Share this:

Sometimes I channel my current WIP characters, especially if I have been in a deep state of writing for hours. At times it feels trance like; scenes appear in my manuscript that I don’t remember writing. These scenes stay with me, long after I’ve logged off my computer to head for work at the toy store.

Yesterday, I was so involved in what was happening with my main character, Ibbie-Rae, that I forgot to eat breakfast, and I barely finished my second cup of coffee. After handing the reins to my Sleepy Mind at 6 A.M., I sat back to enjoy the ride, having too much fun thwarting her tightly controlled plans. The more wrenches I threw at her, via a Jerry Garcia obsessed kid, the more fun I had. Though she won’t admit it, eleven-year-old Ibbie-Rae likes to micro manage, especially when it comes to her parents. Enough said on that. (My dad always said, “Keep your stories within; protect them, and allow them to grow as they should, through your writing process. The minute you discuss an under-developed manuscript, precious energy  escapes, and sometimes, the desire to finish the story.”) While I am in the revision stage for the completed manuscript, changes are occurring, thanks to characters who have politely informed me that I, the writer, need to let go and listen to them.

So in the spirit of Ibbie-Rae, I arrive at work, having been up for four hours. I am hungry, but happy to greet the gigantic bear that sits on our front porch. Surprisingly so, the early January weather is warm enough to prop open the front door. I hang the birds outside, vacuum the lower level carpets, restock the bags, and greet the first customers, which is when I see The Note.

The Note is my clue that while things appear normal in the lower part of the large, old-fashioned toy store, the upper level may hold surprises for me. I read: “I will be in at noon to help with the boxes.”

The Boxes, I think. How many can there be? I walk up the ramp with slight trepidation, past the dolls . . . past the puzzle area . . . past the books, and . . . the Playmobil shelves are blocked by at least twenty boxes. Manageable, I think, until I notice that a cumbersome Schleich display is no longer pushed against the wall. It has gone missing, so I search, only to find another room filled with twenty or more large boxes. I take a deep breath, try to channel Ibbie-Rae, who would know what to do and already be in the midst of organizing the shipment.

But it doesn’t end there; I can barely see the floor of the science section, there are so many boxes, and there is the missing Schleich rack.

I wish I had eaten breakfast, or at least, finished my coffee.

I put myself in the mind of my character. How would she handle this challenge? I slice open every box, only to discover that the majority of boxes contain multiple boxes within. I take those boxes out. There are card games, building sets, bowling sets, lacrosse sticks, baby toys, bath toys, baby bottles, Calico Critters and Calico Critters and more Calico Critters, because these little critters (adored by kids) have no recession or economic problems in their world. They have cozy cottages, town houses, tree houses, and luxury mansions. They drive fancy cars and have a full-stocked and furnished trailer. Families of raccoons, elephants, hedgehogs, dogs, bunnies, cats, squirrels, and deer manage triplets and twins without a problem, because there are Ferris wheels and play groups, and I don’t know if any of the animal parents even work. Their latest addition is a motorcycle with sidecar. I suppose, while the Calico Critter babies are being cared for at The Nursery, the parents ride around their luxurious town, feeling the breeze against their fur.

Personally, I am just as happy to get up before the sun rises to write for four hours in my pajamas. I wouldn’t trade that for anything, not even the hot tub that comes with the Calico Critter tree house.

I find my confidence, march to the back stock room for an assortment of baskets. I open the bi-fold door and—the door, which has been a source of frustration at times, falls off the track and nearly takes me out before I’ve priced a single item. I carefully put it back on the track. I slide the door to its closed position and try again. It falls off and, this time, hits me on the head. I study the piece of tracking. Bent and hopelessly out of shape, I call maintenance. Within a minute of their arrival, I am told, “Yup, it’s bent, can’t fix it. We’ll call you back about a new piece of track after our break.”

Tomorrow is the weekend; the bi-fold door must work properly, not at the point where it falls over and hits employees on the head, namely me. I have survived a large, heavy doll falling from a high shelf to hit me on the head, and walking into a rack, but the door . . .  All I need now is for the village ducks to waddle into the store.

By now, it is noon, and help arrives. I nearly jump up and down with excitement. Another person means I can get food and sustenance so I can handle the hundreds of boxes and now the door crisis, among other challenges that have arisen today.

