D: How have you been, Betina?
B: I walk so that I don't get fat. I walk every day by myself.
Our paths cross occasionally, but for the past few months I haven't seen Betina taking exercise and worried she'd fallen ill, or fallen down, or worse.
Barely 5 feet tall, she stops when she sees me and plants herself beside the road, grinning, like a garden gnome. As usual, she's immaculate: hair dyed and coiffed, tasteful jewelry, perfectly applied makeup, the barest hint of a perfume.
Personal details she's related:
- her parents immigrated from Greece
- her mother never learned English; the family spoke Greek at home
- grew up in Massachusetts, where her father was a carpenter
- during WWII, Betina met & married a tall, blond farmer's son from Kansas
- husband worked as a machinist, she as beautician
- she remained head over heels in love with her husband
- they bought acreage when land was cheap
- a daughter died of diabetes; a surviving son and daughter
B: You forget things when you're 91...
D: But, Betina, you said you were born in 1924. That makes you 86 years old.
In 30 minutes she'll ask 30 times if I have children, and tell me 30 times that her daughter's boyfriend is no-good, and apologize 30 times for her repeating herself. If she's frustrated by her senescence , she doesn't let on; she giggles about it.
B: My daughter wouldn't live with me unless I let her scoundrel boyfriend move in too.
When Betina's husband retired, they "raised horses'.
After he died, the daughter and boyfriend moved in to "train horses".
Betina likes company and always asks me to walk with her and finally to accompany her home. But I beg off going to her house; with the weak daughter and manipulative boyfriend squatting in Betina's home and taking advantage of her, I expect it's full of fireworks and awkwardness.
Today she insisted I take her home.
We walked about a mile to reach her driveway, talking non-stop of Greece & how many kids I have & worthless boyfriends & her forgetfulness.
Betina can't remember the gate code. We clamber over and through the fence.
D: You're going to break those brittle bones, Betina.
-but in truth, she's as agile as me.
While she catches her breath at the top of the hill, I pose her with a snake skin. I'm sure I could hand her a dead skunk and she'd play along good naturedly.
Down the other side, there are many horse pens. And in the distance real water.
Beside the pond, with its fountain, dock, & paddle boat, stands a humongous barn - almost industrial - with heavy machinery running to-and-fro.
Hay is being delivered by the twin trailer-load; this ain't no hobby farm.
The structure is actually a large indoor arena, like a fairground, with room for stables, too.
Betina proudly shows me around. I'm intimidated -- this is serious horse business.
The "worthless boyfriend", dusty & sweaty, sits in a makeshift office next to a stall, fielding calls on a phone that doesn't quit ringing. He makes hand signs of welcome.
Finally he breaks away and introduces himself. He and Betina joke and laugh together. The guy seems a guileless, hardworking cowboy, not the moocher she enjoys describing.
Later, when I get home, I look up the "horse training" business at Betina's. Turns out to be specialty rodeo horse training and sales, exotic and lucrative stuff ($50,000+/horse), and that "worthless boyfriend" also sells his services as a farrier.
So here's what I think:
- There's no opportunist boyfriend, only an affectionate, dutiful son-in-law. He called her "mother", and later whispered to me about "mother-in-law's dementia"
- Betina lost her husband, her mind was failing, she couldn't live alone
- The motive for daughter & son-in-law moving in was to preserve Betina's independence
No comments:
Post a Comment