The Betsy Book

[You will find earlier chapters by scrolling down the page]

Longfellow Elementary School loomed before Betsy and her mother. The walk from the house on Cross Street was only about seven blocks. It was the first day of school, and they were early to register Betsy as a new student.

Betsy’s hands were damp and her stomach was sending signals that it might rebel against this new venture. Nausea too often accompanied any new place or event in Betsy’s life. She hated it. Other children seemed to be able to do things without turning green. Why couldn’t she? All too often, she actually threw up, which was embarrassing and messy. The memory of throwing up in a gutter on the way to a birthday party was painfully vivid. She tried to think of something else.

Up the front steps, through the large wooden doors and a left turn down an empty hallway brought them to the door of the main office. Inside, they stepped up to a desk and waited. A woman stopped typing, turned and smiled. “May I help you?”

“Yes,” said Mom. “We are new to Wheaton and I want to register my daughter for school.” She handed Betsy’s school records from Rogers Park. “My name is Rachel Ross and this is Betsy.”

The woman looked up from the folder of papers, puzzled. “These records are for Ruth Ross.”

“That’s her given name. She goes by Betsy.”

“I see,” said the woman, and made a note. “I’m Betty MacGuire, secretary here. Welcome to Longfellow.” She smiled again. “Let me tell Mrs. Haggeboom, our principal, that you are here. She’ll want to meet you and decide on your home room and schedule.”

Mrs. MacGuire knocked on the door, then peeked inside and said a few words. Betsy was feeling a little better since Mrs. MacGuire was so nice. A moment later they entered the principal’s office.

A tall, thin, severe woman stood before them, with no more curves to her than a telephone pole. My, thought Betsy, she’s a Mrs.? Someone married her?

Mom stepped forward and offered her hand as Mrs. MacGuire introduced the two women. Then the secretary left the room, and Mom and Betsy sat down. The fabric on the chair made the back of Betsy’s legs itch.

Mrs. Haggeboom studied the papers in the folder. The room was silent except for a clock’s ticking and a rattle of papers as the principal turned them. She looked up, face tight, with no sign of warmth or welcome.

“Well, Ruth, I see you have finished the first term of third grade.”

“I’m Betsy.”

“What? What did you say?” Mrs Haggeboom’s eyes seemed to get larger as she fixed them on Betsy.

Mom cleared her throat. “Her given name is Ruth, but she is known as Betsy, based on her middle name, Elizabeth.”

“How odd. But I suppose….” Her voice trailed off, the disapproval unmistakable. Betsy squirmed.

“Now the question is what grade to place you in. You see in Wheaton we do not start students in a new grade in January as–ah–Betsy did when she entered kindergarten. Everyone starts in the fall. So. Do we put her in third grade or fourth? That is the question.” She pursed her pale lips and looked at Betsy as if she were a bug which needed to be removed from her office. She handed Betsy a thick book. “All right. Here. Please start reading.”

Betsy took the book that Mrs. Haggeboom handed her and smiled inside when she saw it was her favorite book, Little Women. She opened the book to the first page and began to read the familiar words: “Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents,” grumbled Jo, lying on the rug. She read until Mrs. Haggeboom stopped her.

“That’s enough. You are a good reader. Fourth grade for you.” She scribbled in the folder for a moment and handed the file back.

“Are you sure? Arithmetic is a struggle for her,” Mom said.

Mrs. Haggeboom stood up, and glared down at Mom. “Of course I’m sure. She’s a smart girl and will catch up quickly. Go to Room 14, Mrs. Davies. She’ll be home room and English teacher.” She led Betsy and Mom to the door, and they found themselves back before Mrs. MacGuire’s desk. Mom handed her the folder without speaking.
“Ah, Mrs. Davies. Fourth grade for you, hm?” Betsy nodded but inside she was worried. Mom wasn’t kidding when she said arithmetic was a struggle. Numbers just didn’t fall in place for Betsy when she tried to use them. They jumped about on the pages of her arithmetic book. One moment she saw 438 in an addition problem, and the next, when her answer was wrong, it was 483. She couldn’t explain how this happened. Catch up with fourth grade arithmetic? She still was far from mastering third grade.

“Turn right, go to the end of the hall. Go up two flights of stairs, and you’ll find Room 14 first on the left. Mrs. Davies should be in the room. Students will be in the building in about five minutes.” Mom thanked Mrs. MacGuire. Once in the hall, Mom and Betsy were alone again. Their shoes clicked and clacked as they walked. Betsy clutched Mom’s hand. The stairs gleamed, recently buffed to a high shine for the start of the school year. Up, up they went, and Betsy began to puff.

“Goodness, what a climb. I need to catch my breath.” Mom put her hand on her chest and set her purse on the floor. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and fanned herself. Then she took a deep breath, picked up her purse, and began to look around.

“I think that’s my room, Mom.” Betsy pointed across the hall.

“Oh, yes. Here we go then.” Mom turned and looked Betsy over. “Good thing you have on a long-sleeved blouse to cover that scab on your elbow.” She brushed at Betsy’s shoulders. “Do you have a handkerchief?”

Mom believed that people with good manners always had a handkerchief, and Betsy rarely remembered. She felt in the pocket of her dress. She was in luck. There was one left from the last time she wore the dress. Betsy pulled it out and held it up for Mom to see. It was spotless because she rarely remembered to use a hankie anyway.

“Good. Let’s meet Mrs. Davies.” The two of them stepped into Room 14.

© Kathy Mortensen 2005

[You will find earlier chapters by scrolling down the page]

Labor Day weekend was about to begin, but Betsy was not looking forward to it. School would start on Tuesday, and she dreaded being the “new girl.” After she moped around the house much of Friday morning, Mom chased her outside to find something to do.

Betsy went out the back door, stomping just loud enough on the steps to let Mom know she wasn’t happy, but not loud enough to get in trouble. Patter Joe followed her outside, and sat next to her on the bottom step.

“You’re the only one who loves me, Patter,” Betsy said, and pressed her face against his neck. There were almost some tears as she breathed in the doggy smell of her pup, but an idea was forming. Could Patter pull her on her roller skates? Betsy sat up and her gloomy mood evaporated. She banged back into the house.