I am not a superstitious person, but I look at the calendar and realize it is Friday the 13^th. That thought aside, I direct the other employee on Plan A: Sort by category first, then price merchandise, after which you stack in the area it belongs in. Look at one box at a time to keep from feeling overwhelmed. We proceed with gusto. Empty boxes are folded and stacked. Shelves begin to look less empty, following the busy holiday season. I have eaten a cup of soup. Life is good, and then I make a follow-up call (lunch hour is over) regarding the bi-fold door.

 “We can fix it on Tuesday, there’s a holiday on Monday.”

Anticipating tomorrow’s Saturday crowd, I call the owner; the door must be in working order before the next morning. I find the other employee to tell her I am headed to the nearby hardware store. “Do you know how to fix it yourself?” she asks.

“Absolutely, no idea,” I say, trying to muster up self-confidence that I can learn anything, if I have a good set of instructions. With a screwdriver, I take the existing track off the door frame to take with me, along with the metal part that fell off.

Hardware Guy takes one look at the track and shakes his head. “We don’t sell this here.”

“What do you mean? This is a hardware store. Can’t we check?”

“Nope, never seen track like this for sale here.”

“I. Need. Track,” I say, wishing I could make my eyes look like Puss from the Shrek movies. Whatever my expression ends up looking like to Hardware Guy, he proceeds down the aisles. I follow him to The Section Where Something Like What I Need, has Nothing Like What I Need. “You see,” he says. “Nothing.”

I am desperate. I am so desperate that I scan every inch of the aisle, hoping that a piece of track will fall from the ceiling and hit me on the head, so I can say, “Aha, here is it!” While this does not happen, my eyes do fall on a long narrow box with the words: Bi-fold door.

I am the one who should be working at the hardware store. I convince Hardware Guy to open up this mysterious box, which contains the perfect width track, though, too long for my needs.

“Oh, this will work,” he says, like he is the one who found it. “When you get home, use a hacksaw to shorten it.”

“I am not going home; I work at a toy store, where we sell dolls and books and puzzles. We do not have or sell hacksaws.” I give him a look of I am Not Leaving Here Until You Help Me, Because I Know You Have a Hacksaw, Being That This is a Hardware Store.

He gets my non-verbal message.

After a quick detour to Dunkin Donuts, I return to the toy store. The other employee has a glazed look on her eyes. “Snap out of it, you have to stay strong!” I tell her.

“It’s just . . . there are so many boxes and I don’t know where to begin.”

I drum my fingers against a wooden shelf and scan the remaining unpacked and un-priced merchandise. I check the time. “Okay, we are proceeding to Plan B.”

“Plan B?” she says.

“Yes, Plan B, which is you go take your break and then come back with the belief that we can get this all done before the day ends.”

Her nod lacks confidence, but knowing the Blue Squid Bakery is next door, I figure a mocha cupcake will get her motivated again.

Ten minutes later, I have a shiny and new person to direct. I point her towards the Calico Critters while I wrestle with the shiny and new piece of track. I open the bag of screws and parts. I stare at the directions with the tiniest print, little of it in English, no pictures. Nothing fits where I think it should go. I want to bang my head against the wooden desk.

I will admit to not being beneath begging the first man to come through the door to ask for help. Somehow, I manage to make my eyes resemble close to what Puss excels at when pleading for compassion in the Shrek movies. (I do ask the man’s wife, first, and his four children, who happily offer his assistance.) “My dad is a computer whizz, he loves to fix things.”

In my head, I drop to my knees to give thanks. With his clear instructions (and after I borrow an electric screwdriver from the garden store, which has run out of battery and needs recharging), I have the confidence to fix the track and door. (Thank you, kind stranger who took pity on me.)

While the borrowed screwdriver charges, I scan the remaining, unpacked boxes. With the store closing in less than three hours, I know everything will not get handled. Clearly, it’s impossible.

“We are now moving to Plan C,” I tell the other girl.

“Plan C? I thought we were on Plan B.”

“Plans change, we need to be flexible. Plan C calls for choosing the most important product to price and display, while the other boxes will be neatly stored. Plan C means Confidence and Conviction,” I say and steer her in the direction of picking and choosing.

