The Ghosts of Christmas Past

While an enigma to many, I am no stranger to myself. I know exactly why I view, spew and do the things I do. Yet, there is one mystery I have yet to solve. One feel that I feel that I can’t figure out. 

I don’t know when I turned or why I recoil, but my pure and utter disdain for the recurring holiday called Christmas has me completely baffled. I am not destitute or lonely, distraught or unhappy. Rather, my life is what the sad and sorry covet as they scroll through social media. I have it all. An ever-loving spouse, three kind and (somewhat) well-adjusted adult children, a house on a diverse and friendly street, a flagstone front porch, a work-from-home job dating back decades before it was mainstream, a peace sign dangling from the dogwood tree in the front yard and until recently, a battered but beloved mini-van parked in the driveway. For heaven’s sake, I even have a big, old goofy Labrador who barks nonsensically at squirrels, passersby and delivery trucks. 

 

I grew up just as idyllically in a neighborhood filled with kids and dogs roaming free and far. Memories of holidays were always happy with Christmas just slightly edging out Mischief Night as the childhood favorite. For my family, the season started the second weekend in December when we piled into the wood-paneled station wagon to buy our Christmas tree from the Lions' Club parking lot. We chose the one with the lowest price tag (never, ever more than $10 which, according to my father, was already highway robbery). It was decorated with new and ancient Christmas balls and silver tinsel that we saved from year to year. It was dressed and ready for my parents’ annual cocktail party, the highlight of which was witnessing their annual imbibing of alcohol. 

 

Every Christmas Eve after dinner we would walk with our father through neighboring streets that were lined with candle-lit paper bags. Upon our return, we’d be shooed off to our rooms where we struggled to sleep, but somehow did. Christmas morning dawned with the four sisters perched on the carpeted staircase, waiting for the parent-approved hour of half-past seven. We barreled into the living room and opened our stockings to the stench of the inexplicable delicacy of boiled kidneys permeating the air. Following the tease of our new toothbrushes and chewing gum – pepsin-flavored chiclets for me, peppermint for the others – and more than a few furtive glances at the piles of presents covered with bedsheets, we wolfed down our waffles, grousing and groaning at the laborious pace that my father savored his kidneys. 

Finally, we were set loose and tore through our presents in minutes flat. Except of course for my sister, Emily, who took her good sweet time so it would seem like she got more than the rest of us. Though our gifts were thoughtful and abundant, I don't remember much beyond the remote control race track that I got and the Frye boots that I didn’t. 

 

Ten minutes later we were out the door to check out the neighborhood loot. First stop was Margaret’s where she greeted me with a wistful wink the year we had dispelled the Santa Claus myth once and for all. Accidentally-on-purpose while rummaging through the attic, she and I discovered the very gifts that were now under the tree. We then collected Kit from her house at the top of the hill and went en masse to see Carol who lived next door. Carol was never allowed to have more than one friend at her house at a time and so we spent our formative years being pit one against the other for her vacillating attention. But on Christmas morning even her mother, who had a nervous hum, couldn’t keep us at bay. Perhaps it was the holiday spirit, or maybe she got secret pleasure out of our wide eyes and jealous gasps as Carol causally opened then flung dozens and dozens of gifts aside. 

 

One year Carol got a horse for Christmas. 

 

Later in the day my father helped my mother put the leaf into the green-cloth-covered dining room table to make room for the turkey and all-the-trimmings. The hutch that loomed large against the wall was decorated to the nines with Royal Copenhagen Christmas plates, old-fashioned Santa Claus mugs, live greens and holiday-themed china figurines. Nanny arrived mid-afternoon with armfuls of artfully-wrapped, real-ribboned gifts, all items from our lists that we thought had been dismissed. Uncle Tony came a bit later donned in a suit that smelled like mothballs, carrying a box of Russell Stover chocolates containing too many nut nougats and too few butter creams. 

 

And just like that, Christmas was over. 

 

I don’t recall the interim years, except for the Christmas that I didn’t get engaged when my ever-loving date took me on a romantic date to see the Nutcracker. (A story in and of itself.) But boy do I remember the three-kid Christmases. 

 

I kept a color-coded excel spread sheet in my computer. Presents were purchased and recorded by person, price, wrap status and hiding place. Somewhere, somehow I came up with the number ten and that’s how many gifts they each got. Granted, a Matchbox toy car (99 cents) or a leopard-print headband (79 cents)  counted as gifts, but still had to be wrapped and recorded. In wrapping paper uniquely color-coded to each individual. In other words, the daughter’s gifts were all in the gold angel paper. The middle child’s all in stripes. The last of the litter in red and green puppy print. After they finally went to bed on Christmas Eve, I’d tip-toe to the hiding place and drag the presents up the stairs, heart pounding in fear of being found out. I’d toss and turn all night, worried that I had wrapped a gift in a sibling's paper, purchased the wrong Tonka truck or that the Little House on the Prarie books that I loved as a youth would be barely acknowledged, let alone appreciated. 

 

Come Christmas morning, the kids would tear into the living room where we’d open our stockings, filled with toothbrushes and chewing gum (all items wrapped in the same color-coded paper). Then after a pancake breakfast we’d tackle the fifty presents that were under the tree. 

 

Usually the Maryland grandparents came to town, mercifully staying in a nearby hotel. Grandpa would babysit Christmas Eve while Grandma joined us at church. They’d come back to the house on Christmas morning once the Santa Claus commotion had been contained, in hopes that the gifts they brought wouldn’t be lost in the shuffle. 

 

Dinner was served in our eat-in kitchen, decorated with Christmas cards pinned to red and green plaid ribbons that hung from the windows. In short-order form, dinner was often a lasagne made the night before, buttered noodles for the one who wouldn't eat hamburger, grilled cheese for the one who didn't eat noodles, bagged salad and ice cream. 

 

The grandparents, exhausted retreated to the hotel. My spouse and I tossed out the wrapping paper (and a Barbie shoe or two) and packed up the car for the trip to Pennsylvania the next day to see my side of the family. 

 

And just like that, Christmas was over. 

Until of course two days later when we celebrated the middle kid’s birthday. And two days after that when we celebrated the ever-loving’s birthday. And two days after that when somehow we felt compelled to celebrate New Year’s Eve, usually at Anne Hare’s house with all the dang kids in tow. 

