When my husband and I moved into our upscale neighborhood in August 1986, we were the young ‘uns in the cul-de-sac. A terrier lived next door; as other neighbors described her, She was a woman of great will with a stern countenance.

She was difficult to get to know, but my husband and I were an affable pair, and so we were invited to cocktail hours in their home, gin and tonics all around. Until she cleared the booze from their house, tacitly acknowledging that he was an alcoholic. No wonder he’d been an argumentative man, hell-bent on winning and being in charge.

We learned her husband had been the powerful owner of an industrial heating and cooling company that had done loads of work on the casinos that populated Las Vegas. She’d been his secretary, but neither divulged details – nor did we ask. Partying was a major component of their lifestyle. A laissez-faire kinship evolved, fostered by the occasional postal carrier lapse in delivering one of their bills to our house and vice versa.

One year, when we didn’t plan to travel to the Midwest to visit with our families for Thanksgiving (our Christmas trip was only a few weeks away), Betty invited us to their small family feast. Perhaps we were the buffer between their disparate children, neither of whom was married. I don’t recall the context, but wise-cracking comes easily to my husband and I… Betty exclaimed in reply to one remark, “Larry, you’re out of the will!.” There was a twinkle in her eye as she said it and he immediately laughed. The remark was so out of character that the entire table chortled.

Years passed. When her husband died, my husband and I were among the dozen at the service. It wasn’t unexpected; she said, “So many of our friends have passed.”  Eventually, she tired of living alone – “of doing dishes for one”, she said – and moved into a retirement village.

She died a year ago without fanfare, certain that all of her friends were dead and few family members remained, All true, but her legacy in my life lives one – every time I water and feed our sweet violets.

Betty Will: where there was a will, there was a way… to be fondly remembered.