“Mom? Mom? Do we have any rope?” Betsy pictured herself flying around the block effortlessly, perhaps waving to neighbors as she and Patter zipped by.

“Rope? What kind? What do you want rope for?”

Betsy explained, and as she did she began to wilt under Mom’s gaze. Mom shook her head, and sighed. “This sounds like more scraped knees, Betsy, and I would like you to look nice at the family picnic on Monday.” Betsy waited.

“All right. I have some clothesline that is too short to do any good. Be very careful, won’t you?”

Betsy nodded, grinning. Mom was going to help, even though she probably would have preferred helping Betsy make doll clothes, or set up a tea party. Betsy was sure that she was a disappointment to Mom in a lot of ways, but the urge to move, run, climb, and throw was too great to ignore. Still, Mom loved her, and didn’t try to interest Betsy in girl stuff anymore.

Rope in hand, Betsy jumped down steps to patient Patter. How to attach the rope? She looked Patter over thoughtfully. He didn’t have a collar, like some dogs, but wore a harness that went over his chest and back. She tied each end of the rope to opposite sides of the harness, which left her with a good handhold. She tugged at the rope a little, and sat down hard when one of the knots let go. Hm. This project needed better knots.

“Mo-o-m!” Betsy waited, sitting on the driveway. “Mom? Mom!” Her mother appeared at the window.

“Betsy! For heaven’s sake, you’ll wake the dead hollering like that! What do you want?”

“What’s that rhyme Junior taught me to make a good knot?”

“For a square knot? Let’s see. Oh, yes, it goes like this:

Right over left,
And left over right,
Makes a knot
That’s tidy and tight.”

Betsy and Mom repeated the rhyme together a couple of times, then Mom went back to what she was doing.

“Right over left…” Betsy muttered, holding the rope in both hands. She folded the loose end over the long side, looped it through and pulled tight. “…And left over right…” She crossed the loose end, now on the left side, and looped it through. “…Makes a knot that’s tidy and tight!” She pulled the knot tight and then leaned back, rope stretched tight. It held.

At this point, Patter had had enough sitting around and got up to investigate a smell in the grass by the driveway. “No, no, Patter. Sit still. We’re going to have a good time. Sit.”

Reluctantly, Patter sat, and looked at her over his shoulder at her. “Just one more knot, boy, and then we go.” Betsy busied herself with the other knot. She was so intent on what she was doing that she wasn’t aware of the girl and boy until their shadows fell across Patter’s back. She looked up, blinking in the sun.

“Whatcha you doing?” This question came from a girl who appeared to be Betsy’s age or a little older. The younger boy stood next to her. Betsy regarded them, not happy to have visitors. She would look foolish if this idea didn’t work.

“My dog is going to pull me around on my roller skates.”

The boy spoke up. “I don’t see any roller skates.” This comment annoyed Betsy.

“I was just about to get them,” she said. “Patter, wait here.” She got up and walked to the back door. Patter trotted away down the driveway. “Patter, stay!” Patter picked up speed and turned onto the sidewalk, dragging the rope behind him. Betsy ran, and Patter did too, clearly enjoying the romp. Betsy stomped down hard on the rope, and managed to stop him. She dragged him back, and stood by the other children.

“Want me to hold him?” the girl asked. “I’m Esther, and this is Winkie. His real name is Wendall, but he doesn’t like it.” Betsy had to agree. It was not a good name. Too much like a grownup.

“OK.” Betsy was relieved to have help. “I’m Betsy. I’ll be back in a minute.” She ran inside and found her skates and key at the bottom of the basement stairs. Back outside, Esther and Winkie struggled to keep Patter from wrapping himself around their legs.

“We’re going to get our skates, too. And we’re gonna see if Rich wants to play. He has a dog, too–Skippy.” She pointed to the house next to Betsy’s. “They’ve been on a visit to his grandma’s,” Esther explained. “Winkie, go knock and see can he come out to play.” Winkie ran across the lawn to the other house.

“What’s your last name?” Esther asked. Betsy smiled. It was fun telling people her whole name.

“Ross.” She watched Esther with interest. Would she get it?

“So your name is…Betsy Ross?” Esther sounded uncertain. “Like the woman who made the first American flag?” Betsy was delighted with the amazement in Esther’s face and voice.

“Yup.” The reaction was as she hoped.

“Why would your parents give you a name like that? Aren’t you embarrassed?”

Betsy was offended. Her parents had given her a perfectly good name, Ruth Elizabeth Ross. She was Ruth until first grade, when her teacher had two Ruths in the classroom and couldn’t remember Betsy’s name. “Helen? Helen!” she would call, and then would grow cross with Betsy when she didn’t respond to the teacher’s voice. When Betsy reported her misery to Mom, they decided she could change her name to Betsy. It had been a source of pride ever since. Anyway, she felt like Betsy now, not Ruth. Ruth Ross was too arr-ey.

“No, I’m not embarrassed. I like my name.”

“Oh,” said Esther. “Well, I guess it could be fun to have a famous person’s name.”

Betsy relaxed and smiled again. Winkie and another boy were running with a medium-sized dog bounding next to them. The dog suddenly turned and charged toward the street where a car was passing.

“Skippy! No!” shouted the new boy.

Skippy dashed after the car, barking as if he were saving the lives of the four children behind him, until the car rounded the corner. He trotted back, tongue hanging, with a bounce in his step.

“Don’t be so proud of yourself,” scolded the boy. “You’re going to get hit one of these days.” He looked at Betsy, as the two dogs began sniffing and circling each other.

“This is Rich Heaton,” said Esther. “That’s his dog, Skippy. He chases cars.” That was obvious.

“What’s your last name?” Betsy asked. The lonely feeling of the two weeks since the move to Wheaton was lifting.

“Stevens,” said Winkie. Esther turned and looked at him.

“That’s right,” said Esther, as if she were surprised he had gotten this piece of information right.

“So,” said Rich, “I hear you’re going to have your dog pull you on your roller skates. He looked at small Patter for a moment. He turned back to Betsy with a grin. The warmth in his face made her smile back. “Sounds great! Let’s see you do it.”

