The Betsy Book

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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

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