 

And though I no longer color-code the gifts, I still keep a spread sheet. I still yearn to see my adult children jump for joy when they open the box of overpriced Nikes and Sephora gift cards, requested via direct link, lest I deviate. I want them to well up with gratitude when they see the sentimental sentiment I had framed for their apartment. I want my spouse to pretend to love the Javy Baez Mets jersey even though he’s no longer a Met (no wonder it was so cheap). I still want the perfect, effortless Christmas of my childhood, filled with nothing but joy. 

 

Recently, I was shocked to learn that my memories may not be completely intact. My mother swears that she didn't wrap a single gift, hence why they were draped in bedsheets. She admits now that she didn’t take that Christmas Eve walk with us because if she didn’t have that one hour to herself, she would implode. And that more than once, the turkey was dry, the mashed potatoes lumpy and the cranberries soupy. 

 

Yet to me, it was all perfectly perfect.

As I suffer in silence (and more often than not aloud), all I can hope is that my kids know that beneath the holiday haze there is nothing but love. That they accept that there's no such thing as perfection. That we all make mistakes. And that most of them can be reversed, either through a heartfelt apology an Amazon return. I want them to know that there will always be another meal even if the Brussels sprouts are burned or the chicken divan disgusting. 

As for me, maybe if I let go of Christmas past and try to be Christmas present, I may surprise myself and once again feel the joy. But in the meantime, if all else fails, there's always that bottle of bourbon beckoning from beyond.  

Merry Christmas to all!

The Strange Thing About Strangers

 

"So, tell me," I said to my newfound friend, with just the slightest shard of judgment. "Do you eat like this for a reason?" 

She silently assessed my question.

“I mean, don’t you ever just down a pound of m&ms?” I asked wide-eyed.

 

“Never.” 

 

Despite being a life-long direct questioner, it still baffles me when I’m called out on being intrusive rather than simply curious, interested, intrigued, or in this case astounded. My newfound friend has a plethora of healthy eating rules and regulations that I can covet all I want, but know for certain I could never consider. Because really, who wants to set themselves up for that kind of failure? 

 

Her answer, delivered without flinching, was not the political, social, environmental, ethical or religious response I was expecting.

 

 “I’m going to live to be 113.” 

 

With those words I knew the weekend would not be a wash.

 

I too have a proclamation on my lifespan. I fully intend to celebrate my 100^th birthday, after which I will concede when the ghost comes a-calling. Newfound’s plan, while a bit more ambitious is also infinitely more probable considering our opposing body-fueling habits. 

 

But in the end it may not make a bit of difference. The next time she is taken hostage at gunpoint, she may not be so lucky. And the next time I board a cruise ship, I may be stricken with a coronavirus equivalent and sink at sea. 

 

Which is precisely why I do the things I do.

 

Though admittedly, sometimes I resist.

 

“Check out this link,” my ever-loving spouse said back in August as we were primping for a wedding in a semi-sufficient hotel near Seattle. “Does this meet your high standards?”

 

Apparently there was a reunion brewing in Boston with a bunch of guys who had all gone to Haverford College long, long ago. Significant others were encouraged to attend and the link was to an Airbnb where the out-of-towners could cohabitate for the weekend.

 

“Absolutely not,” I answered without a moment’s hesitation. “There is no way I am sharing a place with strangers.”

 

“They’re not strangers,” the ever-loving pleaded resignedly.

 

I gave him the glare. And also my blessings to go off to Boston without me.

 

Of course I went. And of course we stayed in an over-priced hotel in downtown Beantown. If there’s one thing my spouse has learned over the past 30-odd years is that he just can’t put a price tag on his life partner’s comfort and joy.

 

The strangers were an attorney slash competitive bicyclist, an artist, a nose-for-news guy, a bevy of psychologist types (an in-the-office, an in-a-crisis, an in-a-school and an in-training), a birdman, a bridge builder, a robot maker, an electrifying engineer, a writer gone rogue, and a nanny turned grandma complete with illustrious careers and adventures past, present and future. 

 

The strangers hailed from Maryland, Massachusetts, Connecticut, New Jersey, Arizona, New York (or Florida, depending on the season) with roots ranging from Los Angeles to Brookelynn (misspelling intentional and not inherently wrong). 

 

The strangers were hardy imbibers, hardly imbibers and non-imbibers. We were Psycho Killers (qu’est-ce que c’est ), Swifties searching for scarves, Netflix junkies, pescatarians, parents, step-parents, grandparents and potential parents. We were widows, divorcees, marrieds, courting and living togethers. We were political and polar opposites, introverts, extroverts, social media lovers and social media disdainers. We were open books and privacy-preferrers (hence the uncharacteristic and completely intentional nameless characters). We had, over the course of our lives, earned PhDs, JDs, multiple master’s and a couple of bachelor’s degrees in nothing more than bourbon and beer. We had experienced myriad miracles and misfortunes, loved and lost, ailed and healed and made it, every one of us, to the back nine -- ball on the tee, drivers in hand. 

 

Our resident hosts were generous and gracious, giving us the grand tour of a beautifully vibrant city, steeped in history and culture. We dined in the theater district, pedaled our way down the Charles River Bike Path, flung frisbees in a field in Cambridge, picnicked in the Public Garden, sipped cocktails at sunset on a harbor cruise, walked in the rain, walked in the sun, walked on cobblestones, enjoyed a delectable dinner in a gorgeous house on Beacon Hill and broke bread Sunday morning in a horseshoe-shaped booth in the Back Bay. 

 

Appropriately, after brunch we made our way to Boylston Street and stood arm-in-arm across the finish line of the Boston Marathon. As we said our goodbyes, I had one of those cold and fuzzy moments. The cold being the realization that no matter what I eat or drink, say or do, there’s a distinct possibility that I'll reach the finish line before I turn 100. Just as my newfound friend may not make it to 113. 

The fuzzy being the awareness that it's within me, and only me, to keep living until I don't. Which, in my definition means new adventures in new places with new people. After all, as our old buddy William Butler Yeats was so fond of saying, There are no strangers here; only friends you haven't yet met. 

 

But don't think for a minute that I'm ever going to give up my over-priced hotel room. 

 

Tiny Tim

The Bo-Betsy Stories

Chapter Seven

 

Way back when your mother was just about the age you are now, she and her best friend, Bo-Betsy, used to play outside all the time. All. The. Time. They’d walk up and down Woods Road, hour after hour, looking for fun. Sometimes they found it, and sometimes they had to create it themselves.