Betsy handed the rope to Rich, and put on her skates. What if this didn’t work? She could look like a fool and scrape her knees as well. Too bad she couldn’t have tried this first with no one watching. She stood up and took the rope from Rich.

“OK, Patter, let’s go.” Patter ignored her, still busy with Skippy. “Patter, let’s go!” she said. It hadn’t occured to her that Patter might refuse. Patter turned and looked at her.

“I’ll get him started.” Rich grabbed the harness and began to lead the dog down the driveway. Patter caught on and began to trot. The rope tightened, and Betsy braced herself. There was a jerk, but she caught her balance and began to glide forward. They rumbled down the driveway, and Rich guided Patter in a left turn onto the sidewalk, then let go. It was working! Betsy felt reckless with excitement. Patter was going great guns by now, and she found herself gripping tighter as her speed increased. How in the world was she going to turn the corner? She couldn’t tell Patter to turn. She was no more in control than a pig on ice. What if a car comes? Her eyes darted up and down the street.

She never had to answer the questions. Her skates hit a section of sidewalk that had lifted up in cold weather. She flew up into the air, still clinging to the rope as if it could save her, twisted around, and landed on her right hip and elbow. Her weight when she hit the ground stopped Patter with a jerk, and he sat down, panting.

Betsy gritted her teeth against the pain. She was not going to cry in front of these kids. Mom was going to be disgusted with her. That thought brought tears close, so she began to examine the damage as if the injuries were someone else’s. A big scrape on her elbow was oozing blood, and she was sure her hip had a similar wound. She couldn’t lift her skirt to look while she was outside. For the millionth time she wished she could wear pants instead of dresses. Then she would only have had one scrape instead of two.

The three others pounded down the sidewalk. “Are you all right?” Esther knelt next to her. “Oh boy,” she said in a soft voice, “you really did it. Can you stand up?” Rich took Patter’s rope out of her hand and watched, his face serious.

“I’ll get your Mom,” Winkie said. Oh no. Betsy didn’t want Mom to know. She had tried to be careful, but there was always something she’d never thought of to be careful about. That was the problem with being a kid. There were all kinds of new things to experience, which was good and bad. In this case, bad.

Mom was suddenly at her side, shaking her head. She opened her mouth to say something, then clamped it shut. Betsy couldn’t look in Mom’s eyes. She knew what she was thinking. It suddenly occured to her, though, that Mom always said to find something to be thankful for, even when something bad happened. She sniffed back the tears and tried to smile.

“Well, Mom, at least I didn’t scrape my knees!”

© Kathy Mortensen 2005

[You will find earlier chapters by scrolling down the page]

Patter Joe liked riding in the car, head hanging out the window with ears flapping. He was just the right size: small enough to pick up, big enough for rough play. When they got to the house, he went right to Mom and sat down in front of her with his head cocked, waiting. She was delighted, and patted his head. Mom looked at Betsy and Dad. “He’ll do. I think we have a fine pup here.”

Betsy smiled happily. She hadn’t even minded the drive back despite Uncle Herman’s cigar. Betsy rode in back next to Patter, and she hadn’t taken her eyes or hands off him the whole trip. Mom liked him, too, so Patter was part of the family.

“Want to go down to the river for a swim?” Junior asked.

This sounded perfect to Betsy. She was hot and the smell of the farm clung to her nose and skin.

“Mom, may I go swimming?”

“Junior? You’ll keep a close eye on her?” Junior was a good swimmer. Betsy was getting better each year.

“Yes, Aunt Rachel. She’ll be safe with me.”

Betsy changed quickly into her swimming suit. It was black knitted wool, and rather heavy when it got wet. She pulled the straps over her shoulders and dashed back out of the bedroom. “I’m ready!”

“Do you have a towel?” Mom asked. She was sitting at the kitchen table having tea with Aunt Mary. “I want you to dry off as soon as you get out so you don’t get a chill. And mind, Junior, you get her out if her lips get blue.”

Aunt Mary rose and went to the linen closet in the hallway. “Here’s a towel each for you and Junior. Have you invited Betty to go?” Betty was a cousin, daughter of Mom’s sister, Aunt Carrie. She had a way of rubbing in the fact that Betsy was the youngest of all the cousins. Playing with her wasn’t always fun.

Betsy had hoped no one would remember to ask Betty. Having Junior to herself was the most fun, but it was selfish to leave Betty out.

“I’ll go over to ask while Junior’s changing.” Betsy was out the door before Mom or Aunt Mary had time to say anything.
It was only a block to Betty’s house, so Betsy was on the front porch quickly. Now she was hotter than ever, She pressed the doorbell hard, remembering to ring only once. Mom said once was enough. Ringing the bell over and over sounded impatient and rude.

Betty appeared at the door. “Betsy. We heard you were coming today.” She pushed back her blondish-brown hair from her face.

“Yes, and Junior and I are going to the river for a swim. Want to come along?” Betsy asked breathlessly.

“Just a minute. I’ll ask.” She disappeared into the dimness of the house. Betsy pressed her nose against the screen. She could hear Aunt Carrie speaking.

“Of course you may go if Junior’s there. Where’s Betsy?”

“On the porch.”

“Gracious! You didn’t ask her in? That’s no way to treat someone who has come to the door. Let her in. Scoot!”

It sounded like Aunt Carrie insisted on good manners, too. There were certainly a lot to learn.

Betsy waited in the kitchen with Aunt Carrie while Betty put on her suit and got a towel. They banged out the back door. Betty got on her bike and rode ahead of Betsy around the corner. Betsy ran as fast as she could to keep up, but she hadn’t laced her canvas shoes tightly in her hurry to go swimming, and one fell off. She stuffed her foot in and hobbled the rest of the way.

Junior was sitting on his bike in the driveway. His swimming suit was a lot like the two girls, but the front was cut much lower, and had blue and white stripes on the top to go with solid navy bottom half. Betty sat on her bike as well, looking at Betsy with a smirk that clearly said ‘ha ha I beat you.’

“What took so long? I’m half melted out here waiting.”

