A few blocks from R-house is a little salon called Jackie Ann’s. Other than the neon tanning sign, it looks to me like something right out of the 60s, and most of the customers appear to have been coming since about then, too.
Every time I drive by that place, it reminds me of the day I discovered that my sweet little 87ish neighbor had been posing under an alias.
One afternoon, when I drove her over for a special perm appointment, I told the receptionist that Betsy had arrived, expecting a big “Betsy! You’re back!”
All I got was blank stares—like oh my stars who on earth is Betsy?—until Betsy whipped out her appointment name: LaVerne.
It seems that hair appointments, doctor’s bills, and probably checkbooks warranted her given name. The rest of us used “Betsy.” Except Neighbor Janet, who used “Mom.”
You can learn a lot about a person in the three and a half minutes it takes to drive them to Jackie Ann’s. Like for instance that about 40 (50?) or so years ago, after driving cross-country with her husband George and their young family, Betsy pulled into the driveway of their new home in Wisconsin, looked at George, and said: “I’m not driving anymore.” Like, ever. That was it. Betsy was tired of driving and she had just parked in a small town and she figured she shouldn’t need to drive anymore.
So she didn’t.
And as for why she was going to get her hair done at all? Well that also had to do with George, who one day walked in after Betsy had finished up yet another home permanent treatment (probably choking from the fumes) and announced, “You should go get your hair done from now on, Betsy.” Well, Betsy thought about that and figured, ok, if George thinks I should, then I guess I will.
So she did.
All the way up until two months before she died, Betsy went to the salon for her perms.
I do miss Betsy.
During one of the worst months of my life, Betsy lost hers. For me, it was grief upon grief.
I miss the way Betsy’s smile absolutely lit up her entire face.
I miss her lovely translucent-blue eyes.
I miss the way she could spend hours and I do mean hours in her yard, pulling weeds, planting flowers, moving landscaping rocks. Working. She was a frighteningly hard worker. Nowhere near as fragile as she looked.
I miss her gentle spirit that, I swear, was unlike any other woman I happen to know of that age. Just so very… sweet. I never heard a critical or complaining word in any conversation I ever had with her. I didn’t even think that was possible once a person reached 85 or so. Grandmas and great-grandmas around the world are still trying to figure out her secret.
I miss the way she would say “Oh honey I know you’re busy, I won’t bother you anymore”—even though she had just started talking to me about 90 seconds before that.
I miss the sassy jokes she would tell that would always catch me completely off guard.
One of the first times I met Betsy, she approached me in the yard and asked if I could do her a favor. I walked over and leaned down to listen carefully to whatever this tiny little lady needed from me. “I was wondering if I could have…” she whispered, “…just a few inches of your height??”
She smiled slyly. Kinda proud of her cleverness.
I heard that same height question from Betsy several times during the years we lived next door, usually followed by a few stories about what a dancer she had been with George. Her slight, stooping frame would straighten a bit as she described the pleasure of those days.
I think Betsy longed to dance again. Maybe she also missed George, who had been gone 15 years already.
The day in January when I drove Betsy to her hair appointment was the first and only time I had that privilege. Usually she walked the 10 blocks herself, or another neighbor would drive her. Actually, another neighbor was scheduled to drive her that day as well, but Betsy started to panic that she might miss her appointment and asked me to take her there in a hurry. She was early. The other neighbor had been on time.
But what else is there to do when you’re 87 and all your friends have passed on, and your daughter and the rest of the world is at work, and your husband’s gone, and you’ve cleaned every square inch of the house twice, and you’ve burned out the shredder because you shredded so many papers all at once, and the only thing scheduled for the week is the perm appointment, other than to fret that you might miss that very appointment?
I think I get it.
Missing things sucks.
Hope you are dancing tonight, Betsy.
by julie rybarczyk
Thanks Neighbor Janet for the Betsy photos and for the amazing memorial party you threw this weekend. I’m so sorry for your loss.
Dance photos from Western Connecticut State University and The Pop History Dig.
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