The passing of dear friends

Earlier in this blog, I mentioned my dear friend, Betty Squires.  Although she was the widow of my father's childhood friend, thus making her more of an age to be a second mother to me than a girlfriend, she became my friend as soon as we met.

Our senses of humor were similar, and both of us loved to talk almost as much as we loved to laugh; and, thanks to all the "Central Avenue" memories my father had shared with me, and which she personally remembered, we always had a lot to talk about.  

In addition to those things, we also loved the library, town history and Halloween.  We would always dress up on Halloween, and go to the library.  One year, I went in dressed as a pirate, and she came in wearing sweat pants, sneakers, a T-shirt with "Columbia" printed on it, and a string of empty prescription bottles tired around her neck.  I cocked an eyebrow in her direction.  She said, "Columbian drug runner" as she held up one sneaker-clad foot and pointed to her T-shirt and prescription bottle necklace.  

I laughed until I cried.

Another good laugh we shared came at the expense of our mutual friend, Ann Costello.  Ann grew a garden every year, and Betty would go there, pick vegetables and leave notes saying, "If you ever want to see your tomatoes again..."

Still, funny as that was, it was not the story I planned to tell.  That tale was sad on one hand, yet hysterical on the other...you probably had to be there.  

In any case, Ann called me one night, laughing and crying at the same time.  She had gone to the grocery store to get a loaf of day-old bread to feed a squirrel that was in her front yard.  When she got home, the squirrel darted right in front of her car as she pulled into the driveway.  As she finished the story, with both of us now laughing and crying at the same time, she said, "Don't tell Betty Squires.  I'll never live it down."     

My reply was, of course, "Get off the phone Ann...I'll call Betty and tell her to get over to your house to help you bury the squirrel.  I'll come over to say a few words over the grave."

The Three Stooges had nothing on Ann, Betty and I when it came to being crazy! 

Having said all of that, I will now say that words could not possibly express the sorrow I felt when I saw Betty's obituary in The Hartford Courant recently.  

Please bear with me while I repeat some of what I wrote in the online guestbook:

"I knew Betty not only as a co-member of the many library groups to which we both belonged, but also as the widow of my late father's boyhood friend, George.  Long after the deaths of those two fine men, Betty and I would laugh together about their youthful antics, especially their Halloween night pranks on Central Avenue in East Hartford.  I will miss Betty, as I loved her dearly, and also because she was the last person, other than my sisters, who shared my father's childhood memories.  The world is a sadder place without her."

Just days after I wrote those words, my friend, Effie, emailed me to say she had been speaking with one of Betty's daughters; there was more sad news.  Ann Costello had also passed away.  I like to think they are laughing together again about the ransomed vegetables and Ann's squirrel.

I will miss my two friends forever.