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PRUDENCE PIONEER

Remembrances

Violet Watters of Acton

By Elliot McRae

Last week we lost a true original. Ms. Violet Watters of Acton, Massachusetts died at age 75 if we’re to take her word at face value. Her age, of course, is the least interesting thing about her. Violet was born in Prudence, a February Aquarius, as she let everyone know whether they wanted to learn this fact or not while she grabbed your palm and read you like an airport newsstand bestseller. She is survived, presumably by any number of jilted jazz drummers she loved and left over the decades across the American continent, as well as three adopted nieces who adored her; Evelyn, Kathryn, and Amelia. She is also survived by their grateful mother Olivia and unfortunately by myself, since I am now without friend and confidant.

A true pioneer unto her last, Ms. Watters succumbed to the COVID-19 virus. She is one of its first confirmed casualties in the United States, despite not having to my knowledge travelled outside the Nashaway Valley for the last two decades. In that time, she was the mainstay and anchor at my public house, The Black Goat Tavern.

To those who did not know her, she was a bag lady, or a cat lady, or that kooky Volvo lady, or maybe the neighborhood witch. Such was her purposefully under pruned yard and overgrown lawn that kids from all the surrounding towns dared each other to knock on her door each Halloween. It was the only night each year, New England’s weather permitting, when she didn’t venture out to the Goat. Instead, she’d shout ‘Boo!’ from her upstairs window and then toss down full size candy bars to the few brave souls who made it up the front steps. And if I went by to clear that yard of leaves, snow, or weeds, I always caught hell. ‘Let nature take its course!’ she’d shout with some effs and other choice curses mixed in.

Even for myself, the particulars of her life remained a mystery. How she could afford that big house all on her own was a matter she never mentioned. To be fair, I never asked. And how she could find color coordinated felt berets for each season without possessing any knowledge as how to shop online, is but one of many other stylish eccentricities I could never figure out. In the end, Violet Watters was no mystery at all. She was very real. Real to the point, that unlike most of us she didn’t shy away from death, including thoughts about her own. ‘Bury me, toss me in the river, strike a match and light the pyre, shoot me into space! For God sakes Eli, let nature take its course!’

According to her wishes, the bar tab she predeceased has been forwarded to Huntsville, Alabama for proper calculation. Although she never paid in money for the countless cases of Italian red wines she strongarmed me into ordering for what had at first been a local dive, she cleared her debts in personality with more than enough charm leftover for gratuities.

In truth, she was my most important employee. When I was at a loss to listen and provide guidance to patrons, especially in my early days as an owner/proprietor, it was Violet who gave anyone who wanted it a sympathetic ear and devilishly to the point counsel. Marital problems, financial problems, problems at the office, problems with the kids. I steered them all to Violet’s corner table, just within earshot of the bar. She had an incredible talent for giving people the best advice and somehow convincing them that it was their idea all along. Now, that is all gone. But the fruit her wisdom bore will never fully leave the lives she touched. At least not so long as we let nature take its course.

She wasn’t much of a baseball fan, but she still used her spare key to open up the Goat and wait for me when I returned home from Game 4. She’d found a case of champagne in the back that was meant for a wedding she’d rightfully talked one of us out of. After one bottle, I called it quits, much to her disappointment. Please join me in drinking the rest and toasting her honor this Sunday. Bring earplugs and sunglasses. Little Richard will be played at full volume and every flag in town will be flown at full mast. This is literally what she asked for when we first met all those years ago in 1997, apropos of seemingly nothing and now so clearly for the reason of giving me something to do in my grief. Even though her time with us is at an end, I still can’t say no to Ms. Violet Watters.