 

One Saturday morning, your mother and Bo-Betsy were moseying about at the top of the hill right near the McKenna’s house. Now, the McKenna’s were a mystery. They weren’t a scary kind of mystery like the Trouts, but more like, “Hmmm, I wonder what they look like?” kind of mystery. Every now and then an RV camper would appear in their driveway, and the Neighborhood Gang would make up stories about where they had been and where they were headed – imagining trips to the Grand Canyon, Sea World and the Fountain of Youth.  No one knew anything concrete about this couple, but no one really cared. After all, they didn’t have any children.

 

The McKennas don’t have anything to do with this story except for the fact that Tiny Tim emerged from the pachysandra in front their house. You’ve heard about Tiny Tim, haven’t you? The Charles Dickens’ Tiny Tim? The Christmas Story Tiny Tim?  You know, the story about the poor little lame boy? Well, if you don’t know it, I would suggest you read it, or at least see the movie, because it’s a very famous tale indeed.

 

But let’s move on to the story of this Tiny Tim. Bo-Betsy and your mother were bored, as they often thought they were in those days. No one from the Neighborhood Gang was out and about. They didn’t feel like torturing Barbie Barber or spying on the Castle sisters or walking to Perkel’s Pharmacy for a candy bar. They couldn’t think of absolutely anything to do. So, imagine how happy they were when a teeny, tiny kitten stepped gingerly out onto the McKenna’s driveway. He was a little brown and black striped tabby cat with a wee bit of white on his face. He was so tiny he fit right into the palm of your mother’s hand – who of course, was the first to hold him.

 

“We’ve got to nurse him back to health!” your mother declared with no proof positive that he was indeed a he. “We must take him to your house right away!”  

 

Well, Bo-Betsy agreed with almost everything your mother said, but she just KNEW that her mother would never, ever go for it. Mrs. Hunsicker (remember, that’s Bo-Betsy’s last name) HATED cats.

 

“Oh, don’t worry,” your mother said. “She’ll fall in love with him. Especially when we tell her he’ll die if we don’t keep him.”

 

“I’ve got the perfect name for him,” Bo-Betsy exclaimed suddenly. “Tiny Tim. Because he’s so little and sick.”

Of course there was no real indication that Tiny Tim was sick, or lame or about to die, but every story is better when it’s a matter of life and death.

 

So off they went, Bo-Betsy and your mother, taking turns cradling Tiny Tim in their arms all the way down the street. 

“Mom!” Bo-Betsy screeched as they flung open the back door at 300 Woods Road. “Look what we found!”

 

When Bo-Betsy’s mother saw a real, live cat in her house, her hands went to her heart and she gasped for breath. When she was a little more composed, she pointed to the door.

 

“OUT! Get that, that, that thing out of the house!”

By this time Pongo, the Hunsicker’s Dalmatian, was sniffing around, trying to jump up on Bo-Betsy. There was a lot of squealing (from the humans) and meowing (from Tiny Tim) and barking (from Pongo) and somehow Bo-Betsy’s mother was able to get them all outside. All except for Pongo, who stayed inside whining and scratching at the screen door. 

 

“Pleeeeeassse! He’s going to die if we don’t keep him! Moooooommmmm, please!”

The girls gave the performance of their lives and finally wore Bo-Betsy’s mother down.

 

“OK. Here are the rules,” she began. “You can keep it….”

 

“He’s not an it. His name’s Tiny Tim,” your mother said.

 

“Fine. Tiny Tim. You can keep Tiny Tim. But Tiny Tim has to stay outdoors. Tiny Tim may never, ever come inside. Fix up a little bed for him in the garage, but remember, you have to keep the side door shut so Pongo doesn’t get in.”

 

Well, your mother and Bo-Betsy were beside themselves. Having a pet of their very own was one victory they never expected to celebrate. Bo-Betsy’s mother really, really, really hated cats. But a kitten, a teeny tiny kitten is very hard for even a hater to hate. Bo-Betsy’s mother handed the girls some old baby blankets that she had long ago put away with a sigh, and even offered Tiny Tim a bowl of milk. They settled him down into a corner of the garage and went off to look for toys to keep him entertained.

 

Poor Tiny Tim. He didn’t last long. After a day-and-a-half, the initial fun of having a pet wore off and your mother and Bo-Betsy got a little careless, forgetting to double check the garage door after filling Tiny Tim’s bowl with tuna fish. 

I don’t think I even have to tell you what happened next. 

Your mother and Bo-Betsy were very, very mad at Pongo. 

Bo-Betsy’s mother was very, very mad at the girls. 

 

Bo-Betsy’s father was very, very mad that after a long day at work he had to spend his evening  digging a grave in the backyard. 

“It’s not Pongo’s fault,” Bo-Betsy’s father said, always quick to defend the dog. 

Nor was it Pongo’s fault when he tinkled on Kit’s bicycle seat – when you gotta go, you gotta go. It wasn’t Pongo’s fault when he brought home newspapers from six neighboring driveways – after all, Bo-Betsy's father said, we're the ones who taught him to fetch the paper, he just thought he was going that extra mile. And it wasn’t even Pongo’s fault when he bit Walter Wilson on the rear end. That was your mother’s fault for yelling, “Sic ‘em!” 

“You girls have to learn to be more responsible,” Bo-Betsy’s mother said with a quiver.

 

“It’s nature's way,” Bo-Betsy’s father said pragmatically. After all, he had grown up on a farm. "But, let this be a lesson to you. It's a tough world out there, and only the strong survive.”

 

Your mother and Bo-Betsy, whose heads had been hanging low, looked up at each other and shared a silent vow. 

 

No matter what, forever and ever, together or apart, they would be strong. They would survive. 

 

And sure enough, they did.

 

My Right-Hand Girl

 

The Bo-Betsy Stories

Chapter Six

Your mother was hands-down the bravest girl on Woods Road. Some will even venture to say that she was the bravest kid, boy or girl, in the whole neighborhood. That meant she was braver than Mikey Matz, who wasn’t scared of anything. That meant she was braver than Richie Sutherland who would do anything. That meant she was braver than Cheryl Becker who did do everything. (But we’ll leave those kind of stories for when you get a little older.)

