The Scent of a Matriarch

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.