By Glenn Dromgoole

I was privileged to have a number of grownups who cared about me when I was growing up. But there was always one special grownup, one great friend, who not only cared about me but who was fun. She laughed often and laughed heartily. There was always a twinkle in her eyes. Decades later, her wonderful laugh still resonates in my memory, especially in the summer.

Her name was Betty Moor, and she died a good many years ago, well into her nineties. She and my mother became friends in college, taking summer courses together. Theirs was one of those rare friendships that not only lasts but grows.

Betty never married. She taught first grade most of her life. She lived in Galveston, about seventy miles from our home in Sour Lake. 

Most of her life she didn’t drive. She rode the bus to visit us. When she finally bought a car, it was a funny car – a small Plymouth coupe with no back seat. Just the kind of car that seemed right for Betty.

My brother and I always called her Betty, not Miss Moor like her students did. And although Betty was officially mother’s friend, we thought of her as ours.

We loved it when she would come to visit. She would play games with us, our favorite being “Hide and Switch,” which is a lot like “Hide and Seek” except when you find the person who is hiding, you switch them with a branch as they run all the way to home base. 

Today that would probably get an adult arrested for child abuse. Back then we thought it was a lot of fun. We switched Betty a lot more than she ever switched us – and a lot harder, I’m sure. 

Several summers I visited Betty and her elderly mother at their home in Galveston, just a short drive from the beach. Their house was cooled by the gulf breeze, and even in summer it never seemed too hot.  

Early every morning Betty and I would go to the beach where we would swim, cook breakfast, and search for seashells and sand dollars until it became too hot. Then it was back to her house to play games and take naps until it was cool enough to go back to the beach and swim and cook supper and search for seashells. She would take me to the best seashell shop in town, and I still have shells I found or bought in Galveston. The day wouldn’t be complete until she took me to a Little League baseball game or an amusement park.

We would stop by the grocery store and buy plums, then drive to the Galveston-Bolivar ferry landing, park the car and walk on, eat plums while enjoying the ferry ride, then turn around and ride back. Such a simple pleasure; I’ve loved ferries ever since.

No wonder this lady always held a special place in my heart. But there’s another reason. She got so much out of life because she put so much into it.

When she was in her 80s, I visited her in the retirement home where she lived. She told me about her week. On Mondays she went to the homeless shelter to do volunteer work. On Tuesdays she helped with the international ministry at her church. On Wednesdays she walked three miles (if she couldn’t hitch a ride) to midweek church services. Thursdays were reserved for cleaning her apartment and washing and ironing her clothes. On Fridays she went to a hospital to play with the children who were victims of severe burns. (“I hope you don’t play ‘Hide and Switch,’” I teased her.) Saturdays were grocery shopping days. On Sundays she went to church, morning and evening.

Even after she was so old that she couldn’t hear much at all, she continued to go to church every Sunday. People asked her, “Betty, if you can’t hear the music and you can’t hear the sermon, why do you keep going to church?” Betty smiled her beautiful smile and said, “I just want everyone to know whose side I’m on.”

For me, there was never a doubt. Betty was on my side. Always.

Glenn Dromgoole is the author of 35 books, including A Small Town in Texas (out of print) and Coleman Springs USA.