Remembering happy times with Miss Billie

One of the best friends I had in this world was a woman named Frances Davin. Her mother, Mary, was my grandmother's best friend, so, naturally, Miss Billie was a childhood friend of my mother's. She picked up the nickname “Billie” because she was such a tomboy—always playing with her brothers, Bobby and Buddy, it was no great surprise that they tagged her with another name that began with the letter B. From that point on, she was Billie to her family and all of her closest friends.

To me, she was always Miss Billie, and I loved her dearly. As a child, I thought of her as a much-loved aunt; when I became an adult, she was a close friend and trusted companion.

After her death a few years ago, I was very glad I had all the memories; I treasure them.  If I had a nickel for every time I think of her, I'd have at least $1,000 by now. We spent countless hours doing some truly crazy things. I want to remember them all, so the rest of this section will probably read like a ledger of insanity.

Miss Billie loved going to the library, and quickly got me involved as a volunteer, too. We also joined a few book clubs there, and faithfully read books and attended book discussions. I should point out that we were generally the only two people doing the discussing. I don't know if the other members just did not have anything to say, or if Miss Billie and I never gave them the chance. In any case, I still spend a lot of time at the library, and I have her to thank for it.

On one such book discussion day, I went to Miss Billie's house early, so we could have a light supper together before going to the meeting. If memory serves me correctly, we had not even begun to eat when there was a knock on the door; the daughter of Miss Billie's recently-deceased friend was stopping by to drop off some clothes that had belonged to her mother. Miss Billie thanked her, graciously offered her a sandwich, and asked if it would be alright for her to “share a few things” with another friend—me—and to pass the rest onto the church. The younger woman agreed.

After the daughter—Patty by name—had gone, Miss Billie and I went through the clothes and picked out a few things each; the rest did, ultimately, go to the church, as Miss Billie had said they would.

By the time we finished taking our “new duds” and packing the rest up for the church, it was time to head for the library meeting; that night, a local author was going to speak for the first time, and we were eager to lend our support to her.   I had spoken at the library many times myself by then, and I knew the audience could be difficult to face your first time out.

Upon our arrival, we saw the author—the woman of the hour, so to speak—and she was very plainly dressed; I hate to call another woman “dowdy”, but honesty forces me to admit that is the first word that popped into my head. Miss Billie poked me sharply in the ribs with her elbow, at the same time whispering, “Look at the clothes. We've taken better things off dead people.” Try keeping a straight face after a comment like that!

We often had breakfast together—it was usually as bad as the coffee, of which she was proud; no one made a worse brew—and we knew everything was done when the smoke alarm went off. As far as she was concerned, it was every bit as good as a kitchen timer.

She loved to fix picnic lunches, too, and we would often go down to the river to eat. It was a lot of fun, even if the food was seldom more than egg salad sandwiches; except for martinis, I think egg salad was her favorite thing, and she actually did make it better than anyone else could. I think her secret ingredient was a sweet onion, but knowing Miss Billie, I would not have been surprised if a shot of vermouth went in also.

On one such picnic, we were talking about various attractions in Connecticut, and I happened to mention that I had been to the Mark Twain House in Hartford, but I had never been to the home of Harriet Beecher Stowe.  She said she would take me there, and she did—she drove into the parking lot and then we went home, laughing all the way! If you are keeping track, I still have not seen the interior of the Stowe house.

Yet another day found us heading toward Barber Street in Hartford. Anyone living in Connecticut, and probably other New England states as well, can tell you that the infamous Hartford Circus fire took place there many years ago.

Over coffee that morning—I was a glutton for punishment sometimes—she told me that a plaque had been put up to mark the spot of the horrible fire, and she wanted to go by it. Go by it we did...we cruised right by the spot without stopping. I can clearly remember her saying, “Look quick, Sue. It's over there someplace. This isn't such a great neighborhood that we want to loiter in it.”

I should point out that on that same day she decided we needed to pay a visit to the Ancient Burial Ground, sometimes called the North End Cemetery by Miss Billie, a huge, three-block cemetery that was the final resting place of many famous folks from Connecticut.  We got out of the car there—we had to get out because Miss Billie drove over a head stone, and the car got stuck!

Even though I was one of the two people who got that car off the small, low-to-the-ground headstone, I still cannot believe we did it.  I was just a few years away from serious heart surgery at that point, and she was at least 85 years old! Few people know this, but fear of getting yelled at by irate cemetery groundskeepers is a great motivator; it also provides people with amazing strength. We just kept pushing until the headstone was saved from Miss Billie's car.

We visited Hartford again a few months later.  Miss Billie wanted me to see a new structure—an artistic structure, not a building—at one of the local colleges. We got there, and walked over to study one of the ugliest things I have set eyes on to this day. I believe I said something to the effect of, “Good God in Heaven, Miss Billie, this was not worth the trip.” She countered, “Yeah, Sue, but you should see it at night, when the interior lights are on.  It's really beautiful.”

I will never understand why my look did not cause her to fall dead on the spot. “Why in the blue blazes are we here in the middle of the afternoon, if it's beautiful at night?” I asked.  Blue eyes twinkling, she responded, “It would have been beautiful, but not as funny by half.”

Even in death, Miss Billie had the last laugh. The same woman who once said—totally straight faced—that she “never sold it” but did “rent it out” left strict instructions with her goddaughter to make sure her that her favorite martini recipe and glass were displayed on her closed casket.  She was one of a kind, and I will always be glad that she was a part of my life for over 60 years.