The Betsy Book

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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

This entry was posted on Sunday, September 4th, 2005 at 3:02 pm and is filed under Betsy Book. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.