My Mom had this story that I heard over and over about how she and her friend Betsy had once, impulsively hitch-hiked from Boston to Hyannis, hopped a ferry to Nantucket, and arrived unannounced at my Great-Grandmother's (my mother's grandmother) door.
The story was a lesson about always finding opportunities to be impulsive and adventurous, but also call before you show up so you don't make the matriarch mad.
This story once got re-told in front of Betsy and she laughed, "I remember that day, we were so out of our minds stoned."
The story was a lesson about how we don't always share all the details, and when talking about the 70's, you can safely assume that everyone was stoned all the time.
Everyone needs a Betsy.
We need a Betsy to laugh at our miserable faces the first time we take a sip of whiskey sour punch.
We need a Betsy to send us the largest fruit and cookies basket in the known universe when Grandpa dies and the world comes tumbling down.
We need a Betsy to remind us that our parents were young and stupid, just like us.
We need a Betsy to tell us over and over again, how lucky we were to be born into this loud, drunk, completely insane family.
We need someone with her optimism in the face of the worst hands a life can be dealt.
We need her snark, and her joy, and her cut-the-bullshit.
We need her life story of perseverance, and getting shit done, and love when least expected.
I am so grateful that I got to have a Betsy. I am so grateful that my Mom got to have a Betsy.
"Oooh, that whiskey sour, it is punch with a punch, you'know what I'm sayin"