When I first met Betty she looked up from her book of wild flowers, gave me quick greeting and returned to her task of identifying a flower she had found in the woods. I was not offended. I had heard about Betty from her son—whom I’d been dating—and knew about her passion for the outdoors.
Knew she had a master’s degree in insects with a specialty in beetles. “She used to show us how to find beetles under pieces of rotten wood,” her son had told me. I thought I’d prefer to leave the beetles where they were, but I was impressed.
I got to know Betty better when I married her son and spent time at the family cabin on a lake where she loved to sit around a campfire in a grove of pine trees.
Years later, she and her husband were looking at a house to buy when the realtor pointed out an enormous white pine leaning over the garage.
“You might want to take that tree down,” the realtor said, “so it won’t fall on the garage.”
“No,” Betty said at once. “I can replace the garage.”
