Remembering Bette – My Best Friend of Nearly 70 Years

Bette has been my friend, almost a sister, despite distance and long absences, for almost 70 years. She passed away unexpectedly last week.

We met the summer before fourth grade when each of our families moved into our new homes in the suburbs of Long Island’s North Shore.  It was a fairly rural, modern Quaker settlement then – no sidewalks, a one-room school house, hitching posts and a general store – though definitely on its way to becoming much like any upscale “new-money” home development, with horses and streams and a town called Hicksville across the tracks. Yes, Billy Joel’s home. He was a contemporary of ours. We lived on the “right side” of those tracks.

Bette was then, as she remained through the years, a kind, open, steady and welcoming person. She grew up with many of the things I didn’t have – for example, a functional loving family that discussed instead of shouted and went fun places together as a family; and imported Irish girls as live-in “au pairs “ (we called them maids back then). My African American housekeeper came once a week and was chubby and old. We shared her with my many aunts in a rotation that would tire any 20-year-old.

Bette was a very capable student. Steady and successful, she always made honor roll. She had a place in the glee club each year. She played the piano beautifully. We all took lessons, but Bette made it into Mrs. Gillery’s Gallery for the very gifted musician.

Bette’s father could play the piano, too, but his forte was the horn and the trumpet as I recall. When Bette met Gene, her former husband, he wooed her with quiet guitar music. Bette accompanied him on the piano. As an adult, she never owned up to those talents but she kept a keyboard near for her children. As far as I know, her son Bob and his son George, named for Bette’s father, are musical.

Another insight into her early years: Though understated, her home was decorated in fine European style, with a cherry red carpet and an enormous crystal chandelier hanging against the far fireplace wall. That chandelier is now hanging from a tree in my upper patio. We had it installed for this past July 4.

I sent her pictures and promised to show her more photos when I came down for a visit after the weekend. I was the one charged with protecting that chandelier all these decades and had just finally realized how it could be used. Unfortunately, I never got to show her all the photos.

Her childhood den was an English library, complete with built-in oak book shelves and a travelling ladder, Harry Potter style. The room had a slate floor, a red rug, a red boucle sectional and a baby grand piano where many in the family sat and played. Grand but warm.

Bette had been my rock since we met as children.  Her parents enabled me to experience a functional family and so I learned how to function. They allowed me to be me. I wasn’t confused or angry with them. They taught me acceptance and love.

The Hamiltons were refined people. Mr. Hamilton had been an attorney and then a judge during the Nuremberg trials. He later became a stockbroker and, in Arizona, a realtor. Mrs. Hamilton, always by his side, kept the books for the Arizona realty office. They never yelled. They would whisper and remove themselves or any offender from the scene. Quiet, direct, constructive. You saw that in Bette. I always envied that. It’s still my relationship model though I often fall short. I’m a bit more earthy and demonstrative than that.

Betty had two “brothers,” now deceased: Paul, her biological younger brother, and Danny, her adopted cousin from her father’s side. They both attended military academies instead of public school. Bette spent at least one summer at Institute Le Rosey, the exclusive Swiss boarding school. She had a privileged life, which led her to be a confident, but unassuming, young girl.

At Paul’s bar mitzvah, Mr. Hamilton jammed with Lionel Newman and Danny Kaye among others, who were playing at that shindig. I wasn’t at that celebration, but I did attend her Sweet 16 party, held at the now-legendary Copacabana nightclub in New York City. A day in “The City.” I’d never been. I was overwhelmed.

While I was soaking up the ease of Bette’s household, I was also in the middle of one teenage crisis after another. While there was seldom peace in my home, after my father died during the summer before sixth grade or fifth (I don’t remember which) things got worse.

Bette’s parents welcomed me for family dinners, gatherings and field trips. They even took me for rides in their four-seater plane, which they kept in Roosevelt Field, near Mr. Hamilton’s office. I don’t remember where we flew that first time, but I do remember that we stopped for a fabulous lunch in a place I’d never seen. They showed me success, grace, care and calm. I credit them and Bette with whatever sanity I possess today.

Through the years of our lives – while children, college roommates at Ohio State University or adults experiencing divorce – Bette and I reached out to each other and supported one another. Our families met as often as we could if geography or a shortage of cash didn’t get in the way. My family made a point of spending Christmas in Arizona or San Diego, wherever Bette lived. Bette and her family came to me for the occasional Passover seder or Chanukkah party. Though raised as a Jew, she wasn’t observant but absolutely loved a good corn beef on rye and a coke. Whenever we could find a place that had that sandwich on the menu, off we’d go. Good or bad prep, we loved it. If I came down to visit her soon after a Jewish holiday, I’d try to bring her some of my brisket. She loved that, too. I think her kids also do — and I hope to see and feed them many times more. My place or theirs.

I miss Bette and I am sure I will continue to do so for a very long time.

The author does not speak on behalf of Hadassah and the views expressed herein are the author’s own and not necessarily those of Hadassah.

Ronnie is a member of the Hadassah Writers’ Circle, a dynamic and diverse writing group for leaders and members to express their thoughts and feelings about all the things Hadassah does to make the world a better place. It’s where they celebrate their personal Hadassah journeys and share their Jewish values, family traditions and interpretations of Jewish texts. Hadassah members are proud of their Zionist mission and their role as keepers of the flame of Jewish values, traditions and beliefs as well as advocating for women’s empowerment and health equity for all. Since 2019, the Hadassah Writers’ Circle has published nearly 800 columns in The Times of Israel Blogs and other Jewish media outlets. Interested in writing? Please contact hwc@hadassah.org.