06/18/2025
On the morning of August 28, 1985, Ruth Gordon rose early in her Edgartown home on Martha’s Vineyard, a place she cherished for its calm pace and ocean breeze. She had turned 88 that June, and though her health had become more fragile in recent months, she still insisted on her daily rituals. Her longtime partner and husband, Garson Kanin, prepared her tea while she slowly read through a stack of letters that had arrived from fans and old friends. That morning, she spent almost twenty minutes re-reading a hand-written note from a young stage actress who had seen her in "Harold and Maude" (1971) and had written, “You taught me to be fearless with my choices.” Ruth had smiled faintly, holding the letter close to her chest for a brief moment.
By late morning, a nurse who had been staying with them for several weeks helped Ruth out to the porch where she liked to sit in the wicker chair with the blue cushion. She wore a faded maroon sweater, her reading glasses resting low on her nose. She had refused to move to Los Angeles or New York for treatment, insisting she wanted her final days where the seagulls flew past the window and no one expected her to play a part.
Garson sat nearby, reading aloud sections from their old journals. Ruth had kept diaries since she was a teenager and occasionally chuckled when Garson recited something particularly naive or passionate from their early years. “I found the note you wrote the night after your first Broadway opening,” Garson said. “You wrote, ‘Maybe now they’ll stop asking me if I’m still auditioning.’” She had nodded but didn’t laugh. Her fingers lightly touched his arm, and she whispered, “I remember that dress.”
By early afternoon, Ruth asked to rest in bed. The nurse fluffed the pillows, turned on soft classical music, and left the door slightly open. Their old friend, writer John Houseman, who had worked with Ruth during her theater days, had arrived that morning. He didn’t want to disturb her rest but left a small bouquet of wildflowers by the table near her bed. Ruth opened her eyes briefly when Garson leaned over to tell her he was there. “Tell him I’m glad he came. Tell him I remember his terrible cologne,” she murmured. It was the last time she spoke that day.
At 7:45 p.m., as the island began to darken and a light drizzle settled over the streets, Ruth Gordon passed away quietly in her sleep. Garson was by her side, holding her hand. The nurse, who had just stepped out to warm her tea, returned to find the room still, the soft music continuing to play, and Garson frozen in a long, silent moment. He later said there was no gasping, no dramatics. It was as if she had simply stepped out of the role and left the stage, curtain falling in silence.
Earlier that week, Ruth had told a visitor that the hardest thing wasn’t getting old but becoming invisible. “People talk around you. They pretend you’re not there. I want to go while I still feel like myself.” That day, she chose to stay dressed until evening, brushed her hair herself, and even corrected the nurse’s pronunciation of Chekhov. Ruth had lived her final day on her terms, still aware, still sharp, still fighting not to disappear into quietness.
The family declined a large funeral, keeping it intimate. The island chapel hosted a small gathering of friends and artists, and someone played a recording of Ruth’s acceptance speech from "Rosemary’s Baby" on a small tape recorder. The sound wavered, but her voice still carried strength.
That evening, Garson sat on the porch in the chair she had used that morning, still holding the letter from the young actress. He read it once more before placing it in Ruth’s diary.
She left not with a goodbye, but with the quiet assurance that even the smallest moments could be the most profound.
- credit to author, who was not named in the piece I read.