“Betty had to get her suit on and my shoe came off,” Betsy explained. She glared at Betty. “Can Patter Joe come?”

“Your mom said no,” Junior reported. “She says he needs to stay here since he doesn’t know the neighborhood.” He reached a hand to Betsy. “OK. Let’s go. Betsy, get up here behind me on the seat and I’ll ride you down.” He helped her onto the seat, and Betsy wrapped her arms around his stomach. She looked back at Betty with a look that clearly said ‘ha ha I’m riding with Junior.’ Betty frowned.

The breeze from the motion of the bike felt good on her hot skin as Junior pedaled standing up. Down the sidewalk they went, then into the street. Junior wove through the streets until they arrived at the dirt path that lead to the river where the water was shallow and the current slow.

Betsy peered around Junior as they slowed. The huge oak tree by the river hung over the water. The air was still, hot, and the dust kicked up from the bikes hung in the air. Betsy slid off the seat and grabbed a towel out of the basket.

“Last one in’s a rotten egg!” she shouted. She dropped her towel, still running, and leapt into the river ahead of Junior and Betty. Betty and Junior ran to the bank of the river and jumped in, Junior just after Betty.

“You’re a rotten egg!” Betty cried to Junior happily.

“Shucks,” said Junior, “it happens ever time.” He winked at Betsy, who had seen him slow down to let Betty beat him. He was telling Betsy not to say anything so Betty wouldn’t know he’d let her win. Junior was nice to everyone. Betsy wanted to be as nice as Junior, but it was hard. She winked back.

Betsy flopped on her back and let the lazy current carry her down the river a ways. How quiet it was when her ears were under water. All she could hear was the rippling of the gentle water and splashes from the other two behind her. She stood up. The water barely reached her waist. She saw Junior floating belly-up nearby with his head toward her. Betsy crouched down and waited for him to get closer.

When he was within reach, she cried, “Gotcha!” and pushed his head under the water. Junior rose up, sputtering, and grabbed her foot, jerking her under. Betsy pulled away and stood up. They both began sweeping big arcs of water at each other. Betsy had to close her eyes against the wall of water hitting her, and swung blindly, hoping she was getting Junior back.

“STO-O-O-O-P!” Betsy dimly heard Betty shrieking. The water stopped washing over her, and she blinked away the water in her eyes.

Junior turned to Betty. “What’s wrong?”

Betty was almost in tears. “You know I hate water fights! You have to stop and play with me!” She hit the water angrily and splashed water in her own face. Betsy was secretly glad.

“What about a swing on the rope, then?” Junior suggested.

“Yes! Me first!” Betty cried, and began to wade to shore.

Rats. Betsy still wanted to play in the river. Now they had to wade out, which meant walking through the boggy edge of the river where bloodsuckers lurked. Betsy shuddered, hoping there wouldn’t be any today. Junior always took care of them if any clung to her leg or foot, scraping the leeches off with a stick. She still hated the disgusting, black, slimy creatures. The place where they attached still bled after they were gone. Ugh.

Fortunately, when they checked their legs, they’d been lucky: no leeches. Betty ran to the tree with the rope.

The oak tree stood next to the river, wide, high, and solid like a sentry guarding a gate. It extended one long branch over the water, making it perfect for a rope swing, knotted at the bottom to give the person swinging a seat. The rope was very thick, strong and long, within a foot of the ground. Because of the length, anyone swinging went way out over the water. It was great fun. Betsy wished the water was deep enough to drop off with a splash, but it was so shallow anyone who jumped off would land with a jarring thud.

Betty put the rope between her legs and wrapped her arms around the rope. “I’m ready, Junior,” she squealed.

“Better grab with your hands, too, Betty,” Junior said, “you might slip off with just your arms around the rope.”

“I am holding on tight,” Betty said firmly.

Junior shrugged, then pulled the rope back, back, back, high as he could and let go. Betty swung in a huge arc out over the river and then back almost to where Junior stood. She caught Betsy’s eye and, taking an arm off the rope, waved wildly as she went back over the river. It was enough to unseat her, and she dropped into the river hard.

Betty began to shriek, then sob, and Junior ran into the water, huge steps, lifting his feet high above the water for speed. He was at her side in an instant, and scooped her out of the water in his arms.

“Are you all right?”

Betty cried harder as Junior began wading out of the water. When he stepped on shore and turned, Betsy could see blood seeping out of her mouth.

“Betsy, ride her bike home, fast as you can, and tell her father to bring the car. She’s bitten her lip right through.”

Betsy immediately felt sorry for the mean thoughts about Betty. She jumped on the bike, barefoot. As she rode away, Betsy remembered she wasn’t supposed to ride without shoes. Mom worried about her catching a toe in the spokes. Too bad. She bent over the handlebars and flew up the streets to Aunt Carrie’s house.

Aunt Carrie! Uncle Roy! Quick, Betty’s hurt. Junior says to come to the river right now with the car!” Betsy could hardly get the words out. She felt lightheaded and bent over, gasping for air.

* * * * * * * * *

That night, Betsy and Betty shared the cot on the sleeping porch. Betty had seven stitches in her lip, which was swollen and stuck out as if she were pouting.

“I’m sorry about….” Betsy paused, “…well, everything.”

Betty nodded without speaking. They lay quietly, then. The sliver of moon rose in the night sky as their breathing slowed and grew rhythmic. The soft breeze ruffled their hair, and the monotonous buzz of cicadas filled the night. They slept.

© Kathy Mortensen 2005

[You will find earlier chapters by scrolling down the page]

Dad backed the 1926 gray Chevy out of the garage while Mom and Betsy waited at the side of the house. Betsy was eager to get to Bloomington, but dreaded the boring, carsick, two-hour drive. If a dog weren’t at the other end of the trip, she wasn’t sure she’d want to go.

Junior and Betty, Betsy’s cousins, were in Bloomington, though, and seeing them always made the trip worth the misery in the car. Junior was 16 now, eight years older than Betsy, but she never felt the difference in their ages. He was always kind to her, and played the way Betsy liked to play–actively. Betty was a year older than Betsy. Though they got along all right, Junior was still Betsy’s idol. She hoped they would have time to swim in Little Kickapoo Creek. The weather was certainly hot enough.

