I have a special story of the last year which strangely has Bette as a central character. For the past eight months or so I've been through a breast cancer time. I detected a lump in my breast in late spring or early summer. I sat paralyzed through covid fatigue, denial, fear, and not wanting to get to reality with myself until the end of July. In mid-August II was diagnosed with DCIS (ductal carcinoma in situ) and I had a double mastectomy on October 6. The cancer was caught early. After the surgery I was declared to be at stage O cancer.  No need for chemo, radiation, or hormone therapy. By doing the surgery, the housing of the cancerous cells "in situ" was destroyed (as well as the pre-cancerous cells themselves) and cancer has been virtually cut off at the pass. Now I am pretty much recovered from surgery and I feel absolutely back to my old self. I am filled with gratitude and somberness that I have been given more time to live and am determined to do it with everything I have to give. And now I come to Bette. During this entire ordeal she placed herself right next to my heart and within ear range. And she talked to me constantly. She literally taught me how to go through this terrifying experience. She admonished me not to whine, not to burden others with the details of my situation, how to tap into my reservoir of patience to take this one step at a time and not live at the mercy of stories I wanted to make up in my head. She reminded me to laugh, see the beauty around me, embrace the love coming my way every day, and experience the goodness of my life with gratitude and joy. She took my hand and walked with me through this long, terrifying tunnel of fear. This Thanksgiving I've been thinking back on last year and the beginning of Marcia's and my being with Bette through to her death. And I've been thinking about being spared that journey, at least for now. The truth is, with soulmates, as Bette is for so many of us, we are together, forever, death notwithstanding. This last year she gave her latest gift to me. And I am  making it my goal to pass that gift forward to others, in whatever way is necessary. Thank you, dear friend Bette, for helping me through one of the greatest challenges of my life.

I'm not sure where to begin. I have poured a glass of Italian Pinot Grigio though, so, cheers.

The first time I met Bette is a non-memory. It's almost as though her presence and warmth just appeared in my life one day. I do know, however, that I was a freshman in college — at the U of R — the first time we hung out one-on-one. She picked me up outside East Hall and took me to Oscar's for dinner. Over bowls of chips and salsa I remember having the urge to cry. Partially because we were laughing so hard, and partially because she was just so kind. Her compassion was radiant, and in that moment, it felt like the first fresh breath I'd taken in a long time. In the car on the way back to campus I remember so clearly not wanting the evening to end that I almost blurted out, 'Krikorian!' (The name of the local movie theater.) After she dropped me off, she texted: So nice to see you, Erin. Maybe next time dinner AND a movie?

From there our friendship developed and quickly she became much more to me than just my mom's cool friend from Grossmont Hall. As I sit here now, missing her greatly, I feel saddened by her departure, but not gypped. Of course I wish we could have had more bowls of chips and salsa together, but the time we did have was so rich. Her generosity and love was like an enormous searchlight. When it was directed at you, it was difficult to see or feel anything else, and it could locate you from anywhere on the planet.

In early 2020 I went through the most traumatic experience of my life. Today, I was looking through cards that friends and family sent throughout the year, and I was reminded that so many of them came from Bette. Over twenty percent, in fact. In the most challenging year of her life, she sent me more than a few incredibly thoughtful cards to help me through the most painful year of mine. That's who Bette was. I will love her, and be guided by her enormous heart, always.

Hello everyone, my name is Phil Lovelady. Bette Bass, Sandy Hughes, Marcia Lovelady and I were travelers together in Italy, Spain, Slovenia, and Croatia from 2005 to 2016, always for a month at a time, going where we wanted, traveling out from a shared apartment in a different place each week. Our approach was planned, yet playful, always taking roads less traveled, experiencing amazing places, gracious people, returning often to little restaurants we loved, rewarded with laughter, local wine, homemade Lemoncello or Grappa, shared around at night’s end.

Bette was our sweet ambassador, opening friendly contact and conversation, always so full of fun, showing genuine appreciation for people and excellent food, the food probably given a little extra care, because of her smile.

In Rome, after walking hot streets for many days, and seeing every church built and statue carved by Borromini and Bernini, Bette soon called each one another ‘Borromini Weenie’. We kept going even when exhausted, learning the importance of expression, perception and passion, and also the price of personal persecution or acceptance because of art. It was worth every step. Her favorite was Moses in Chains, a huge statue of the prophet chained to a throne, his back to the Vatican, hidden away in a corner of Rome. She loved it. She even got locked inside, all alone with Moses. Who else could say that?

And then there was the time little Bette stood face to face with the tall and stately Commander of the Italian Presidential Guard, with a white plume on his helmet, at the Imperial Palace. He had ordered her to halt, bringing the full Guard to attention with rifles and bayonets at ready because of a terrorist threat to the President, yet she continued to question him about the band concert we had come to see. Here, she taught us about being calm and persistent, staying focused on the goal, even when faced with adversity.

Along the way we followed dirt roads into sunflowers fields, where we escaped and played for hours among huge, open yellow flowers, sharing freedom, respect for simplicity, natural beauty, pure joy and fear of bees.

I finally learned the letters CP were Bette’s abbreviation for Cutie Pie. In Venice, the CP owner of the restaurant below our apartment, had told her white wine would cure her cold, and it did, so each evening we would stop in for a bottle before dinner, paying for it later, as we ended up eating there every night, as we all learned the power of a welcoming smile, friendship, laughter, pride in one’s work, the magic of perfect pasta and fresh clams, and of course, the importance of white wine as a universal pharmaceutical.

