Bringing Betty Boop home with me

My grandmother passed away when I was nine—a tragic death on Halloween eve.  My favorite uncle, her son, passed away before my son could meet him—another terrible death with reverberating consequences.  I think of Grandmom and Uncle Danny all the time—the succession of paintings (the girl with the braid) up the stairwell of her Philadelphia row home, the unending parade of absurd gifts and fanciful tales that traveled always with him.  I never questioned their love for me.  I always felt safe when they were near.

And so I miss them.

My name is Beth Ellen Kephart.  No Elizabeth.  Nothing to shorten to Liz, Lizzie, Libby, Eliza, Betta.  Just Beth, and then the Ellen, but my grandmother and my uncle called me Betty Boop.  They called me Betsy, too, and other things, but what took hold in me was Betty Boop.  When I go somewhere and Betty Boop is there, I bring her home with me.  Look, I say, to the clouds above.  You are still alive to me.

Today, in Jim Thorpe, I found this one, sitting on a swing.

Read more...