 

Anyway, one day Bo-Betsy had to go to the dentist. Now, neither your mother nor your Uncle Rob nor your Aunt Bonnie (who everyone called Bon-Bon), had ever had a single cavity. Their mother, your grandmother, felt very proud of herself because she knew for sure that proper parenting was the greatest indicator of a sparkling smile. And she felt just a little bit smug knowing that the massive amounts of candy and sweets served three doors down were directly responsible for the number of cavities those Hunsicker sisters suffered. And still suffer to this very day. 

 

Bo-Betsy didn’t have horrible teeth. Actually, she only had one cavity until she became a grown-up. But her sisters, Emily and Susan, had cavities every single time they went to the dentist. And Mr. Hunsicker, that’s Bo-Betsy’s father, didn’t believe in Novocain. I’m not sure if any of you have had a cavity yet. But if you have, I can guarantee you got the current day equivalent of Novocain. Mr. Hunsicker was in the Navy in World War II and boasted that he had NINE cavities drilled at one time with NO Novocain. Most fathers wouldn’t want to bestow the same agony on their children, but Mr. Hunsicker was certainly not like most fathers.

 

The Hunsicker girls went to Dr. Lang in Ambler. He was an old, bald-headed man, who was Mr. Hunsicker’s dentist when he was a little boy. The office was on the second floor, reached by climbing up a dark and creepy staircase. But the waiting room was filled with windows, chairs, books and magazines.

 

Bo-Betsy always went into see Dr. Lang first. As a matter of fact, she got to do whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted (unless, of course, she was with your mother) because otherwise, she’d throw a tantrum and humiliate the entire family. 

 

Bo-Betsy headed into the dentist’s chair and in a matter of minutes was sent back out to her mother and sisters with a big cavity-free smile. 

 

Next went her sister, Susan. Bo-Betsy did a little fist-in-the-air “Yes!” when she heard Dr. Lang say he’d have to do a little drilling. Bo-Betsy was not “yessing” about her sister’s potential pain, but rather that she now had time to settle in and read the big, blue Children’s Bible Highlights book that was on the table in the waiting room. 

 

The Children’s Bible Highlights was a book that told real-life stories, kind of like the Reader’s Digest (maybe you've seen one at your great-grandmother's house), but these always had a Godly-twist to them. Bo-Betsy loved to read and she’d read anything she could get her hands on. Dr. Lang’s office was the only place she ever had seen this book, so if Bo-Betsy was in the middle of a story by the time they had to leave, she’d have to wait a year (because no one went to the dentist twice a year back then, which might account for some of the cavities) until her next appointment to find out the ending.

 

On this particular day, Bo-Betsy was reading a story that went something like this:

 

When a young boy was crossing a busy street he forgot to look both ways and was plowed down by a speeding car. The boy suffered many internal injuries as well as a broken neck and spine. He was in very, very bad shape and in a lot of pain. The first night in the hospital, a voice came to him. It told him not to be afraid because God was with him, and soon he would be with God. All he had to do was raise his right hand when he went to sleep and God would take him to heaven. Sure enough, the boy closed his eyes, raised his right hand and died peacefully in his sleep.

 

When Bo-Betsy got home from the dentist, she ran right up to your mother’s house and told her the story of the boy who was taken by God. 

 

“What do you think?” she asked your mother. “Do you think if we went to sleep and raised our right hands, God would take us?”

 

“Absolutely,” your mother said.

 

“Wow,” said Bo-Betsy, pondering the power of the right hand. “Maybe we should try it.”

 

“We?” your mother chortled, knowing full-well that Bo-Betsy was a full-fledged, bawk-bawk, cluck-cluck chicken. 

 

“Well, you should try,” said Bo-Betsy. “But what if it works?”

 

“Then I die,” your mother said, matter-of-factly.

 

“You’re not scared?” Bo-Betsy asked, not wanting to sound too astonished because that would make her seem even more pathetic than she was.

 

“Of course I’m not scared. I’ll do it tonight.”

 

Well, Bo-Betsy went home that night and didn’t sleep real well. She knew her very best friend well enough to know she’d raise her right hand to the Lord without blinking an eye. And though Bo-Betsy greatly admired your mother’s courage, she really couldn’t imagine living without her if it worked.

 

The next morning Bo-Betsy woke up at 6 o’clock. Even though your grandmother never let your mother sleep too late, it was summertime and 6 am is early by anyone’s standards. Bo-Betsy tossed and turned in her bed until 7:30 which she thought was a reasonable hour to make a phone call.

 

She tiptoed to the phone in the kitchen and dialed 884-2027, which was your mother’s phone number, a number Bo-Betsy will remember for the rest of her life.

 

The phone rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. When it had rung eight times, Bo-Betsy hung up. In those days, there was no such thing as an answering machine and there was certainly no such thing as caller ID, so Bo-Betsy knew she could call right back and no one would know it had been her both times. So she dialed 884-2027 again. 

 

The phone rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. By this time, Bo-Betsy was certain that your mother had been taken to heaven. Or maybe, after the Barbie Barber worm incident, to the other place. She didn’t know what to do. Somehow, she felt it was all her fault.

 

Bo-Betsy got dressed quickly and ran out into the warm summer air, her PF Flyers barely hitting the ground as she bounded up the road to your mother’s house. Up the steep, steep driveway she went. The red station wagon was nowhere to be seen. Bo-Betsy’s throat started to hurt as she blinked back tears. She ducked under the bed sheets that were hanging on a contraption in the middle of the jaggedy-edged stone patio and jogged across to the back door upon which she banged. And banged. And banged. 

All of a sudden, a second-floor window that looked out over the jaggedy-edged stone patio was flung open.

 

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” your mother yelled out. 

 

Bo-Betsy jumped a foot in the air.

 

“Uh, nothing. Want to come out and play?” Bo-Betsy asked, trying desperately to mask her fear, and her relief.

 

“Sure. As soon as my mom gets back. She’s just driving Dad to the train station. Come on in and wait,” your mother said. “And by the way, it didn’t work.” 

 

“You tried it?” Bo-Betsy asked incredulously. “You really, really tried it?”

 

“Of COURSE I did,” your mother said, raising her right hand to the Lord as Betsy raised hers to her heart. 

 

Bo-Betsy thought about raising her right hand for years and years and years after that. Not because she wanted to be taken to the Lord. And not because she truly believed she would be taken just because she raised her right hand. But, Bo-Betsy wanted to prove to herself that she could be as brave as your mother, just once in her life.