In Umbria, we learned the brilliance of thin crust stone-fired pizza, the passion of fresh vegetables grown just outside the kitchen, picked and cooked at the last moment before the meal, and then in Croatia the importance of trusting your waiter with the suggestion of black-ink risotto that has no worldly comparison in delicate exuberance of taste. ‘Trust Your Waiter’ became our mantra. And it worked. Trust each other, and trust your waiter – all for one, and one for all, everyone in this adventure together.

We walked ancient streets in hilltop villages, were invited into people’s homes, and into a small neighborhood church by an old parish priest, proud of ancient frescos bright in color, newly uncovered under white-washed walls, who then played Bing Crosby’s White Christmas for us in July, the only English CD he owned, as Bette and Sandy tried without success, to subdue their laughter so they wouldn’t embarrass the poor Italian priest.

And Bette could be a little obsessive at times, in a very funny way, which she would also laugh at herself. And I admit, I loved to get her going. I remember once asking innocently, “Exactly what color is chartreuse”? Bette’s first response, ‘Who the fuck cares?” but then, the teacher, defining the word, and sighting so many outlandish examples and color variables, we were soon laughing so hard it was difficult to breathe, which, of course, led to an equally hilarious discussion of the color “Puce”. She was so much fun.

Bette was born on December 2 and left us on December 21, 73 years later. She left us surrounded by the amazing love of everyone here today. She felt your presence. Your love gave her courage, through her illness and also when she was ready to leave.She lived each day and then she left us, in her own way. The way she wanted. She was so truly blessed by each of you.

December 21 is a very special day, with this year the convergence of planets, two bright stars leading the way to the heavens, but also the Winter Solstice, the day the earth again begins its journey back around the sun, a spiritual and philosophic day, first day of winter, with the shortest amount of daylight of the entire year, a short day made bright by people decorating their homes and warmly opening their hearts to welcome the promise of Christmas.

December 21 is now Bette’s day. It is also my birthday. We are the same age. It is my honor to share this day with her, our dear friend, for now we will always start each year as travelers again, so grateful, joyous, laughing, always in celebration of each journey in this wonderful life on earth.

Thank you, Bette, for traveling through life with us, teaching us so much about curiosity, compassion, beauty, laughter and love.

We love you, and will miss you always, a true CP, sweet Elizibetta.

Our Pepper Tree School book group was created in a round-about manner. It began as dining and theater-going together when Dolly and I both retired and didn't want to lose contact with each other. Somewhere along the way, our twosome morphed into a fivesome when we invited Bette, Barbara and Marcia to join us. During dinner we always talked about what we were reading and one day it became clear to us that we wanted to retire driving into LA to attend the theater and  become a book group. We had strong ideas about how we envisioned the book group to be: namely, that the focus was on reading and discussing with a little bit of catching up on the side. No dinners. No wine. No extras. Just books and the work of learning, loving literature and the written word, and sharing our reading journey with one another.

     Those of you who have had a book group experience know that each person in the group brings a unique personality and perspective. As you would expect, Bette's contribution to the work of the group was an exceptional one.

     Barbara writes: "Bette took her membership in the group very seriously. Not only did she enjoy our company as friends, but she recognized that the reading of each book and the conversation that we shared about it helped to enrich us as individuals.

     Bette was always prepared. She read carefully, took notes on colorful post its attached to every other page, and underlined passages to help her understand the book we were reading and also to guide her in the conversation that we had surrounding it. Her comments were always insightful and helped guide the group's thinking.

     Bette was a thoughtful and careful listener. Although she had definite personal ideas about what we were reading, she generously accepted opposing opinions. I always felt safe sharing my ideas even when they were different from Bette's.

     When it came Bette's turn to select the books that we would choose from, she invested much time and effort in preparing the selections. She knew and understood our personalities so well that her books were often just exactly what we needed at the time."

     It occurs to me that this is how Bette approached every endeavor of her life--jumping in with both feet, doing thorough preparation for whatever she was taking on, being attentive and generous to her fellow comrades, and completely enjoying the experience.

     We stopped meeting in person as the pandemic took control of our lives and turned to Zoom. Each month we gathered in front of our computers and continued our work. I will have to say, however, that our reading choices changed somewhat as time went on and we were hunkered down in isolation and boredom, and the weight of the world was so heavy. In addition to the monthly selection we chose to read and discuss, we went on a mystery/detective spree that careened out of control and gave us a wild roller coaster ride. It was classic escape time! We researched new mystery writers, tried them out, and in some cases read all "20 books in a series." We fell in love with Cork O'Connor, the retired sheriff in rural Minnesota connected to the Ojibwe nation and police chief Russ Van Alstyne and his love affair with Episcopal minister Clare Fergusson in upstate New York. We bought books by the car-load lot, passed them to one another in plastic bags on front doorsteps, and talked endlessly on the phone about our new literary friends. We had so much fun!

     Fittingly, our last book selection was made by Bette for discussion on January 5th. She put forth only one title: All the Devils are Here by Louise Penny. Over the years we had read all of Penny's wonderful books and heard her in person twice. Armand Gamache and the beloved characters of Three Pines certainly had captured our hearts and minds, as had the humanity of Louise Penny herself. Bette said, "We've read all the Penny books but we've never talked about one in book group. That's what I want us to do." Of course, we agreed. So, we'll do it on Zoom in February, with Bette leading the charge. Her thoughts will be sorely missed.

Dolly Harty, Barbara Shelton, Marcia Lovelady and Sandy Hughes