Once on the road south, Betsy turned her face into the hot breeze coming in the window, and tried to think about the dog she hoped would ride home with them. The view out the window was dull, mostly farms in this part of Illinois, and Betsy began to get drowsy. She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes.

“Betsy. Betsy, wake up.” Mom’s face loomed in front of her as Betsy opened her eyes. “We’re here.”

What a good trip! She’d slept nearly the whole way, and hadn’t thrown up once. Despite the heat, Betsy ran up the sidewalk and knocked loud and long on the door of Aunt Mary’s house. Junior appeared at the door.

“Hello, Junior.” Betsy suddenly felt shy. Junior was even taller than the last time her family had visited.

“Hello back.” Junior smiled and came onto the porch. “May I help carry anything inside?”

Betsy followed him out to the car and took her own small bag from Dad. Her parents expected Betsy to take care of her own things. It made sense, but it was easy to forget when she was so excited.

Aunt Mary appeared at the top of the steps. “Welcome! Come in, everyone.” Once inside, everyone hugged and kissed and they went into the parlor to sit. As usual, the adult talk seemed to go on and on. During a lull in the conversation, Betsy ventured to ask, “When are we going to get the dog?”

“Where’s Herman?” Dad asked Aunt Mary.

“He should be here any minute,” Aunt Mary replied. “We’ll have our lunch and then,” she touched Betsy’s hair, “we’ll see about that dog. Uncle Herman thinks he’s a really nice pup.”

Though she was impatient to go to get the dog, Betsy found that she was hungry. She thoroughly enjoyed the cold chicken, potato salad, blueberry muffins, cole slaw, pickles, and a blueberry pie for dessert. Aunt Mary was as good a cook as Mom.

Of course the adults kept talking and talking after finishing their lunch. Betsy was expected to stay politely at the table, sit up straight, and not interrupt. She could feel her excitement and impatience building inside her until she thought she might explode. At last Dad looked over at her.

“I think it’s time to make that trip to look at the dog,” he said. “Betsy’s been mighty patient.”

Uncle Herman rose from the table and stretched. “All right. Who’s coming along?”

Mom and Aunt Mary decided to stay to clean up the kitchen and have a good visit. Within a few minutes, Uncle Herman, Dad, Junior and Betsy were riding down the road in Uncle Herman’s car. Betsy had hoped Dad would drive, because Uncle Herman’s car smelled strongly of cigar smoke. Since he couldn’t smoke in the
house–Aunt Mary had banned his cigars–Uncle Herman mostly smoked in the car or in the back yard.

Please, please, Betsy begged inside, please don’t smoke a cigar. She was not surprised, though, when Uncle Herman began fumbling in his pocket for a cigar, lit it, and then happily sighed a gust of foul-smelling cigar smoke. He loved a smoke after a good meal.

Junior looked over and smiled sympathetically. He knew Betsy got carsick easily, and that the cigar smoke would make things worse. She smiled back weakly as she felt saliva fill her mouth–a bad sign. Her stomach clenched, and then a wave of nausea almost made her groan. She quickly put her face to the breeze coming from Dad’s side window, and swallowed hard several times. The fresh air quieted her stomach.

When she could speak, Betsy asked, “How far is it to the farm?” She hoped it was nearby.

“We’re almost there,” Uncle Herman said. “We’ll be there before you can say ‘Jack Robinson.’”

Jack Robinson, thought Betsy. Jack Robinson, Jack Robinson, Jack Robinson. Why did adults say things like that? She bet she could say Jack Robinson a hundred times or more before they got there. She kept breathing at Dad’s window and whispered, “Jack Robinson.”

It really wasn’t long before the car swung into a dirt driveway, and bounced toward a farmhouse. The smell of the farm hit Betsy’s nose like a slap across the face. A large pile of manure was inside a fence off to one side of the house, and Betsy grabbed her nose as they got out of the car. Dad looked at her and shook his head gently. It wouldn’t be polite to hold her nose when the owner came to the door. Betsy let go of her nose reluctantly, but continued to breathe through her mouth.

Junior, Dad and Betsy waited in the yard while Uncle Herman knocked at the door. There was no answer. Uncle Herman knocked again, harder, but still there was no response. He looked back at the three of them and shrugged. He came down the steps, and Betsy feared he was ready to give up and leave. Instead, he walked around the side of the house and called, “Hell-o-o-o!”

“Be right there,” came the response, and before long a short, skinny man came around the house holding out a filthy hand for Uncle Herman to shake. “How are ya? How are ya?” He sent a friendly nod to the others.

Uncle Herman quickly released his hand and wiped it on his pantleg. “Ah…Orville, this is Eb Smith. Eb, this is Orville, Junior, and Betsy.” They all nodded, but no one went to shake Mr. Smith’s hand.

“Well, well, I guess you’d like to see little Joe,” Betsy looked at her father, who nodded to Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith went into the house hollering, “Effie? Effie! Bring the pooch outside.”

The front door swung open, and a small black missile shot out the door. A moment later, a dog was jumping up against Betsy like he’d always known her. She crouched down and let him lick her face vigorously as she stroked his soft head.

“Dad! I think he likes me! I think he is our dog; do you, Dad? Is he our Patter Joe?” The dog’s enthusiasm had knocked Betsy onto her rear, and she quickly yanked her dress over her knees.

Dad came over and stroked the dog’s head. “Has he had any training?” he asked Mr. Smith.

“Can’t say he’s had much, but he is house-broke,” the farmer replied, grinning. “He sits sometimes when you ask, but ya can’t count on it.”

“Joe,” said Dad, “sit.” Joe looked at him. “Joe, sit.” said Dad, more firmly. “Joe, SIT!” And just like that, Joe sat, looked up at Dad, and cocked his head.

“Daddy, can we keep him? I like him a lot, Dad, and he did sit for you.” Betsy looked up at Dad anxiously.

“How old is he?” Dad asked.

“I’d guess he’s about a year old. Our house dog, Blackie, had a litter and we got rid of all of them except this one. He’s a nice enough feller.”

“What would you take for him?”

