But she had a quiet side too, the inner self that loved nature, the woods, the beach called Willoughby, her beloved back yard.
She loved to walk along her beach, collect shells, pick up little pieces of colored glass and stone and fashion pretty things with them.
She loved her birds, the red cardinals that graced her porch windows, the blue jays that chattered to her. Her great joy was to sit beneath her shady trees, beside her flowering bushes, the wall of pink roses on the bank near the back path.
She loved to watch the moon over the water, the sunsets that outlined her jetty, the twinkling lights of the two bridges, as night fell upon her well-loved Chesapeake Bay.
For hours she would sit and watch the great ships that passed like giant sentinels in front of her house, the huge aircraft carriers, the tiny sailboats. And she would delight in sighting a school of porpoises, dancing in the white-tipped waves, not far from her shore.
And in the early days, how she loved her Fred. He was more than a husband to her. He was her shining knight, Sir Galahad, Rhett Butler, Clark Gable, all rolled into one.
Now her way is once again quiet and filled with peace.
Betty is now away from all harm, back to the gentle trees, the little red birds, the wild roses on the bank. . .
Thelma J. Straw
