Betty took me home after church for a lunch of soup and a sandwich.
On our walk back to church before the worship service, she had asked me if I liked soup. Of course I did.
My mother had heated Campbell’s soup for me on many cold mornings and I had eaten it for breakfast. To me, soup was synonymous with condensed soup in a can.
Such was not to be the case. Betty made homemade soup and seemed shocked that I had ever tasted any other kind.
It had a wonderful clear broth, the best chicken and vegetables cooked to perfection. Not too crunchy and not overly done, but just right.
The sandwich was made on home-baked bread and featured beef that had been butchered not many weeks earlier. It had then been “cold-packed” she told me. I saw the canning jar and recognized it as the kind my own mother had used for fruit when I was very small.
I stayed with Betty many times over the next few times, and put on a several pounds in the process. I was told that she planned her whole week around my Saturday and Sunday visits. If there was ever an angel to care for me it was Betty, but she never allowed me to call her “Aunt Betty”.
The next Saturday, after the capture of the local thief in Betty’s living room, was the annual Sunday school party and was I in for a treat!