Sharon’s Eulogy

Sharon Livesey, Betsey’s Longtime Friend

Cancer is stealing too many of my friends. Neither Betsey nor I was ready for this. She took a leaf from Dylan Thomas’ book – she did not want to “go gently into that good night.” And if will had anything to do with it, she would be with us here still. In typical Betsey fashion, however, to the end she worried not about herself but about the terror (her word) and despair of those she was leaving behind.

It is challenging to speak about a long-time friend. There is no way to capture her completely. Our connection grew from our girl-gadding about together through teenager and college years, and then from re-uniting as we both embarked on marriage, children, houses – as Zorba the Greek said, the full catastrophe!

At Kimberley, our education was very uneven, but we girls had a wicked good time together and learned a practice of sisterhood. I believe she carried that with her to Wellesley. She excelled at everything – 800 on her English SAT, the editor of the school paper, and the star of our senior class play. She loved Mme. Bohn for introducing us to Camus. I don’t think she supported JFK for president though. She wasn’t a Democrat yet.

Through college, we were still in touch but less frequently. Our real re-connection began in 1973 or 4 through a chance meeting at Merimekko in Cambridge. She and Ron and Neil and I nearly bought a house together. Instead we ended up in two houses separated by less than half a mile and 40 years of bonding over kids, schools, holidays, jobs, vacations, college applications, graduations, more jobs, etc. –talking, listening, lending, borrowing, complaining, celebrating, worrying, cheering, agreeing and differing in principle and practice, and all of the other precious hum-drum that adds up to loving friendship. Through all this, there was nothing that Betsey could not be asked to do. Whatever the case, from getting theatre tickets to re-shaping lives, she would come through, organize, manage, forcefully, in one way or another, make it work. Out of this developed instinctive trust.

This arena of shared experience is filled with many images. I’ll mention just a few: The round girlish handwriting that comes without fail on cards at Christmas and birthdays, on thank you notes and post cards from exotic spots abroad. The thrill of the dutiful daughter when I offered to invite her 80-some-year old dad to visit mine, and the foil-wrapped, home baked cake that came with him. The pregnant mom, up on a ladder painting the ceiling at 121 Colbourne Crescent. The politician, well entrenched in her sons’ schools’ politics—she knew whom to court and how! The documenter snapping pictures of her beloved boys and mine up on Doane Rock in Cape Cod. The coach dragging the kids off to Audubon for a 7AM bird banding. The decider – no we are not going there! – but also the sometimes baby-voiced woman struggling to express her needs or fears. The non-flamboyant yet unwavering supporter of women rights, civil rights, and gay pride. You get the picture… Hers was a practical, Yankee bent —  laced with random seeds that nourished her and others in ways that would have surprised, and no doubt sometimes dismayed, her Mayflower forbearers.

In essence, then, Betsey had a very palpable “there-ness” about her. THIS will be impossible to replace for me and for many of the people in her life, especially Ronnie, her two sons, and the nephews whom she mothered from age 15, her brother Jeffrey, June … actually, I can’t complete this list. I’ll just say, Bets, girl, we celebrate you. Good-bye and thanks for everything.