Beaulah Delaney

Beaulah Delaney had buried two husbands and an only son and child killed in one of the undeclared American wars.

Delaney was her proper, ancestral name. But after the death of her second husband she concluded it time to reclaim the identity. “They didn’t outlast me,” she reasoned about the men in her life. “I outlasted them. And their money.”

Beaulah Delaney was nobody’s fool.

She was raised hard. And lived hard. There was no assuming her friendship or business, especially if you had a penis. And those who did and mistakenly called her “Bea” without invitation or consent, and with a familiarity she particularly resented, felt her immediate venom.

“You call me that again and the only bee you’ll know is the one I’ll shove up your ass with my foot. The name is Beaulah.” But she didn’t end there. Didn’t let them off the hook. “Say it,” she calmly demanded unapologetically. And when they gave in and pronounced it, she goaded them even more. “Now spell it” Of course, they usually couldn’t and so she warned, “Don’t say what you can’t spell.” Followed by her favorite life’s maxim, “And don’t think what you don’t know.”

Beaulah was her great-great-great grandmother’s name and, with her husband Zebadiah, started the very farm Beaulah never left. Her partiality to this relative was obvious. “She lived to be 102. A miracle in those days. Worked her ass off on this land because back then work was all you had if you wanted to survive and you were grateful to have it. Never even left the county. Minded her own business. Gave to the poor when needed. Saved her money literally penny by penny. I still have her old account books with notes penciled in. She helped make this town,” she was quick to inform and educate people, especially developers and real estate people who salivated over her land complete with pond, hills, woods, fields and orchards. “But that’s a whole ‘nother story.”

What Beaulah lacked in female graces she made up for in sturdy stock and work. And a healthy complexion that was its own makeup. Her hands were strong, fingernails bereft of polish. And she could flex a bicep. In school she could throw a football and bat a ball. Even excelled in home economics. Boys liked her for who she was. And when Amy McPherson, pert and pretty, chided boys that the only reason they liked her was because “Beaulah blew ya,” she didn’t waste any time. Waited for Amy after school and jumped her easily. Got her in a headlock until she squirmed and cried like a roped calf. “You let go of me! I’ll tell my parents and the cops will come after you! There is something wrong with you, Beaulah Delaney. You’re not a girl at all!” Beaulah squeezed the pretty head like a nut in a metal vise.

“I hear you or any of your snotty friends say anything dirty and nasty like that about me or one of my friends and you’ll feel something worse than this. Understand?” And she swung her round locking and pinning her arm behind her back pulling and threatening to break it. “I said ‘Do. You. Understand?’” Amy cried out.

“I still don’t hear nothin’,” Beaulah chided. When Amy give in, Beaulah grabbed a handful of hair. “And the only person any cop is going to arrest is you telling lies not just about me but others, too.”

In her senior year, Amy McPherson got pregnant and had to drop out of school. Beaulah was indifferent. Said nothing. She didn’t have to.