For many of their nearly seven decades together, Cicero and Olla Rust lived in a comfortable home on their Blanco County ranch.
But when Olla became sick in her last years, caring for both her and a large house became too much. So Cicero sold the house and moved a one-room cabin onto their land.
“That’s one good woman!” Cicero exclaimed after I arrived for an afternoon visit. In bed lay his wife, a mere shadow of the strong woman she’d once been. A woman who had chopped cedar, corralled cattle and worked their land as good as any ranch hand.
Now she lay on her side, knees drawn, arms across her stomach, her head on a pillow. A cotton sheet lay tousled to one side.
Cicero and Olla met in 1935 in the Hill Country. Her father forbade the romance, but a year later, Olla told Cicero that she wanted to get married.
Secretly, they agreed to meet in Johnson City on a stormy night in May 1936. But Olla’s father kept her after dark doing chores. By the time the couple finally arrived at the judge’s home, it was 11:30 p.m. So Cicero had to “run the JP out of bed” to perform the ceremony.
During their first nine years together, the couple lived in a run-down, one-room sharecropper’s cabin. To make money, they chopped cedar and sold three stacked cords for $5. Determined to do better, they saved their money, bought two milk cows and sold cream.
“That Depression learned me a lot,” said Cicero, 90, dressed in his trademark denim overalls, his white hair bare of the usual gimme cap. “It learned me that you can live without some things.”
In 1947, the Rusts bought 160 acres in Blanco County. Two years later, they purchased 117 more. In 1950, Olla bore their only child, C.A. Rust III.
While we visited, I glanced now and then at Olla, 91, who lay staring at the wall. Three times a week, a home health care worker bathed and fed her. A physical therapist came, too. But it’s Cicero—her devoted partner in life—who tended to all her needs.
For a while, Olla lived in a nursing home. But when staff used restraints to keep her in bed, Cicero brought his wife back home to the one-room cabin. He learned the correct way to lift her, bathe her, what to feed her and when.
“I can take care of her myself,” Cicero said. “And I still ranch, too.”
As I drove away, my eyes teared up as I thought about Olla and Cicero—about the vastness and strength of a love that endures and refuses to give up. That tenderly cares and nurtures, even when the caring can’t be returned. That selflessly trades the luxuries of a spacious home for a simple cabin.
Now that’s true love straight from the heart.
