 |
| Bottom row from left, great-granddaughter Viva, Bettelu, 94. Second row l-r, great-grandson Mystiko, granddaughter Brooke, daughter-in-law Jennifer, granddaughter Isabel Bryna. Top two, Kevin and Barbara. Photo taken during trip to Kauai, September 2019. |
She called me Bad Boy
Although she was the one with the reputation.
Rocker Bob Seger sang about her. So did the
Beach Boys.
Everyone she ever met sang her praises.
She was my mother-in-law.
Her name was Bettelu.
She departed this world recently
six days before completing
her 98th year on the planet.
two years before 100.
She was ready. Her chariot had arrived
in the form of her subjects -- those
who adored her.
They gathered round and sang
and cried and laughed
and partied like it was 2099.
The angels sang. Gabriel blew his horn.
A moment of pure contentment lighted her face.
A shot of joy. Her family was fine. She fulfilled
her work. Her reign was complete.
God love the Queen. May we hold her
lesson of unconditional love in our hearts.
The evening I met her more than 40 years ago
I hoped to make a good impression.
I had designs on marrying her daughter, Barbara.
Bettelu came to town.
To make the most favorable introduction
I brought my 9-year-old daughter, Molly
my eldest child thus
proudest accomplishment.
The three of us chatted, Barbara was not there.
I did not realize the depth and magnitude with
whom I was dealing.
Always elegantly clothed, one step ahead of
the fashionistas in colors that made you melt
and baubles so brazen yet subtly formed that
you found it difficult not to study them in wonder.
She was perfume personified: a sweet
scented lotus blossom with the tongue
of a dragon and the heart of a buddha.
Her lips shaded in coral, would
part in pleasant acceptance-
cum-mischievous humor.
It was clear. She was impressed by all that life
had to offer.
I needn’t have worried.
A talented painter and world traveler with
impeccable taste and grace. Wife of a political
wunderkind, a Senator she called Bob and whom
the kids called RG. In addition to
Barbara (Bubba),
there are three sons,
William (Bill), Robert (Bobby) and Brian (Bird).
The couple were a formidable pair at parties:
Bettelu and RG.
He called her Red, taken by the auburn highlights
in her hair.
They were gracious, welcoming and generous
to me, a hippie liberal
and my two girls -- Molly and Vanessa --
who became two of her 10 beloved
grandchildren and six great-grandchildren.
The good Senator passed away too early
some years ago.
California's top legislators came to honor him
and wish his widowed spouse well.
Who knew that Bettelu would continue
to create a legacy of love and toughness and
inspiration that would surpass all
expectations and political ramifications.
She never remarried. Too busy.
Although in her final hours, when asked
by her granddaughter Brooke for requests,
she said: "Rich cowboy."
I visited her over the years. We became friends.
I had business in LA and she offered me
a room. We attended movies together
in the Nineties.
We sat in a dark theater in rapt attention as
Al Pacino hooo-hahhhed his way
to his only Oscar for Best Actor
in The Scent of a Woman.
"He's a very good actor," she said.
An excellent chef, she prepared wild,
inventive dishes so curious and delicious
that I cannot remember the names or ingredients.
"When my parents first married,
my mother didn't know how to cook,"
said Barbara, emphasizing Bettelu's
culinary advancement.
One evening preparing dinner
I sliced into the flesh of a yellow
habanero pepper, following which
I made my natural trip to the banos.
My testicles caught fire. I screeched
and grimaced. Hopped like a jumping bean.
What to do?
Barbara said, run to the shower. Bad idea.
"I'll call Bettelu," she said.
Following a period of
uproarious laughter,
she answered, "Apply milk."
Bettelu, of course, had the antidote.
She came to call me Bad Boy,
an affectionate appellation
that could have been on the label
of a bottle of wine
from her collection.
But no. It had to do with the gin Martini
that became a Friday night ritual between us
that we repeated into her 98th year.
"You cheated me," she said on a recent occasion.
Due to her declining health, I had laced the drink
with water.
"You bad boy," she said.
Elizabeth Louise Weisel Beverly
was her full name. She preferred
Bettelu.