 

It’s been a lifetime since then and Bo-Betsy has done a lot of really scary things. She went off to a college where she didn’t know a soul. She drove to Arizona and slept in a rest stop. She went to Moscow when it was still the Soviet Union and Americans were not all that welcome. She sang karaoke in the Philippines. She spoke to Geraldo Rivera. She went zip-lining in a jungle in Jamaica. She married a Presbyterian. She had not one, not two, but three children. She even moved to New Jersey, for goodness sake.

 

But, despite all the courageous things Bo-Betsy has done in her life, she still hasn’t mustered up the courage to raise her right hand to the Lord.

The Bo-Betsy Stories: Chapter Four

A long, long time ago, when your mother was just a little girl, not much older than you are now, she had a friend named Bo-Betsy. Bo-Betsy lived not right next door to your mother, not in the house next to the house next door, but in the house next to the house that was next to the house next door. They lived on Woods Road, a road with lots and lots of trees and lots and lots of kids to play with. Woods Road was a magical place because if you lived there, it meant you would always have friends to play with. For the rest of your life. 

 

Chapter Four: The Worms Go In … The Worms Go Out

Before Debbie Atlee moved in, there was a family called the Barbers who lived in the brown stone house across the street from your mother. It wasn’t a barber shop, nor did any of the Barbers grow up to be hairdressers, they just happened to have a name that was the same as a profession. 

The Barbers were a peculiar bunch. The father, Bernie, was fascinated with outer space. So fascinated that he built a spaceship in the backyard out of tin cans and aluminum foil. It wasn’t anything like the spaceship that took Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin to the moon in the summer of 1969. As a matter of fact, if you saw it, you might not have even known that it was a spaceship. But your mother and Bo-Betsy knew because they knew everything. They knew that Mr. Barber not only communicated with aliens but was a bonafide spy who searched for UFOs. This they knew because many nights when the Neighborhood Gang was out playing Capture the Flag, they would see Bernie Barber hunkered down in a fold-up chair looking through a telescope that was perched on the brick wall of the carport. If he didn’t communicate with aliens and if he weren’t a spy, there would be absolutely no reason for the family to have chosen the only house on Woods Road without a garage. 

But that’s all beside the point. The outer space allure may well have been the most normal thing about that household. There was a Mrs. Barber who stayed in the house most of the time along with Andi, the teenage daughter who was, shall we say, a little bit off. To add fuel to the fire, Andi was a girl with a boy’s name. And while today's children are taught never, ever to make fun of someone who is a little bit off, or who has a weird name, or is too pudgy or too skinny, or too anything, really – back when your mother was young, it wasn’t illegal to be mean. It was just mean to be mean. Andi had a younger sister, Bobbi, who was younger than your mother and younger even than your mother’s younger sister (who was the same age as Bo-Betsy’s younger sister) but not young, young, like Baby Belinda whom they called Whoopsie, for obvious reasons. Though no one but your mother ever saw them, it was common knowledge that Whoopsie had webbed feet. Like a duck. 

 

But this story is not about Andi or Whoopsie or Bernie Barber or Mrs. Barber whose first name isn’t worth mentioning. It’s not about aliens or UFOs or telescopes. It’s about your mother and Bo-Betsy and bratty Bobbi.

 

Everyone has a Bobbi in their life, no matter where in the world they grew up. If you think real hard, or maybe you don’t even have to think all that hard, I bet you’ll realize you know a Bobbi too. This Bobbi was a tattle-tale and a whiner and a pest and really, really unpleasant to be around. And we all know that when there’s someone you don’t like to be around, you just don’t play with them. The problem was that Bobbi Barber lived smack across the street from your mother, well maybe a little to the right, but you get the picture. So any time the girls would ride their bikes down your mother’s steep driveway, they’d end up right in front of the Barber’s house. And Bobbi was always there.

 

For some strange reason, Bobbi only wanted to play with your mother and Bo-Betsy. She didn’t bother with their younger sisters or with Anne Siefert or Mary Anne Bergman. She didn’t try to get in good with Bo-Betsy’s older sister or Cheryl Becker. She just wanted to hang out with the two people who got the most irritated by her constant whining. And crying. And begging. And it was so, so annoying. 

 

Finally your mother, who was very crafty, came up with the best plan ever. 

 

One day after school, your mother came out of the garage holding a little trowel – probably the very same one that she uses to this day when she plants her flower garden every year. She led Bo-Betsy back behind Lurch’s dog house and started digging. Bobbi hadn’t appeared outside yet, so they could take their time and wait for the perfect specimen. When they had gotten what they were after, your mother sneaked into the kitchen and grabbed two pieces of Wonder Bread – the kind of white bread that gets stuck to the roof of your mouth when you chew it. Your grandmother, who was only a mother then, was dusting the photographs on the bureau in her bedroom so she had no idea what Bo-Betsy and your mother were up to.  

Out the door the girls ran, over the gravel patio where the laundry was hanging out to dry, across to the driveway and down the steep hill to the road. They stood there at the bottom of the driveway for quite some time, wondering where Bobbi was and why the one time that they wanted her, she was nowhere in sight. But then at long last, they heard the Barber’s back door slam and then, emerging from the carport, the only carport on Woods Road, came the victim. 

 

“Oh, hi Bobbi!” your mother called cheerfully.

 

“We have a surprise for you!” said Bo-Betsy.

 

“What is it?” asked Bobbi, flipping her curly hair, that was not quite brown and not quite blond, over her shoulders.

 

“We made you a sandwich,” your mother announced. “Your favorite. Peanut butter and jelly.”

 

“Gimme!” Bobbi demanded. Your mother handed her the sandwich which was oozing with strawberry jelly. And a big, fat, juicy earthworm. But of course, Bobbi didn’t know about the secret ingredient. 

 

You see, your mother had dug up a worm from the dirt behind Lurch’s doghouse, picked it up, and plopped it right in the middle of the sandwich. Bo-Betsy and your mother stared at Bobbi. Bobbi looked at the sandwich. She turned it over. She shrugged her shoulders. And took a great big bite.

 

“Yum!” Bobbi exclaimed. “My mother only buys chunky peanut butter. This is nice and creamy.” 

 

“Ewwwww!” your mother screamed, buckling over in laughter. 

 

“You’re eating worms! You’re eating worms!” Bo-Betsy and your mother began chanting.

 

Bobbi threw the sandwich on the ground and started to cry.

 

“I’m telling my father!” she cried and she stomped down the driveway.

