My Memoirs

By Bette Williams

This book is the story of my life. It is for my children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren to remember me by. I have also added some of the little stories I have written over the years for their enjoyment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 8, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462061532

Bette Williams

Bette Williams lives in Nashua, NH with her husband Bob. She is an artist as well as an author. Bette has published another book called: Camping is Not For Sissies, and other short stories.

Book preview

Contents

Dedication

Stories From Bette

A Very Unusual Restaurant

Frozen hands

CAKE MISHAPS

COCONUT PROBLEMS

PHILADELPHIA

THE SQUIRREL FROM HELL

Credit Card Mishap

SHOES

A CANDIDATE FOR A DIET WORKSHOP

A Gas Tank With a Mind Of Its Own

Babies and goats

BAT SHOW AT DUSK

Beacon Hill

POTTY CHAIR

GIANT ROCK

RUDE AWAKENING

CAMPING MEMORIES

BEST FORGOTTEN

CRAZY QUILT IMPRESSIONS

High Rollers

KITTY SURGERY

DINNER ON US

TAXIE

RESTROOM PROBLEMS

GOATLEY

BIT MAGIC

PIPE SMOKE

TRAVEL TRIO

LAMP SHADES WITH A FLAIR

TURKEY FOIBLES

Gourmet Camping

MARY POPPINS

ENGLISH LAVENDER

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my children, grandchildren

And great-grandchildren.

Love, Nana

I was a very difficult child to rise. That could be the reason why my parents never had more children. Today I’m sure I would have been diagnosed with attention deficit disorder, but in the twenties, a child who disobeyed or had trouble in school was thought of as just different. My mother had had several courses in child psychology in college. It had been drilled into her head that you mustn’t spank a child as a form of discipline. But mom was completely unprepared for the type of truant I turned out to be. When I was old enough to be allowed to play out in our yard, she warned me to stay within the confines but as soon as she went in I promptly ran away. After bringing me back by the scruff of my neck, she tied me to a tree on a long rope as punishment. I was delighted, and began to bark like a dog, and nip at people’s heels as they went by. The next time I ran away, she put me to bed. Again I was pleased, and made an Indian teepee of the sheets, and sang war chants to my stuffed animals. Thoroughly frustrated, the next time it happened, my mother was ready. There was a lilac bush in our back yard. Mom cut a switch and used it generously across the back of my legs. It raised welts and you can bet I never ran away again. Only then did my mother change her mind about college instructions.

In the twenty’s most small towns in Connecticut had a picnic on July fourth for the entire town. We had been to a couple of picnics, where I had to be cautioned to behave. In 1928, when I was five, picnics were in full swing; I was standing by a stream with a boy who was in my kindergarten class. Somehow we got to argue about how I was dressed. He made a degrading remark so I pushed him into the stream. People came running and pulled him out spluttering and choking. My parents were so embarrassed they immediately left to take me home. I don’t remember ever attending those picnics again.

I was not enthused with first grade at all. I had a wonderful teacher, and liked all the kids, but after a couple of weeks I decided school was not for me. There was a little boy by the name of Paul who felt just the way I did. We liked recess, and learning to write, but all the rest left us cold, and we knew we had to find some way to get out of going every day. I asked him to meet me on Sat. in a field not far from the school. Along the edges were stonewalls draped with poison ivy. We had both been cautioned about the consequences of getting too close to this hardy vine. We sat on the ground and pulled leaves off of several vines. The juice felt warm as it ran down our arms and legs and dribbled into our shoes. As if this wasn’t enough, each of us ate a leaf to be sure the poison would take. We agreed as we parted, that this would surely keep us out of school for a while. Within two days I was covered with poison ivy. I had to confess to my mother what we had done but I was so sick it was punishment enough. The poison went in every hole in my body and for the first week, our doctor. Thought I was going to die. Seventy-eight years ago they had no antibiotics or ointments as they have today. Eventually, it took its course, and I was well enough to reluctantly go back to school. Paul never got a trace, or missed a day of school I formed an immunity to poison ivy which lasted the rest of my life, but what a way to earn one.

When I was about six my mother would pick up the phone and call my best friend’s mother to make sure someone was home. Only then would I be allowed to walk up a small hill to her house. Dorothy and I would immediately head for her attic. This still generates memories of the smell of mothballs, the sound of raindrops on the tin roof, and the clip of scissors as we worked on doll clothes. Dorothy was a small girl for six, but had a delightful personality, and a mother who enjoyed having us around. When I was asked for lunch her mom often served tomato soup with little German dumplings. These were delicious, and something my mother never made.

As for our escapades in her attic, they were never dull. We sat cross-legged on an old worn rug under the window that had no curtain. As the rain made patterns on the window we cut and fitted our dolls as if we were in a real dressmakers shop. We had scrounged up all the mismatched socks that the washing machines had disgorged We discovered that by cutting off the toes, and sometimes the tops, we could fashion stunning outfits for our babies. We cut holes on either side of the socks to bring their arms through, and even found the toes to make striking hats to match each outfit.

The hill leading up to Dorothy’s house seemed so steep when I was six. Many years later, when I came back to East Hampton, Connecticut, I was amazed to see that it was just a slight rise. To capture these lost moments is such fun, and I hope they will appeal to my