Little Betty (A true story)

By: Lizzy Marie Gee

Just a few houses down from mine, there lived a little old woman named Betty. She must have
been in her nineties. Every time I walked by her house on my way back from school during a sunny day,
her stained glass bottles she would display on her front porch would reflect rainbows and she always
had a lush garden in the spring. Betty was alone, for her husband had died and her son was never
around.

On occasions I’d visit her and she would read me her poetry and talk about when she was my
age. Betty had swam miles down the jersey coast, she sold hot dogs on the Atlantic City boardwalk as a
child, she sailed every summer in Cape May, she traveled to sixteen countries in Europe, and took a
cruise to Cuba with her sister. Her experiences were inspirational.

In some ways I found her very comical because almost every month she’d write a letter to the
president (George W. Bush) giving him advice on what he should improve. She seemed very alive and
young for a woman so old and small. In some ways she was my friend. I may not have wanted to admit
that at the time but she was.

One time she hand sewn an apron for me to wear if I ever cooked in the kitchen (not sure if that
was going to happen) and every Christmas, Easter, graduation, and birthday she’d never forget a
present. We had fun together for the time we had. I kept on visiting her.

But on a bleak morning in 2007 a police car drove up to her door and took poor old Betty away
to a nursing home. What I did not understand at the moment was that the neighbors had called the cops
saying she was too old and forgetful to live by herself anymore. All her son did was place her in a nursing
home for the remainder of her life and put her precious house and belongings up for sale. I only had a
chance to visit her once and it was a grim sight. Her spirit was stifled and she was slowly dying. This was
upsetting to me and up to this day I will never understand why her son would do that to her. Finally on
September 23, 2007 the phone in my kitchen rang and kept ringing.

Little Betty had died.

Three years later as I pass her house, which no longer reflects rainbows and her garden never
blooms beautiful flowers, her last poem resonates inside my mind:

I’d hate to be a polar bear,

Enduring all that cold,

I’d rather be a princess,

And wear a crown of gold……….