 

Bo-Betsy and your mother grabbed the discarded sandwich and raced as fast as they could down the street to Bo-Betsy’s, around the side of the house, through the gate to the backyard and up into the yellow playhouse that Bo-Betsy’s father had built.

 

“Let’s see how much of the worm she ate,” said your mother when she finally caught her breath. She carefully lifted off the top piece of bread. Bo-Betsy who was deathly afraid of worms, stepped back.

 

“It’s not here!” your mother declared with delight. “She ate the whole thing!”

Meanwhile, your mother’s brother – your Uncle Rob – was just getting home from school himself. Halfway up the driveway, he stopped short. There on the ground was the biggest, juiciest, ugliest earthworm he had ever seen. 

 

“Hmm,” he thought. “That’s odd. It’s not even raining. Worms don’t usually come out when it’s sunny.” 

 

So he picked it up and tossed it into the woods.

The Bo-Betsy Stories: Chapter Three

 Eight years ago while approaching the long-anticipated empty nest, I started Old Minivans Die Hard, a blog filled with brutally honest stories of motherhood. The nest never went full-throttle empty for long, rather it remained fluid, morphing from half-full to half-empty to fully-full. Over the course of those offspring-juggling years, I feel as though I’ve told all the tales I have to tell. 

But sometimes you just have to go back to the beginning. 

 

The Bo-Betsy Stories, written for my Day One friend Margaret to read to her children, are innocent tales of a time gone by. They offered our kids a candid look at what life was like for us growing up and allowed me to subtly share the good, the bad and the ugly of our formative years. 

 

I’ve changed the names and some defining details to avoid unintended humiliations, forced retractions and potential lawsuits. My hope is that I’ve captured the essence of a childhood grounded in a much less complicated world and that you’ll see yourself, or your ancestors, in this storyteller’s stories.

 

And so, with nostalgic delight, I welcome you to the next chapter of my blog: The Bo-Betsy Stories.

The Bo-Betsy Stories 

A long, long time ago, when your mother was just a little girl, not much older than you are now, she had a friend named Bo-Betsy. Bo-Betsy lived not right next door to your mother, not in the house next to the house next door, but in the house next to the house that was next to the house next door. They lived on Woods Road, a road with lots and lots of trees and lots and lots of kids to play with. Woods Road was a magical place because if you lived there, it meant you would always have friends to play with. For the rest of your life. 

 

Chapter Three: The Trouts

Your mother and Bo-Betsy loved to read. As a matter of fact, Bo-Betsy learned to read before she even went to kindergarten. Your mother wasn’t quite as quick, but not wanting her friend to outdo her, she soon caught up. They read Charlotte’s Web. They read Winnie the Pooh. They read all the Bobbsey Twin books. They read Pippy Longstocking. But their favorite book of all was Harriet the Spy.

 

Harriet the Spy was a character who would sneak around and spy on all her neighbors. She’d peek in windows and under doors. She’d creep through the woods and hide in cars. She’d listen to people talking and she’d keep a diary – a tiny little notebook where she wrote everything down.

 

One summer day when your mother and Bo-Betsy were particularly out of sorts, they decided to play Harriet the Spy. Your mother was Harriet and Bo-Betsy was her special assistant, and the keeper of the diary. After all, she was the one who grew up to be a writer.

 

They put on black T-shirts and blue jean shorts with lots of fringe to camouflage themselves from any random Neighborhood Gang members, mailmen, or TV repairmen who happened to cross their path. They tossed off their flip-flops and laced up their fastest sneakers – just in case they had to make a run for it.  Bo-Betsy nabbed a pocket-sized notebook from her father’s desk in the den and off they went out onto Woods Road.

 

The first place your mother and Bo-Betsy decided to spy on was the very secretive, very scary, very dark and gloomy house down the street nestled deep in the woods between the Wert’s and the Siefert’s houses. This house, where the Trouts lived, looked like a cottage in a fairy tale, the kind in which evil things happened. No one had ever seen Mr. or Mrs. Trout. But everyone knew they were very old. And very ugly. And very, very mean. 

 

Your mother went first. She was always the brave one. Bo-Betsy lurked behind, but not too far behind, because your mother kept turning around hissing, “Come on! Do you want to be Harriet the Spy’s special assistant or NOT?” 

 

Bo-Betsy did want to be Harriet the Spy’s special assistant very, very badly, so she crept down the driveway —slowly, slowly, in itsy-bitsy, teeny-tiny steps. It wasn’t the longest driveway on Woods Road, but it certainly was the creepiest. You see, the Trout’s house had a very peculiar front yard. There was no grass. It was all trees and bushes and this stuff called pachysandra. Almost every house on the road had clumps of pachysandra somewhere on their property because there were so many trees that it made it hard to grow nice, thick, green grass like you see all over suburbia today. If half the lawn was filled with ground cover like pachysandra, or myrtle, another Woods Road favorite, it made it much easier for the local teenagers to cut the lawn. But, the Trout’s was different. It was overrun with pachysandra and myrtle and leaves and twigs and all kinds of wild weeds filled with all kinds of evil spirits. 

 

Suddenly, there was a crick, crack, crackle in the woods. Your mother jumped. Bo-Betsy jumped. Bo-Betsy turned and started running as fast as she could back up the driveway, her heart pound, pound, pounding. She had never been so scared in her life. Finally, and timidly, she turned around to see if your mother had been captured. But there she was, half-way down the driveway with her hands on her hips.

 

“That’s what you were afraid of,” your mother laughed, pointing into the wooded front yard. 

 

Bo-Betsy slowly started down the driveway again. Step-by-teeny-tiny step.

 

“You are such a scaredy cat!” your mother said. “It’s just a silly squirrel!”

 

By then Bo-Betsy’s heart had stopped pounding so she laughed it off and walked nonchalantly back down to join your mother. Very bravely, they snuck around to the backyard and right up to the window next to the big wooden door at the corner of the house. Bo-Betsy stopped for a minute to jot down some notes about the big adventure.

 

“C’mere,” your mother whispered, signaling Bo-Betsy to join her. “Hurry up! We can see right into the kitchen!”

 

Bo-Betsy shut her notebook and slipped the pen behind her ear like she had seen her own mother do when she was making her grocery shopping list. She scrambled over to join your mother who was standing on her tiptoes on top of a big, big rock, her chin resting on the brick window sill.  

 

“What in the world are you doing?” a big, deep voice bellowed.