There is still the issue of boxes that need to go to the compactor. Dozens and dozens of boxes, and the weather has intensified: wind whips the air around, and even inside the store, you can hear tree branches snap. I elect to go first. I put a load of boxes on the dolly and head outside. The wind pushes the box off the dolly. I set it back, and then maintain a tighter grip. I get to the compactor, after I pass some crow on a precarious branch, watching me. “Caw, caw, caw,” it says as if to warn me that something is coming. The compactor is full. I leave the boxes to use my key to turn the compactor on. The motor starts up, as does the wind, with much gusto, and . . .

My load of boxes has disappeared and is now flying through the air towards the parking lot. I run. Mr. Creepy Crow caws at me. I wrestle the boxes back to the compactor and set them on the dolly. In the sky above me, birds circle. The compactor finishes its crushing cycle. I put my boxes in the metal container, forgetting about the heavy door that is now swinging back towards my head. I stop it in time, and then use my key again. The motor starts up, which is when I hear a squealing noise, the sound of wheels moving . . .

The wind is pushing the dolly through the parking lot, towards a shiny new SUV. I run, catching it in time, though another kind stranger was headed in my direction to offer assistance.

Ibbie-Rae thinks she can do everything herself, and today, she and I both learned a good lesson: One person cannot do it all. One writer cannot do it all. We all need help. Help from our fellow employees, help from other writers, help from kind strangers, and help from teachers, who teach us how to hone our craft.

Thank you to all who come to my rescue; I managed to fix the bi-fold door by closing time, though I should have paid closer attention to the crow’s warning.

 Next time, I will listen better.

Share this:

As a writer for children, I am used to having a new character’s voice come to me at any time of the day or night. I may be dreaming or driving. Bathing or taking a walk. Sometimes, I am working at the toy store, where a conversation with a young child can easily spark an idea.

But never has a project spoken to me, at least in the way that the Look For the Good Project has. It started with a newspaper article I read in our local paper. I recognized the photo of Anne Kubitsky, who I met this past May when we were both honored with a 2011 New Voices in Children’s Literature: Tassy Walden Award. She was the winner in the illustrated picture book category. What a treat to hear her voice read Graycie’s Catch. And what an honor to see her accompanying illustrations. Anne captivated the audience with her heartfelt illustrations, and her obvious love for kindness. (I have always had a soft spot for whales.)

I cut out the article and posted it near my desk. With Christmas approaching, I hurried to finish photo projects for my girls’ gifts. My time was limited; I was behind in everything. Yet, I could not stop thinking about Anne and the whale and her vision for a community art project that would become part of a traveling exhibit, featuring postcards from all over the world in which people of all ages state what makes them grateful.

My father would have loved this project and perhaps this is why the idea of it tugged at my heart. Even in pain, he would always stop to be thankful: thankful for the clouds, the comical behavior of a tiny chipmunk, the love of his family, the opportunity to speak to a grandchild or his great-granddaughter, and the ability to express himself through his writing. My father always appreciated the warmth of another’s hand, a stranger’s smile and compassion. A clean pair of sheets. Socks on his cold feet. His thinning hair being brushed. A small window so he could watch the birds outside.

The more I thought about Anne’s vision, the more grateful I was for my family, especially while I poured over photos at CVS, waiting behind a woman who had left her coupons in the car. I told her there was no need to apologize, even though it was nearly midnight and I had worked for ten hours at the toy store. She went to her car for her coupons and her bonus bucks, and when the total was finally tallied, she needed to spend 98 cents more to be able to use her CVS bucks.

“I am so sorry to hold you up,” she said.

“Relax, take your time,” I told her, studying a photo of my youngest dressed as Santa at the age of six months. (I had taped cotton balls to a bib to use as a beard.)

“Just buy some candy,” said the clerk.

“I don’t eat candy, though my dad does, but only one kind.” The woman perused the candy selection, not finding what she was after. She became flustered and then . . .

“Perfect! I found it.” She held a bag of Skittles in her hand.

My father’s favorite candy.

I believe his spirit is out there, watching over his family, nudging us when we need that extra push, and especially while our family struggled to get through our first Christmas without him.

This encounter was my father nudging me.

He would have been so grateful for that bag of Skittles, and so I contacted Anne to see how I could help with the project, because I believe in her message: the importance of reflecting on what is good.

My father taught me this, and I am forever grateful for his lessons. Every day I follow his example and find beauty in this world. Beauty that makes me stop whatever I am doing to wonder, and to be thankful for the smallest of miracles: the extraordinary within the ordinary. In this post, as with others, I share some of my photos, including the grateful postcards sent by my five-year-old granddaughter.

