Write Team: Betsy was special

I grew up the youngest of five daughters. My sisters closest in age were my playmates, of course, and the second oldest was like an extra mother, very nurturing. The eldest, Betsy, and I had a special bond, though.

I remember her doing a fun little game where she’d lie on the bed and put me on her knees and tell the story of the Flood, raising her knees as “the waters rose and rose.”

When we were at the beach, she’d show me how to make dribble castles, running watery sand through our fingers to make points that would flop over on each other till they met at the peak.

In her teens, she’d bring friends home and they’d laugh and admire my childish chalk messages on the sidewalk. Once she confided in me that her boyfriend had held her hand.

We had a five-girl housekeeping brigade on Saturday mornings when our parents worked at the clinic. I got little jobs like washing the soap dish.

I distinctly remember Betsy once telling me with great enthusiasm that we were going to get the kitchen floor so clean we could eat off it. When we had it all scrubbed, I got down and licked it to prove her point. I didn’t understand why she laughed.

Recently my mother found Betsy’s writing journal from high school. She was a creative and emotional writer. As I read through, I uncovered a depth that I had not known, of course, as her baby sister. Many of her essays were dark and troubled, dealing with teenage turmoil and existential questions.

So it was all the more refreshing when I came across one titled, “Saturday Morning:”

“Three hours, a filthy house, a good piece of music, and a 4-year-old to chat with. What better companions with whom to spend a weekend morning? The feeling that this room will soon be lovely, no dirt, so tidy it will be a pleasure to walk into it. The enjoyment of having Winnie’s ‘help,’ and her refusal to play with someone else.”

I realized I was that cheery 4-year-old, and I was discovering the other side of that relationship that I so cherished.

When she arrived at the front door on perhaps her first visit home from college, I was so happy that I felt myself starting to cry – a new experience for me.

When she was 19 and I was 8, Betsy died suddenly and tragically, leaving us all stung and full of questions. It was my first great loss, and I missed her. But I never doubted her love for me. That was as innate as my own being.

As I grew, I understood a little more about her serious struggles. As a parent now, I can only imagine the pain my parents went through. My mother has continued to wisely and honestly discuss these memories with us.

We still have Betsy’s writings, and we have pictures – so many pictures, of course, as she was the first child! Such a sunny, bright baby in her overalls and curly hair. Then more pictures as more sisters joined the family – camping pictures, hiking pictures, pictures from the school plays she loved to perform in.

Thanks for helping me remember Betsy. I wish you peace as you process similar losses in your own lives and families.

Winifred Hoffman, of Earlville is a farmer, breeder of dual-purpose cattle and a student of life. She can be reached at newsroom@mywebtimes.com .