“Ahhhh!” Your mother and Bo-Betsy screamed at the top of their lungs and toppled right off the big, big, rock. Over and over they stumbled until they landed on top of each other in a heap on the ground. 

 

Standing over them was a very tall man. Taller than Bo-Betsy’s father. Taller than your grandfather. Taller even than Wilt Chamberlain who was a very famous and very tall basketball player. He had white tousled hair and a long white beard and boots that were bigger than the biggest boots in the whole wide world. He was towering over them with his eyes narrowed as they quaked in fear.

 

“So, which one of you is going to answer me?” the tall man demanded. “What in the world were you doing, peeking in my window?”

 

Now, Bo-Betsy who always talked too much, and even more so when she was scared, started right in.

 

“We were playing Harriet the Spy and we were spying on you because everyone in the neighborhood is scared of you because your house is hidden in the woods and no one’s ever seen you and…”

 

Your mother elbowed Bo-Betsy hard, right in the gut.

 

“Come with me,” the tall man said and reached out his hand to help the girls up. They were very, very scared as they followed him through the big wooden door into his dark and creepy house.

 

The tall man pushed the door closed behind them.  

 

“Mrs. Trout,” he called to his wife. “Look who I found looking in our windows.”

 

Into the room came a teeny-tiny woman, about half the size of the tall, white-haired man. 

 

“Aren’t you the little Sommerville girl?” she asked in a voice as teeny-tiny as her stature. “And, you. You’re a Hunsicker, aren’t you?”

 

The two of them nodded wondering how in the world this woman, whom they had never seen, could possibly know who they were. 

 

“Well, then. Come on in and have some cookies,” Mrs. Trout said.

 

Your mother poked Bo-Betsy in the gut again as they moved slowly into the kitchen, fully expecting to find fried frogs feet and pointed pigs toes and baked boys ears and little girls eyes boiling in pots on the stove. But what they found instead was the cutest little kitchen with yellow cabinets, red and white checked curtains and a red Formica-topped table against the far wall. On top of the table were yellow and red flowers spilling out of a blue ceramic pitcher and a plate of freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies. 

 

“Careful,” Mr. Trout whispered as your mother reached for a cookie. “They might be poisoned.” 

 

But your mother, who was braver than brave, took a big, defiant bite right in front of Mr. Trout. Bo-Betsy held her breath waiting to see if your mother would conk over and die. 

 

But she didn’t. She just smiled and said, “These cookies are great!”

 

So Bo-Betsy who even as a grown-up can’t pass up a sweet, took a cookie – and then another and slipped a few in her pocket to take home to her guinea pig, Albert. Your mother ate three cookies, which was a lot for her, and then she was full.

 

“I can’t wait to put this in the diary,” your mother said. As if she were the one who would be doing the actual writing. 

 

“And just what will you write?” the man, who didn’t seem so tall anymore, asked.

 

“I’ll write about all the dead bodies we found inside your house.”

 

Everybody laughed and laughed. 

 

The Trouts ended up being as nice as any grandmother and grandfather you’ve ever known. But for years and years after the days of Harriet the Spy, your mother and her special assistant, Bo-Betsy, kept the secret of the Trout house. Because of all the kids in the whole Neighborhood Gang, your mother and Bo-Betsy were the only ones who cared enough to find out the truth. And they weren’t about to share that truth with anyone.

 

Which is why to this day, whenever Lois Houck, Peggy Ricketts, Tommy Dickinson, (or his little brother, Bobby), Susan Hetherington, Susan Hunsicker, Susan Wert, Susan Evans, Stevie Betz or Buzzy Gallagher pass by the Trout’s house, they still shudder and move just a little more quickly. 

 

But your mother and Bo-Betsy not only found two new friends, but learned a valuable life lesson that day. Just because someone says bad things about someone else, doesn’t mean you have to believe it. You have to find out the truth yourself. And when you do, you must always, always be willing to rewrite the story. 

 

 

 

 

The Bo-Betsy Stories: Chapter Two

 Eight years ago while approaching the long-anticipated empty nest, I started Old Minivans Die Hard, a blog filled with brutally honest stories of motherhood. The nest never went full-throttle empty for long, rather it remained fluid, morphing from half-full to half-empty to fully-full. Over the course of those offspring-juggling years, I feel as though I’ve told all the tales I have to tell. 

But sometimes you just have to go back to the beginning. 

 

The Bo-Betsy Stories, written for my Day One friend Margaret to read to her children, are innocent tales of a time gone by. They offered our kids a candid look at what life was like for us growing up and allowed me to subtly share the good, the bad and the ugly of our formative years. 

 

I’ve changed the names and some defining details to avoid unintended humiliations, forced retractions and potential lawsuits. My hope is that I’ve captured the essence of a childhood grounded in a much less complicated world and that you’ll see yourself, or your ancestors, in this storyteller’s stories.

 

And so, with nostalgic delight, I welcome you to the next chapter of my blog: The Bo-Betsy Stories. 

 

 

The Bo-Betsy Stories 

A long, long time ago, when your mother was just a little girl, not much older than you are now, she had a friend named Bo-Betsy. Bo-Betsy lived not right next door to your mother, not in the house next to the house next door, but in the house next to the house that was next to the house next door. They lived on Woods Road, a road with lots and lots of trees and lots and lots of kids to play with. Woods Road was a magical place because if you lived there, it meant you would always have friends to play with. For the rest of your life. 

 

 

Chapter Two: Kit and Pongo

One day, long after the metal trash can incident and long after your mother’s cut had healed, she once again attempted the no-pedal, no-brakes ride to Bo-Betsy’s house. She got on her blue Schwinn bicycle and pushed off from the top of her steep driveway. Down she went, fast, fast, faster, turning right at the street, soaring past one house, then another, until she got to the third house where Bo-Betsy lived. This time she was able to make it all the way up to the tip-top of Bo-Betsy’s driveway without pedaling. Without using the brakes. Without falling off. And without a single second of doubt. Because your mother had taken to heart the poster hanging in the principal’s office at Enfield Elementary school: If once you don’t succeed, try, try again. Another one of your mother’s favorite sayings was prominently displayed in her kitchen at 308 Woods Road: Live everyday as though it’s your last. And someday you’ll be right. But that one doesn’t have a lot to do with this particular story. 

 

Bo-Betsy was watching from her front lawn and screamed, “Bravo!” even though she knew that what your mother had done was very dangerous. After all, she had the scar to prove it. But Bo-Betsy loved when your mother did courageous things. Mostly because she was afraid to do them herself. 

