Youth in the rear view

10/20/2015
As a child, I remember going to church and then dropping by my Grandma Begeot's house afterwards.  I didn't really know that Grandma Begeot was actually Great-Grandma Begeot.  Didn't really matter to me.  I knew family was there, and people watching Browns football--and my "Aunt Betty."  That's all.  Simple as that.

Betty Jean, my Great-Aunt (like I said, didn't really care about the distinction at the time) was in a wheelchair all of my life.  And all of her life.  She had a form of Palsy, which--as my mother explained to me today--was from being born with Jaundice.  My brother and I were also born with this, but it was in the late 70s/early 80s.  So, treatment was available then.  But, when my Aunt Betty was born in 1946, they couldn't treat it as effectively.  So, she was unable to control her muscle movements for all of her lifetime.

On Sundays, as soon as we arrived at Grandma Begeot's, I'd eat a cheese sandwich (with Miracle Whip, and cut once).  Also, the cheese couldn't be broken before the sandwich was cut, or I'd demand a different, unmutilated, piece of cheese.  I was the first kid on that side of the family, with my mother and three aunts.  So, I was spoiled.  I got what I wanted, usually.  So, that was nice.

I'd take Betty over to the other side of the house, and I'd shut the door, and we'd just talk a lot.  She was hard to understand, but I got pretty efficient at it, after a while.  We'd talk about school, and dancing.  She'd say "Hubba Hubba!"  and throw her arms around if I told her about a girl at school that I thought was cute.  She'd tell me how smart I was for getting As.  She'd tell me about things she'd done that week, or TV Shows she'd watched. 

You know, she was in her mid 30s at that point.  I was probably five or six years old.  But she talked to me like nobody else.  She treated me like an adult, in a way.  She'd ask my opinion about things she'd seen, and would accept my suggestions and answers like I was a college student or something.  She'd laugh at my jokes, and she'd tell me things were going to be okay if I was worried about something.

Eventually, Grandma Begeot passed away, and the family quit going to her house every Sunday.  Betty would get moved into nursing homes/facilities.  I'd see her at family functions, and would say hi and give her a big hug.  She was always so very excited to see me.  And I was always equally thrilled to see her. 

Unexpectedly, this week, my Aunt Betty died. 

I haven't seen her very much at all in the past ten years or so.  A handful of times.  She was 69 years old.  She lived almost 70 years, bound to a chair.  Unable to control her own body.  She never complained to me.  As a kid, she could've told me that she was jealous that I could grow up and do what I wanted.  She could've been jealous.  But she never was.

She just always told me to live life, and to boogie.  And that's what I've tried to do.

Today, at her calling hours, they were playing a slide show of 35-40 pictures.  The third one in had me sitting on her lap, my mouth agape.  I was maybe a year old.  And pictures of Betty Jean in her yard with her mother, gone for almost 30 years now--I saw them all.  It felt like two days ago.  I remember everything about that time in my life, very fondly.  Those years really shaped me into who I am now--and Betty has a lot to do with it, in hindsight.  Her eyes had a gentility and she always--always--cared about what I had to say to her.  She was the first adult that seemed to get me.  I'll never forget her for that.  Especially when it's time to boogie.