“What would you say to five dollars?”

Betsy held her breath. Five dollars was a lot of money.

“You’ve got a deal,” Dad said, and Betsy heaved a sigh of relief.

“We’re glad to see him go to a nice home. Herman, here, saw Joe one day and mentioned you was looking for a dog. He says you’ve raised dogs.”

“My father did, yes,” replied Dad. “He’ll have a good home.”

Betsy began to smile at the dog who was now sitting next to her. “Your name is Patter Joe,” she told him. “You’re coming home with us.” She hugged him and he began lapping her face again.

© Kathy Mortensen 2005

[You will find earlier chapters by scrolling down the page]

Morning light poured into Betsy’s new bedroom on Cross Street in Wheaton. The room was shaped like a backwards capital L, a twin bed in each arm of the L. The white curtains at the window moved gently in the warm summer breeze, and when it ruffled Betsy’s hair, her eyes opened slowly.

Suddenly, she sat straight up and looked around with alarm. Then her face relaxed and she plopped back down on her pillow.

“Whew. That scared me for a minute.”

She climbed out of bed and looked out the window into the yard below. It was strange to look out and see such a big yard. And it was only for her family. In Chicago, they shared the tiny backyard with their downstairs neighbors, and most of it was concrete. There she rode her tricycle around in circles.

Below her, she saw that Dad was already working in the yard. He loved flowers, and was digging a garden bed around the house for spring planting. It was too late to plant flowers now, so Dad was getting ready to plant bulbs for tulips and daffodills.

Betsy shivered despite the warmth of the day. It was the middle of August, and school would be starting soon. She dreaded going to a new school. Why, she hadn’t even met any children her own age yet! Perhaps everyone would ignore her, or hate her. With these gloomy thoughts in mind, Betsy put on a dress. She looked down and saw that the dress wasn’t long enough anymore to cover her knees, which were sporting new scabs. Mom was sure to comment.

Mom was standing at the stove when Betsy entered the kitchen. Without looking around, she said, “Go tell Dad that breakfast is ready. We’ll be eating in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” Mom grew up on a farm.

“Mom. When I woke up I didn’t know where I was. I expected to see my room in our old house. I was scared for a minute.”

Mom turned and smiled. “That’s happened to me, too.” Then she frowned. “Betsy. More scabs? You must be more careful. She gave the eggs another stir. “Run along now, and get Dad.”

The bright sun made Betsy squint when she went out the door. She snuck up behind Dad and put her hands over his eyes. “Guess who?” she said in a deep voice.

“Well, now. I don’t recognize that voice. Could it be…THE BIG BAD WOLF?” Dad spun around and grabbed Betsy and tickled her side. Betsy giggled.

“Breakfast, Dad. Mom says we’ll eat in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

“We’d better get in there, then. I’m sure she’ll have everything on the table.”
Dad washed his hands at the sink and joined Mom and Betsy at the table. They bowed their heads.

For all we eat,
For all we wear,
For all we have everywhere,
We thank thee, Father. Amen.

At every meal, these were the familiar words of the grace Betsy had learned as a very little girl. It sounded to her, when she was small, like they were saying:

Frawee eat,
Frawee wear,
Frawee have everywhere….

Betsy had wondered and wondered what “frawee” meant. No one ever used the word any other time. One Sunday when the minister and his wife were having dinner with her family, she decided to ask. Perhaps the minister would know what it meant since “frawee” seemed to be a prayer sort of word.

Right after saying grace, Betsy looked around the table. “Mom, what does “frawee” mean?”

“Why, Betsy!” Mom cried. “You know we are saying ‘for all we,’ don’t you? We are saying ‘For all we eat.’” She smiled uncomfortably at the minister, her face reddening. But the minister was smiling, too, and winked across the table at Betsy.

“I’m glad you asked,” he said. “It’s always good to ask when you don’t know something.” Betsy decided she liked him.

Now Dad took his cloth napkin, opened it, and tucked it into his collar. That way, he said, he could make a mistake and not create extra laundry for Mom. Mom laid her napkin in her lap, and smiled across the table at Dad. Betsy put her napkin where it belonged, and began to eat the scrambled eggs, bacon and toast on her plate.
“Pass the jam, please, Betsy,” said Dad. He loved sweets, and so did Betsy. They both put so much jam on toast Mom sometimes scolded them a little, but she was proud they liked her homemade jams. Today it was strawberry.

The mail clinked into the mailbox a moment later, and Dad got up to get it. He liked to look over the mail as he finished breakfast. While he was out of the room, Mom poured the last of the coffee into Dad’s cup. He came back, sat down, and took a large gulp of the coffee.

“P-H-H-H-H-H-H-T!” The coffee sprayed out of Dad’s mouth across the table.

“Why, Orv-ille!” Mom said in surprise. “Whatever is the matter?”

Dad was dabbing at his mouth. “That coffee is HOT.”

“Well, of course it is. That’s the way you like it.” By now Mom was wiping up the coffee with a sponge.

“But it wasn’t hot when I left the room, Rachel. I didn’t sip it, I gulped it, because I thought it was cold. I couldn’t keep it in my mouth without blistering myself!”

“I poured the last in the pot for you.”

“You could have warned me.”

He and Mom glared at each other. Betsy realized, to her horror, that she was going to laugh. It was funny to see Dad spray the coffee, and she was also anxious because her parents were upset. Betsy snorted.

Both Mom and Dad turned to look at her. Dad’s eyes began to twinkle, and then he chuckled. Soon they were both laughing. Mom’s hands were on her hips, but she couldn’t resist their merriment. She began to laugh as well. “I guess there’s no use crying over sprayed coffee.” Mom finished wiping up the table as Betsy and Dad wiped their eyes.

“There’s a letter here from Mary,” Dad said, offering Mom an envelope. Mary was Mom’s sister who lived in Bloomington, home town to both Mom and Dad. They each had family still living there. Mary and Mom exchanged letters regularly.

Mom got the letter opener and neatly slit the envelope across the top. Betsy wasn’t allowed to touch the letter opener since it had such a sharp point. She hoped someday she could open a letter as neatly as Mom. Mom had been a secretary for a number of years before she married Dad.

