Betty toils behind the counter at my local lumberyard. She is short and slim, has brown hair and a childlike Betty Boop sounding voice, which is odd coming from a woman who must be in her mid-forties. Her voice makes me want to go home and watch cartoons.

I placed a quart of ceiling paint on the counter.

ìAnything else you need?î

ìNo, thatís it. And I see you are bundled up again.î I looked around and she was the only one wearing more than a long sleeved shirt. Even teardrop-shaped Al who often wears sweaters sported only pin stripes.

ìNo blood.î

ìNo what?î

ìNo blood. I am always cold and growing up my Swedish grandparents told me I didnít have enough blood.î

ìAnd your parents… ?î

ìMy mother died when I was four and my father was no good. I plopped into my grandparents’ lives when I was four and they were about fifty.î

ìI lived next to a couple who raised their two granddaughters after the girls’ parents were killed in an auto accident. The grandmother lived forever, but not so for the grandfather.î

ìMine lived into their eighties and they died a month apart.î

ëThat must have been awful. I mean, they were your parents,really.î

ìIt was and they were. I was in my thirties then.î

Betty turned away to retrieve my printed sales receipt. I could see another salesman, David, who could play a perfect mall Santa Claus, sitting behind his desk, listening. Betty returned.

ìAnd they thought you needed more blood?î

ìI was hungry all the time. Iíd eat all day and my growling stomach would wake me at night for another meal. And I couldnít stay warm. When they cooked a roast beef they would pour the blood and the fat from the bottom of the pan into a glass and make me drink it.î

ìThat sounds delicious.î

ìIt was terrible, especially the fat. I drank it from nine until about twelve, but as a teenager, they couldnít make me drink it.î

ìItís funny, isnít it? The stuff that gets handed down. In extreme climates like the arctic that fat would be good for you.î

ìNow I just wear a sweater.î

Today’s Art