading up to the wedding if there were any jitters, maybe some slight hesitancy on getting married to the other, or getting married at all. It was just something you did back then, get married. I don't even think they were living together prior to getting married, just another taboo from back then. I'd inquire, but I'm too worried they might think there was something underlying with my questioning. Or that I am just weird and nosy.
Whenever I see the word ruby, my brain changes it to Rudy, and not the old Notre Dame football player. Rudy was the name of the very first dog I was obliged to care for upon leaving student affairs and the state of Arizona for good and returning home. He was a small black and white shih tzu, maybe three or four years old when my friend first introduced me to him a couple years prior. Instead of moving right home, I was invited to stay with my friend in downtown Albany for awhile, until I was able to get back on my feet. Rudy, like most small dogs, was a yipper. Sharp, piercing barks to get his point across, to show you he means business. Except for when there was a thunderstorm, wherein he'd crawl up right beside you, trembling his tiny frame against your ankles. He would bark whenever there was a knock at the door, like most dogs do. The place really was his domain. He had better recognize you when you get into the house, so take that hoodie off your head sir, unless you want some of this yipping.
Rudy was slightly neurotic. He would bury snacks and toys deep in the bowels of couch seat cushions, then weeks or even months later felt it was imperative to search for them. Once his nose caught onto a scent of the item, he would start his digging routine like he was in a yard pawing away at dirt. Most of the time, he'd never recover them. This forced him to often doze off in the very spot he originally buried the treat or toy, frequently waking to resume digging. A good portion of the time we would have to simply retrieve the items for him. He would then either eat the uncovered item or play with it for a minute, then would go and bury it somewhere else in the apartment.
Rudy was slightly neurotic. He would bury snacks and toys deep in the bowels of couch seat cushions, then weeks or even months later felt it was imperative to search for them. Once his nose caught onto a scent of the item, he would start his digging routine like he was in a yard pawing away at dirt. Most of the time, he'd never recover them. This forced him to often doze off in the very spot he originally buried the treat or toy, frequently waking to resume digging. A good portion of the time we would have to simply retrieve the items for him. He would then either eat the uncovered item or play with it for a minute, then would go and bury it somewhere else in the apartment.
Rudy, on the left, with a friend
Getting older sucks. There really isn't any way to sugar coat it. Aside from the health issues however, you really begin to develop that sense of I really don't care anymore. Throughout my thirties I'd rack my brain wondering about people and places of my past and how this could've worked, that might have, and what if this or that. I indirectly blame my father for all that. He's a nostalgia guy. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but that's what he is. And I somehow acquired that imaginary gene. Morbid curiosity saw past lovers either married or with kids now, places I used to live and frequent now inhabited by others looking unfamiliar. Thankfully in the last few years I've slowly ceased carrying out this pathetic ogling. Not because of the ol' it is what it is adage, but because much like them, I just don't care anymore. Peeking in on their lives isn't going to change anything, isn't going to right any perceived wrong. Everyone was moving on, except for me. Well, and maybe my dad sometimes.
Rudy is a couple years older now, with a lot less fucks to give about life. He doesn't bark as much, doesn't go spelunking for treasure as often, and really just wants to nap, eat, and be left alone. And I can identify with most of those desires, as I approach forty here in a little over a week. A wedding anniversary of that long is supposedly a "Ruby" Anniversary, much like a Silver Anniversary is twenty-five years, and definitely not the material of that picture frame I gifted my parents. As for them, their next anniversary matches the jersey number Rudy Ruettiger wore at Notre Dame. The gift couples traditionally receive for that number of years is sapphire. And while I didn't think about it for the silver anniversary, I might try to make an effort to gift them something containing that gemstone. But not before I take a shit ton of naps.