What about you, what makes you grateful? Ask yourself, ask your children, ask your friends. Ask a stranger. Spread the word and send a postcard. Send two. Write something. Draw something. Reflect on what is good. As Anne likes to say, “You are invited to write/ paint/ draw a glimmer of gladness on a postcard.”

The project’s link is www.lookforthegoodproject.org. There you will see a sample of many of the inspirational cards being received. Press links are included here: www.lookforthegoodproject.org/about

Postcards are needed by the 15^th of January, though any received after that will become part of the exhibit. (You can mail multiple cards in one envelope to save individual postage). The premier show will be held in New London, CT on January 28^th  at the Custom House Maritime Museum. I hope to see you there!

I have a template for three postcards per sheet that you can print on cardstock and cut up. Let me know if you would like a copy emailed to you. I always keep a handful in my purse to share as needed.

Happy New Year to all, and may you find what makes you grateful in this world. Be thankful. Peace.

P. S. – Dad, I miss you. Love you always, Betsy

 

 

 

 

 

 

Share this:

Do you know the feeling when something wonderful is brewing? Something that will lead you to the heart of a story that you thought had promise, but the potential was yet to be discovered?

These past two months, writing has helped me grieve the recent loss of my father.  I refrained from blogging to focus on my work. I even forced myself to rise earlier than the sun each morning, so that I could write in peace. Not a small feat if you know me well. Having to get out of bed early and assure that my two daughters were awake for school was torture to me.

Now I write before the sun first appears, for up to four hours, undisturbed–except for our yellow tabby that slyly inches across my writing couch and thinks I don’t notice his paw reaching over to my laptop until he plops halfway across my body and the keyboard.

I scoot Joey away and write whatever comes to mind. Or welcome new voices that have popped up in the recent days, or revisit an unfinished manuscript. (In the past month, I have written two picture books without thinking about them ahead of time. In a way, they wrote themselves, one morning between my first cup of coffee and lunch.)

In this same vein, my younger middle-grade protagonist, E. B. Louise, returned to my world one morning at 5:45 am. Still curled beneath my covers, I was not ready for fall mornings, when it is too cold to get out of bed because the heat has not yet kicked in, and the thought of having to race across a wood floor in bare feet to use the bathroom made me shiver. I decided to test the strength of my bladder and stay beneath the comforter.

E. B. Louise started to yak, yak, yak at me, and then it felt like a heavy encyclopedia had been dropped on my head.

“You know,” she said, while I rubbed the not-real swelling knot on my forehead, my covers pulled to my chin. “You are not paying attention to me and I need to finish my story.”

Let me tell you, if my dad were still alive, I would have called him for advice–right that very moment, even though he was not a morning person. He preferred to write after midnight.

“I’m stuck,” I said and pulled the covers over my head.

“Get unstuck.”

“Can’t you see that I am sleeping?”

“Makes no difference to me,” said E. B. Louise.

As much as I love the darn kid, she does not give up. I think this makes me love her even more.

I slipped on a fuzzy bathrobe, poured myself a cup of coffee, and then planted my bum in my writing chair. While my computer warmed up, I watched a bird peck at the corner of my window. Peck. Peck. Peck. With the E. B. Louise document open, I stared at the words.

Nothing happened.

I glanced up at my dad’s Pinocchio collection that now sits on the top shelf of my bookcase, and this is when the kid started to yak again, though she sounded like me.

“You know,” began E. B. Louise, “when you start to shake, mostly in your belly, like you did right before you learned you got the part of Maria in West Side Story, it means something wonderful is about to happen. Do you remember that feeling, the same one you are having now?”

I nodded, feeling ever so crazy, and wondered if I needed to find a good therapist before lunch rolled around, possibly breakfast.

Instead, I sat there and listened to the kid, until a distraction was called for, because my head was spinning. Clearly, I was not fully awake. And I preferred—this early in my day—to not feel crazy. So I lay on the couch in my writing room and opened to the first page of Clementine and the Family Meeting, because I needed to worry about someone else, and exactly what was this family meeting about? (I admit to loving Clementine by Sara Pennypacker possibly a little too much.)

So I was worrying about Clementine, and her brother Bok Choy or Brussels Sprout or Cabbage (whatever his name is at any given time of day), as well as trying to ignore E. B. Louise and  . . .

