Thanksgiving always makes me think of Betty Bell. Aside from being the
mom of two of my high school friends, Mrs. Bell exemplified graciousness
and hospitality.
It seemed like Mrs. Bell was always in the kitchen, not just cooking,
but reading, listening and always ready to dispatch requested advice,
homework tutoring and world philosophy.
Mrs. Bell found us interesting and interested. We found her the same.
Her stay-at-home mom status was just a friendly front. She was also a
world traveler, intellect, comedian and surrogate parent for a bevy of
children who her girls dragged through the front door.
I never spent a Thanksgiving with the Bells, but somehow, I feel as if
I've spent many Thanksgivings at their house. There was always a recipe
book open; there was always a lot of chatter. Their family wasn't big, it
was just the two girls, but the kitchen was constantly full, and there
was invariably a great deal of sharing going on. Actually, I think the
food was the least it: There was more sharing of the day's news, boy-girl
relationships, school happenings and college aspirations. Basically, we
solved most of the world's problems in that kitchen, although we didn't
always do a stellar job with our own conundrums.
Occasionally I would find the kitchen empty, and I would get Mrs. Bell
to myself. I never wasted a moment like that. This was an opportunity to
ask questions or make observations without peer pressure. Mrs. Bell
always gave a thoughtful answer.
After we graduated from high school, we all dispersed to different
locales -- her girls to private universities, I to UCLA. The Bell
tradition of dragging "strays" home continued throughout the girls'
college and graduate school careers. Mrs. Bell always welcomed the motley
crews with open arms.
Her beloved recipe books remained open on the kitchen table. As we got
older, she would try recipes from her experiences abroad. In addition to
widening our food repertoire, our discussions became more philosophical
and politically activated. Mrs. Bell remained a good listener and
sometimes a referee.
After I graduated college and moved to Costa Mesa, I would
occasionally receive notes from Mrs. Bell, which were always very proper,
yet full of praise. The notes were never solicited, just random acts of
kindness and encouragement, like an unexpected gift in the mailbox.
I was the first from her girls' group of friends to get married. I
made a point of getting Mrs. Bell's "permission" to marry Ben and
