Wednesday, June 1, 2011

The Things People Tell Me

My name is Betty. 
It all happened because of the accident. I had to have surgery. Afterwards, no one asked me what I wanted. I just ended up here. You could say I feel stuck. Here.

My son and his wife both work so...
I can't live with them.
I had my own home.
A car.
My church was close to my house.
It wasn't a long drive.

If I had a choice, I'd go home.
But my home is gone, sold.
My car, gone.
My son didn't want me driving anymore.

It's okay here but really, I just want to go home.
I guess this is what happens when you get old. 
Your kids decide things for you.
It's okay here, but if I had a choice, I'd go home.

My mother died when I was a baby.
I never knew her. 
My father died when I was twelve.
The strict housekeeper put me on a bus, all by myself. I rode on the bus all the way from Arizona to Massachusetts.
The housekeeper's name was Helen Young.
She was very strict.


  1. Oh Betsy, such a sad story. We get to "that age" and we want to figure how to control what happens to us and then it can't be controlled. :(

  2. I have been holding "Betty's story for a week or so. I thought, this is too sad maybe I shouldn't write it. But I know it is only part of her story. She was smiling today, telling me about the river home she and her husband once had.

    The control thing( = fearfulness) is huge in my own life which is why I find so many wonderful mirrors in front of me, inviting me to surrender to "what is"...


  3. This is a beautiful piece, especially following your earlier blog about home. A marvelous contrast of all the things that build up a 'home away from home' for you in Greentown and then a return to your real 'home' while with Betty we see all the shadows of what home used to be. Home is such a tricky thing...