I wrote this this morning from the fog of a bad cold, which I developed
yesterday. Marvelous lightning storm last night. Made me think of all
sorts of things spiritual. If you can use some of this for the service,
fine. Otherwise, just keep it for yourself.

Since I said I would write something about Betty I have been flooded
with memories. She was so important to me at such a formative period
that I truly believe I would not have been able to follow my dreams and
live a life of my own choosing without her influence. Although I knew
Betty and her family during my early childhood, we became close when I
was a teenager, after her husband, Bob, had died and she had moved into
her house in West Caldwell. She was our only kin nearby, as my parents
had moved away from their families in Winnipeg, and Betty was my
father's first cousin. Although her life had been full of tragedy, loss
of her mother at an early age, years spent fighting the terrible disease
lupus, recent loss of her young husband, she welcomed me with love and
friendship into her family. We shared a love of music and folk singing,
and found that we truly enjoyed each other's company. As a passionate,
artistic person I felt like a misfit in own family where emotions were
repressed and sensuous pleasures discouraged. She spoiled me, she loved
me, she believed in me, I was her daughter and her friend and I loved
her back. We spent hours playing guitar together in the living room of
her beautiful house, people were always stopping by and enjoying her
warm generosity and hospitality. I shared with her my delight and love
of the city of Paris during my 16th summer. We spent hours wandering
around the city, sitting in cafes and shopping. She bought me gifts with
a pleasure in giving that I had never experienced, and I responded with
a pleasure in receiving. When I learned to drive I visited her as often
as I could, and brought my friends around without fear of criticism or
judgment. She always supported me in all of my artistic endeavors, with
encouragement and admiration, and she often bought my work and that of
my friends. We met in New York after her folk singing lessons for walks
and lunches, and she introduced my to my first egg cream.

When Betty met Norbert and moved to California I was happy for her, but
I knew that a chapter in my life had ended. We saw each other
infrequently after that, but we kept in touch. I introduced her to Don
shortly after we met, with her immediate approval. She came to some of
my shows and bought a painting of Don's with great delight. I brought my
twins to see her when they were four and they spent a marvelous
afternoon making a mess in her house, while she looked on with pleasure.
We spoke on the telephone from time to time, and although I knew that
she was ill and in pain, her voice never lost that marvelous rich tone
with its Midwestern twang.

When I think of Betty I see warm colors, browns and golds and reds (the
color of her beautiful hair that was a family trait) flooded with an
autumn sunlight, at her house on the hill.