505 Mercer Street:

Memories of Muz and Gran by Mimi Ruth

My grandmother, Emma Haupt Rusin (Mrs. John Rusin) was affectionately called Gran by me and her other grandchildren, and Muz (for Mother Rusin) by her sons- and daughters-in-law.

 

Grandmother Rusin was the matriarch of a colorful clan that included eleven children, nine who survived infancy. My mother, Mildred Eloise, nicknamed “Mocha” for her love of coffee, was the second eldest daughter. Gran reigned at 505 Mercer Street, her home for many decades.

I grew up as a Navy junior, which meant that I lived in numerous homes as a child as my father was transferred on many assignments from naval stations throughout the US and to and from England. The family legend is that my mother and father moved 34 times—I no longer know whether that number is fact or fiction. That meant that the central home for my mother’s side of the family at 505 Mercer Street was my anchor place, or home away from home, a place where I experienced constancy as we moved across the US and traveled to and from Great Britain and Nova Scotia.

 

Our family visited 505 Mercer Street on holidays, such as Christmas, certain family gatherings, including special parties, funerals, and some vacations. The 505 household was within a three-hour drive of our homes in Virginia where we settled the longest. There would always be a large welcoming crowd of family, headed by Gran when we arrived at 505.

 

I knew Grandfather Rusin, but he passed away when I was seven, so my memories of him are very limited, and Gran held the chief place of honor for most of my growing years. Grandfather Rusin was notable for speaking six languages, raising prize-winning dahlias and serving as foreman overseeing the construction of the George Washington Bridge in New York City. I remember seeing a picture of my godfather, Uncle John, walking across the bridge as a young boy. He was the first ‘civilian’ to cross the bridge.

In my memory, Gran was always the lady, whether she was dressed for an outing or a trip as she is in the atypical picture that accompanies this article or in a casual housedress ready to work at home. “Being a lady” in my mind meant that she had a gracious presence, was gentle and soft-spoken, and carried herself with an inherent dignity. She smelled of lavender, had a wonderful laugh, a great sense of humor, and a kind word for most people.

 

Gran was also very down to earth, patient with others, and mindful of the ‘little’ people of the world: children, those who stand and serve, and the downtrodden.

 

For example, my Aunt Mary Ann (nicknamed “Bones” for her slender self as a young woman) lived with Gran at 505 in her adult years. She told me that the nearby railroad tracks in the neighborhood yielded trains with hoboes who wrote their esoteric signs near their front yard indicating that fellow hoboes could stop around the back of 505 for a good meal. Gran had a tradition of feeding many people. She epitomized hospitality, and there was always room at the dinner table for one more soul. She “adopted” priests who had become friends of the family as her sons when it came to planning suppers and family gatherings.

 

As a child I learned that Gran was typically up at 5:30 AM to cook, clean, tend to family, and organize the older children to take care of the younger ones. Gran had German-Austrian roots. In my memory, she exemplified the roles of both mistress of the house and immaculate housekeeper with the high standards typical of that heritage. I thought the phrase I heard from my mother about “cleanliness is next to Godliness” probably stemmed from that German-Austrian tradition and words learned at her mother’s knee.

 

One of my childhood summer vacation delights was to spend a week or two at 505 with Gran and Mary Ann. They’d let me work for pocket money. I could whitewash the cellar walls, paint patio stepping stones, and mow the small back yard to pay for my ticket to the summer straw hat theater, go for an outing at the shore, or buy an ice cream cone.

 

I got a ‘behind the throne’ peek of Gran through two unrelated events one summer. One day she was playing cards with three of her grandchildren—it could have been Poker. I remember her laughing for all she was worth and declaring herself “the winner,” as she raked in her pile of loot. She let us know she had somehow cheated at cards—she could have done it for the sheer joy of winning, or to teach us a playful lesson—I don’t remember which. But that day I saw the “child” in the powerful matriarch and felt even closer to Gran.

 

One night that same summer I slept downstairs on the horse hair couch to keep cool because the upstairs bedrooms were sweltering hot. Gran slept on the gold floral-patterned couch, and the drone of a portable fan provided white noise. Suddenly I heard Gran yelling and cursing in her sleep. She seemed to be telling someone to “get away from the back steps” and she mentioned a broom. I imagined her waving a broom at a hobo in her dream. I pictured the story that he had eaten, then overstayed his welcome, and loitered at the back door leading from the kitchen. That night I saw the ‘real’ in her and comforted myself with the thought that even my tender loving Gran could be strong, tough, and angry when her patience was tried.