“Oh my. Well.” Betsy and Dad looked at Mom. She kept reading, then started nodding.

“What is it, Rachel? We’re on pins and needles here, waiting to find out,” Dad said.

Mom looked up. “There’s some news Betsy will be interested in,” she said. “Uncle Herman knows a farmer with a small dog he’d like to give away.” Uncle Herman was Mary’s husband.

“The dog’s name is Joe,” Mom read, “and he’s black with tan and white socks and eyebrows.”

“He…he has a name already?” Betsy asked in a small voice. She wanted to name her dog Patter.

“Yes. I suppose we’ll have to call him that. He’s used to it,” said Mom.

Dad looked at Betsy’s face. “Well, now.” he said. “We don’t even know if he’s the dog for us, Betsy. And if he is, we don’t have to change his name, we can just add to it. What did you want to name a dog?”

“Patter.”

“How about Patter-Joe, then? He’ll hear his old name and gradually get used to “Patter” as time goes by.” Dad knew a lot about dogs.

Betsy smiled. “OK, Dad.” He sipped his coffee carefully, and smiled back.

© Kathy Mortensen 2005

[You will find earlier chapters if you scroll down the page]

Betsy sat on the floor with all her toys and books around her. A cardboard box was next to her. Mom had given her the box and told her she could take any of the toys and books to Wheaton that fit into it, but no more. The more items her family moved, the more it would cost, and they needed to save every nickel they could.

As she looked over the toys on the floor, Betsy knew immediately which she had to take along. Her bag of marbles, definitely. She played marbles most nice days at school. There would be children to play marbles with at her new school. It was funny: only the boys were much fun at marbles. There were some girls who would play, but they usually started crying when they lost marbles or they refused to give the ones to Betsy that she had won, fair and square. It was a lot more fun to play with the boys. Of course Betsy hated losing marbles, but the risk of losing was part of the excitement of the game.

Betsy poured the marbles from the leather bag onto the floor. She pushed them gently with her finger, enjoying the different colors and sizes. The largest were the shooters. They were white with colors swirled through them; red, blue and green. The red ones were her favorites of these large marbles. They reminded her cherry pie with vanilla ice cream melting into the red juice. She licked the marble as an experiment. Yuck. The other marbles were cat’s eyes, steellies, and aggies, which looked like the shooters, only smaller.

Back went the marbles into the bag, and Betsy tied the top tight. Her eyes fell on the roller skates. The key for the skates was on a shoelace looped over a wheel. Betsy wore the key around her neck when skating in case the skates needed tightening. She picked up a skate and fitted her shoe into the foot bed. Her foot must have grown; she had to pull the skate a little further apart than the last time she’d worn them in the fall. Betsy fitted the key over the peg on the side and tightened it to her foot. Skates could fit any size, so one pair was enough for kids for their whole childhood. Betsy had had these since she was six.

Mom liked to tell a story about Betsy from the time she was learning to skate. The first time she put on a pair, Betsy had Dad help her adjust the skates to fit her shoe, and then he pulled her to her feet. Betsy immediately fell down, but got up and tried again. Learning to skate involved a lot of falling down and getting up, she discovered.

One day when Betsy was still doing more falling down than skating, she came to the door and asked Mom if she could take her little red chair outside.

“Well, yes, I suppose so,” said Mom. She opened the door and handed Betsy the chair. Betsy took the chair down to the sidewalk and set it in the grass. Mom laughed when she told how Betsy would skate and fall, skate and fall, and then go sit on the little red chair to rest and inspect the new scrapes on her knees.

It was a little embarrassing to remember, but it had felt good to rest on the chair instead of the grass. Mom did not like grass stains on Betsy’s dresses; it was hard work getting stain out. Betsy thought if she could wear knee pants with leather patches like the boys had, Mom wouldn’t worry about dirt so much. But girls didn’t wear any sort of pants–dresses only. Betsy sighed, and put the skates in the box.

The boxes of painted metal cars and trucks were next, in their original boxes. It surprised Betsy how many kids didn’t have the boxes for their toys anymore. She liked to put her toys away just so. Then they stayed looking new longer, and she rarely lost anything.

Her softballs and tennis balls went into the box, along with a bat and a tennis racket. Besty loved to play ball with the boys, and she could play as well as any of them. It was frustrating to play, though, because arguments would start. Then the game was delayed and, sometimes, ended because everyone was mad. Betsy just wanted to play, never mind whether someone was safe or out. She added her bouncing balls to the box as well.

Now she faced making a hard decision. She had over twenty dolls in her closet, and she didn’t like any of them much. When family visited, she often was given a gift, and most often it was a DOLL. Betsy thought there was nothing duller than a doll. All a doll did was sit there, and the girls she’d watched playing with dolls just kept changing the clothes over and over. Where was the fun doing that? Usually, if a girl asked her to play dolls, Betsy found a reason to leave before too long.

So the dolls sat in their boxes, staring at Betsy with their lifeless eyes. Fortunately, Betsy’s parents had learned early on that she didn’t like doll so she didn’t have to worry about hurting their feelings. She knew Mom was disappointed she didn’t like dolls, though.

Other girls named their dolls, and talked about them as if they were alive. It seemed so obvious to Betsy that dolls were not alive. It was like Betsy pretending her trucks had names or personalities. Ridiculous.

Would Mom be mad if she didn’t take the dolls? They wouldn’t all fit in the box anyway, so she couldn’t expect Betsy to take them all. She looked at them again, and chose a Raggedy Ann and a baby doll in a long blue dress her grandmother had given her. That should satisfy Mom.

Now for books and magazines. Betsy loved to read Childlife magazines she got each month, but decided she would not take them since she would get more in the mail. When Betsy read the magazines, she avoided the stories marked “continued.” Before she learned to read, Mom read the magazines to her. When they came to a “continued” story, though, Mom said they couldn’t read it. Betsy figured there must be something very bad about these stories if Mom wouldn’t read them.

Into the box went the [Robert Louis Stevenson poetry] and her collection of fairy tales that Dad read to her at night. Also a favorite book that had a dog named Patter in it. When Betsy got a dog, she would name it Patter, too.