Then I heard my dad talking. “You need to rewrite the E. B. story in first person.”

Well, I thought, I already have a lot going on today, and who knows what Clementine will learn at this family meeting and I am not sure how I am going to react, and to be honest, I am exhausted from being awoken out of sleep by an encyclopedia (not literally) being dropped on my noggin.

I think, at this point, the Blue Fairy winked at me. But before I could dash for the phone book to look up Therapists For Those Who Are Mourning and Slightly Confused About The Lines of Reality, inspiration tugged at me. Hard enough, that I put a bookmark in the newest novel about Clementine and returned to the document at hand.

I began to rewrite in first person, and suddenly it all made sense. E. B. Louise bounced onto the page, and within the first paragraph, she had me.

Why hadn’t I seen this before?

Do you know the feeling of standing up to your ankles in the ocean and then a huge wave hits you and you are pulled under water, which scares you, because you can’t swim, but you find yourself laughing at the exhilaration of the unexpected moment?

This is how it felt when after weeks and weeks of missing my dad, I remembered what it was like to lose myself in writing for children.

The wave hit me hard, and the joy of dancing with words and images, knowing I was creating something wondrous, rushed back. Though it is hard to define, you feel it in your core; your belly quivers.

E. B. Louise struggles with her own loss: the loss of her beloved grandmother. Suddenly this child was showing me the world through her eyes, and how she was coping; her undying love for her  too-small elephant slippers, and how truly funny and unique she is. (My dad saw the very beginning of this piece, when I only had a voice that had come to me while raking leaves outside.)

He said, “You know, the slippers are her story.”) How right he was.

I have been trying to tell this story of hers, when all along, I should have handed E. B. Louise the reins, sat back, and let her speak, so I did exactly that.

E. B. Louise talked so fast, I could barely keep up. I typed and typed, remembering how much I love spending time with her, and more importantly, what it felt like to laugh.

I even heard my father’s laughter. Musical. Rich. Filled with playful delight and joy.

Two pages of revisions done, my fingers paused on the keyboard; I looked up at Pinocchio and Geppetto. The Blue Fairy and Jiminy Cricket.

I took Pinocchio off the top shelf and twisted the figure, as if to make him dance, remembering how much joy it gave my father. These beloved Pinocchio figures, including Mickey Mouse, once adorned his writing space, and now sit in mine. He gave them to me when I helped pack up his many manuscripts into boxes, that now remain undisturbed in my house. Until the time is right and I am strong enough to open them.

The figures remind me of my father’s spirit, his passion for writing. 

They remind me of the promise I made before he died.

They remind me that characters need to feel real, as real as the boy Pinocchio becomes, because children, our readers, deserve no less than our very best.

In the early morning, I feel the most connected to my father’s wondrous spirit. Outside the world remains silent and dark, and the owls still call out to me. But inside my writing space, with Pinocchio cheering me on, I am creating, all the while surrounded by my father’s wisdom and guidance, his belief in my abilities as a writer.

Not only have I remembered what it feels like to laugh, I have remembered how writing makes me feel alive.

And I am grateful.

P. S. I’m okay, Dad. I can take it from here.

Share this:

Life does not stop when your father dies. Even though you want it to, because it feels like it should. Just long enough so you can find your breath and assimilate the phone call from a stranger—acting as nicely as they can—who tells you your father passed and that they are very sorry. You thank the person you’ve never met, hang up the phone and cry. Cry until you make yourself stop so you can call your sisters, your brother, your mother, and your children.

No one answers their phone, not that it would make any difference because you might not hear them; inside your ears there is pounding and throbbing. Like a beating heart working overtime.

And really, how do you tell them? How do you tell them what you know? How do you tell them so they won’t hurt, like you are now?

You dial. Hit end. Hit redial. Hit end. Dial. Hit end. Redial. Pace. Dial again. Five minutes pass. Ten. Fifteen.  Pounding in the ears. Busy signals. Voice mail messages. Pounding.

Then everything around you speeds up, and finally your youngest daughter answers her cell and the crying starts all over again and your words are inaudible, but she gets it. She gets it; she gets how much you want to take your granddaughter to school (it is your day to do so), but you can’t, even though you want to. So life will feel the same. Like nothing has changed.

Yet, with one phone call from a stranger, everything has changed.

