My Betty

ALAN writes:
One day recently I reread your remembrance of a woman you admired in your childhood.
There was a Betty in my life, too. She was there before I was born, as a friend of the woman who would marry my uncle. The two young women met before World War II when they worked at an industrial plant in St. Louis. Betty married a Navy man sometime in the 1940s. But he died unexpectedly of natural causes. They had no children, and Betty had no siblings.
I first became aware of Betty in 1952 or ’53. Her name was Elizabeth, but no one ever called her that. She was always “Betty” to us, plain and simple. She was of average height and had black hair. There was nothing pretentious about Betty. She was as honest and down to earth as they come. A snapshot from the mid-1950s shows Betty and me sitting on the floor by our Christmas tree.
She drove a mid-1950s maroon Ford. When I knew she was coming to visit us, I would sit by a window and watch eagerly for her car to come into view. She chain-smoked cigarettes and helped sustain the Coca-Cola company by drinking countless Coca-Colas in the popular 6½ green-glass bottles. (more…)