There. That was everything, Betsy thought, and peered into the back of her closet to make sure. Her eye fell on a box in the back she’d forgotten: the fire department she’d gotten when she was three. She smiled when she remembered how she’d gotten it.

Every year at Christmastime, Mom and Dad took Betsy to Marshall Field’s Department Store to see the beautifully decorated windows. Elves hammered toys, snow glittered, and wrapped presents with beautiful bows were arranged in a magical scene. Inside the store, a huge Christmas tree in the center of the store took Betsy’s breath away. Then her family rode the elevator to the toy department. Santa was waiting to hear what she wanted for Christmas.

That particular year they got in line to see Santa with crowds of people. Tiny Betsy danced around her parents’ legs with excitement. Suddenly, Mom and Dad noticed that Betsy was gone. They began to look around in concern, but couldn’t see her. Then they heard a familiar voice.

“Santa. Santa!” There was Betsy at the head of the line, marching fearlessly toward the red-suited man on his throne. “Santa, I want a fire ME-partment!” announced Betsy firmly, and appeared surprised when the crowd–and Santa–laughed.

Santa came through that year with a beautiful fire department set, including a building, two trucks, a little rubber hose, and some firemen made of metal, painted black, with yellow boots and red hats. Betsy had played with the fire station for many happy hours, but now she was a bit old for it.
Just then Mom stepped into the room. “Good work, Betsy,” she said as she looked through the box. “You’ve made good choices. We can send the other items to the Salvation Army downtown to give to children who don’t have any toys.”

“Mom, what should I do about the fire department? It won’t all fit in the box, but I can’t leave it behind. Couldn’t we fit it in?”

Mom thought for a minute. “What do you like best about the fire department?”

“The trucks. I like to make the siren sound. R-r-r-wi-i-i-r!” Betsy demonstrated loudly.

Mom covered her ears. “Yes, yes, Betsy, all right,” Mom said. “Let’s see. You have room for the trucks, I think. Why don’t you take them and leave the rest?” Betsy decided that would work, and tucked them down the side.

“Mom, will there be a place to make roads for my cars and trucks?”

“Oh, yes, dear. You’ll have a whole back yard.”

Together they closed the lid of the box. Betsy felt a little sad as they put the toys she was not taking into another box. It was hard to imagine another child playing with them.

“Come along, Betsy. Time to set the table. No long face now. You have lots of toys, and some children will be very happy you’ve given up some of your things.”

Betsy put a smile on her face for Mom, and trailed behind her to the dining room.

© Kathy Mortensen 2005

[You will find Chapter 1 if you scroll down this page]

The hum of her parents’ voices stopped Betsy’s tears momentarily. She strained to hear what they were saying.

“…and she needs to understand that it is fortunate you were able to find this position. With your job here gone, we might have had to move to Bloomington and move in with one of our families!”

“Now, Rachel, you’re right, I’m sure. Still, Betsy’s only eight and doesn’t understand how hard it is to find and keep a job right now. That’s the way I want it to stay for her. I don’t want her to worry. Why don’t we ask her what is bothering her? It might be something simple.”

Betsy pushed her dark, straight hair away from her face and wiped her tears. Footsteps sounded on the wood floor of the hallway. Mom and Dad came into the room. Betsy rolled away from them on the bed.

Dad sat down on the bed and patted her back. Mom’s calm, firm voice came first.

“Betsy, you need to understand your father is very fortunate to have this new job. You and I are fortunate also. And we aren’t moving far.” Betsy knew Mom was right.

“I know. I’m sorry.” But as Betsy spoke, she felt teary again and swallowed hard, blinking, to stop.

Dad reached up and patted Mom’s hand. “Moving can be hard. You’ll be leaving your house, your school, your friends. That’s upsetting to anyone.”

Betsy turned around and threw her arms around Dad’s neck. “Oh, Daddy! I won’t be able to read the comics in the ChicagoTribune anymore!” And she began to sob against her father’s shirt.

Pulling his clean, soft handkerchief from his back pocket, Dad gently wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Oh, Betsy. Of course you’ll be able to,” he said. “Did you know the Chicago Tribune is delivered in Wheaton just like it is here in Rogers Park?” He smiled. “Mom’s right. We aren’t moving far away. I promise we’ll have the paper every day so you can read the funnies.”

“Thank you! Thank you, Daddy! And Mom,” she added, looking up at her mother. Mom smiled and turned to leave the room.
“And,” said Dad, beaming, “we will be able to get a dog.” Mom turned back from the door.

“Orville. . . .”

“Rachel, you remember we’ve put off having a dog until we had a yard. Now we’ll have a yard. And we all like dogs.”

Betsy held her breath. Mom could say no, and Betsy knew if she did there would be no dog.

Mom sighed. “Well, a dog is nice around the house, and we were planning to get one sooner or later.” She paused, thinking. “All right, if I have a promise from both of you that you’ll be walking, feeding, and cleaning up after the dog. And it may not get on the furniture.” She rubbed her hand across the shining table next to Betsy’s bed. Mom liked a clean house.

“Betsy?” asked Dad, eyes twinkling.

“Yes, yes, yes,” cried Betsy. “Oh, thank you! Can we get it today?”

Dad laughed, and then Mom did, too. “Perhaps not just yet, Betsy. Over the summer, after we move, we’ll look for a dog,” Dad said.

Perhaps the move would be all right, Betsy thought, as she bounced off the bed after her parents. The comics would still be there every day, and a dog, too! She longed for a dog of their own. Her grandparents always had dogs, even bred and sold them. She knew Dad missed having a dog in the family. And Mom liked dogs, too. She just worried about messes.

Betsy returned to the living room, and flung herself down in front of the paper. Back to Moon Mullins. Secretly, her favorite in the comic was Kayo, Moon’s younger brother, who slept in a drawer in Moon’s bedroom. Though tiny, Kayo always got into scrapes of some sort, a real ruffian. The house grew quiet, except for the sounds coming from the kitchen, and the crackle of the paper in Dad’s hands. Betsy smiled, and began to read.

© Kathy Mortensen 2005