 

On this sunny afternoon in the middle of summer, your mother and Bo-Betsy couldn’t decide what to do. So they just started riding their bicycles around and around in circles on the driveway. 

Here’s just a little background for you. Bo-Betsy, along with her two older sisters, one younger sister, mother, father, and their polka-dotted dog, Pongo, moved to Woods Road the month before she turned five years old. Mr. Hunsicker (remember, that’s Bo-Betsy’s father) bought the last empty plot of land on the street. Because he had been a builder before he started selling ALPO dog food, he was very excited to be able to oversee the construction of his dream house and to make sure the must-haves on his list came to fruition.   

 

Mr. Hunsicker was a very smart man. He knew that while the oldest of his four girls was only seven and the youngest about to turn three, that the years would start going by faster and faster, so fast that in a blink of an eye, there would be six drivers in the family. And while Mr. Hunsicker was a very smart man, he was not the most patient man, and had no interest in juggling cars in order to get to work in the morning. Not then. Not ever. He knew it would behoove them all to have a driveway big enough to fit all the Ford Pintos and Chevy Chevettes of their future. 

 

And so he added to his must-have list, an attached two-car garage for his yellow Ford Falcon and for Mrs. Hunsicker’s wood-paneled station wagon. At the last minute he had a bonus room built to the side of the garage for his workbench and his tools and all the bicycles and rakes and shovels. That side room is also where Tiny Tim and Albert lived, for the short time that they did. 

 

When you drove up, or walked up, or bicycled up the Hunsicker’s driveway, you’d have to turn slightly to the right to angle your way into the garage. The garage had a very big and heavy door that rolled up into the ceiling. Whenever the family came home from an outing, Bo-Betsy’s father would tell one of the girls to hop out of the car and open the garage door. Back then, a remote-control garage door was as foreign a concept as a remote-control TV. It was both an honor and a burden to be the designated daughter. 

To the left of the roll-up garage door was a flat wall behind which was the side room that contained the miscellaneous mess. This flat wall was big enough for a basketball hoop and strong enough to survive the many tennis balls slammed against it. It also meant that the driveway, which came right up to the corner of the wall, was big enough to park a party’s-worth of cars. Which meant it was big enough to play a game of pepper with the softball and big enough to ride bicycles on – up and down and around and around.  The only other driveway on Woods Road anywhere near that big was the Baker’s. Everything about the Baker’s was big. They were very, very rich. 

 

But the Bakers have nothing to do with this story, so let’s get back to the girls and their bicycles. Around and around and around they rode, your mother and Bo-Betsy, evenly spaced, evenly paced, like show horses in a ring. Just when they were beginning to get dizzy, not to mention bored, up the driveway pedaled another girl from the neighborhood. 

Her name was Kit. Kit and her brother, Johnny, lived way at the top of the hill on Woods Road. Kit had a gold bicycle with a white seat, with red and green and yellow and blue streamers coming out of the handlebars. Sometimes she would braid the streamers together.

 

As previously mentioned, Bo-Betsy had a dog named Pongo. In those days, dogs ran free. They didn’t have to be on leashes or behind fences or kept indoors. They roamed the neighborhood and lived a much freer life than kids and dogs live today – which also meant they had much more fun. Pongo was a Dalmatian. He was white with black and white spots, just like the dogs in the movie 101 Dalmatians. He was a very nice dog. Until he bit Walter Wilson. But it wasn’t really his fault. Plus that’s a story for another time.

 

Pongo ran around and barked as Kit came puffing up the driveway, but he soon lost interest and went back to chewing crab grass. Kit hopped off her bike, put the kickstand down and planted her feet wide apart with her hands on her hips. Kit was the smartest girl in the neighborhood. Smarter even than Bo-Betsy’s oldest sister, Susan. Though later in life, when they were much, much older and your mother, Kit, and Emily (that’s Bo-Betsy’s sister), shared an apartment in West Philadelphia, your mother sometimes wondered if perhaps Kit wasn’t the smartest one after all.  Maybe, just maybe, she had acted like she was the smartest for so long that everyone simply believed it to be true.  Regardless, it is a fact that Kit graduated from law school and got a higher SAT score than your mother’s and Bo-Betsy’s put together. 

“Guess what!” Kit said, sticking her chin way out. “Father just bought a brand-new sports car. It’s a bright red Triumph!”

 

“Wow!” your mother and Bo-Betsy said in unison. Father, as Kit called her father, never Dad, or Daddy, or Pops, or Pa, was a very important lawyer who took the train into the city every single day to right the world’s wrongs. Father was the last father on Woods Road they’d imagine would own a sports car. But your mother and Bo-Betsy were in complete and total awe, especially considering that most of the cars in the neighborhood were station wagons. This was an ultra-cool, two-seater convertible. 

 

“Can we come see it?” they asked excitedly.

 

“Nope,” Kit answered smugly.  “I’m playing with Cheryl Becker today.” 

 

Cheryl Becker was Kit’s next-door neighbor and had a beautiful sister named Donna. Donna was a cheerleader at Springfield High School and had a boyfriend named Doug who was on the football team. Everyone wanted to be Cheryl Becker, at least until they were much, much older and learned that all that glitters is not gold. But on that summer day, Bo-Betsy and your mother were very, very jealous of Cheryl Becker, who was clearly going to get to sit in the new sports car way before they did. 

 

Meanwhile, Pongo, somehow sensing the girls’ despair made his way back to the driveway. Always the protector, he walked slowly toward Kit’s bicycle where he very nonchalantly lifted his leg. And tinkled on the seat. 

 

Your mother and Bo-Betsy roared with laughter. Kit’s thick eyebrows squinched closer together. Her lips tightened in a snarl. Her cheeks turned bright pink. She blinked her eyes, once, twice, seven times. But it didn’t keep the tears from spilling down her cheeks. 

 

Kit was so mad, she didn’t know what to do. So she just hopped on her bicycle and rode on the tinkle-covered seat all the way home. Which, of course, made your mother and Bo-Betsy laugh even harder. So hard that they were afraid they too would tinkle in an inappropriate place. 

 

And although Cheryl Becker got first dibs in the sports car that day, when all was said and done (and so, so much more was said and done), Kit eventually realized that when it comes to your mother and Bo-Betsy, it is always much better to give than to receive.