You go into survival mode, drop your uneaten toast into the garbage, sip your cold coffee, spit it out, dial another number. Dial. Hit end. Redial. Hit end. Busy signals. Voice mail messages. Pounding, pounding, pounding.

You decide to try your brother-in-law’s cell and it rings and rings, and when you are about to give up, he says “Hello.” After you tell him the news, there is silence and your ear throbs, throbs, throbs, and, “Yes,” he will find your sister, who is at school having an important conference with one of your nieces.

Life does not stop when a parent dies.

Now you try to reach your brother, your other sister, your daughter, who is expecting a baby—a great-grandchild who your father will not be around to see born, though he dreamed of the moment, as he dreamed of living long enough to hold a book in print, written by you.

Within the hour, your brother (in between flights) calls you. And you tell him, and it feels as if you have yanked away the ground beneath him and you are too far away to lift him to safety. That same unstable ground shakes beneath your feet, and you keep trying to reach the others, and soon, you do. All except your mother, because she made a promise the night before to visit your father early that morning, and when you call someone to look out the window to see if her car is still in the parking lot, the person notices her driving away.

She is on her way to visit your father not knowing he has died.  

Quickly, so quickly, you and your siblings convene over the phone. Who can stop her? Who can we reach on a moment’s notice to intercept our mother? One sister calls the minister, who says, “Yes, I am on the way,” and gets off the phone, so she can hurry, hurry, hurry.

And then you wait. You wait for fifteen minutes, hoping and praying the minister will get to the assisted living in time. Twenty minutes pass, then thirty, and your body is shaking because you do not know what is happening in North Carolina.

Finally, your sister calls to tell you that the minister arrived just as your mom was parking the car, and that she will stay with her for however long she needs.

You can breathe, you can breathe, you can breathe . . . until your cell phone rings. The caller ID shows:  Dad calling. You see your father’s picture, and for a second, maybe two, you wonder if this is some nightmare, so you answer the phone “Hello?” and all you hear is sobbing.

The sound of your mother sobbing breaks your heart and you want to take all the pain away, but you can’t, and that knowledge fills you with helplessness. Such helplessness.

Life does not stop for the death of a loved one.

Survival mode kicks in and you focus on making a list: How many people are coming? How many cars are needed? How many hotel rooms?  Flights are booked. Calls begin again as you exchange itineraries for the first wave of arrivals: the four siblings. With luck, all four will arrive within thirty minutes of one another, coming from all parts of the country. Just after midnight.

Yet, it is not soon enough, because your mother is alone. She is alone with the news, and she is brave, so brave. When she calls again, you are pulling your closet apart to find a black dress and there is no black dress, so you lean back against the pile of clothes on your bed to listen to your mother, because she needs you to, and all you can think about is how far away you are. How far away all of the family is, and that nothing, nothing can get anyone there sooner. Not even a prayer.

The crack in your heart widens, and you wonder how and if it can ever be healed.

It becomes too difficult for your mother to talk, so you begin to pack, reminding yourself to bring a Mickey Mouse with you, because your father loved Mickey Mouse and Judy Collins and collecting miniature circus trains and his children and grandchildren and great-grandchild. And your mother.

The phone does not stop ringing, and after taking your grandchild to school, your youngest daughter comes to hold you, and then make you go to a restaurant so you can eat some food. Otherwise, she knows you won’t eat. For her, you nibble on a few bites of egg and bring the rest home to your husband.

You arrive at the airport to  learn that your flight is delayed for over an hour and there is little chance of making your connection at Dulles Airport: a flight on which your sister is also booked.

“Tomorrow, we can get you on a flight tomorrow,” someone tells you.

“No,” you say. “I need to be with my family tonight. Please, my father died this morning.” You can see in a person’s eyes when they want to help you, but they can’t. You decide to take a chance with the original flight. Perhaps your sister will ask them to hold the plane.

Perhaps is not a promise.

Your plane pulls into gate A 6 at 10:12; your connection leaves at 10:20 at gate D 18. You stand in the back of the plane, luggage ready. The flight attendant has given you directions to the D terminal ahead of time, but you are unsure. Other passengers have offered different directions. At 10:17, you are on the jet way. You begin to run, pushing one suitcase in front, pulling one suitcase behind you. There is an escalator ahead, and as soon as you get on, the suitcase behind you twists and you try to grab it and you fall. There is no one around to help. The escalator levels out and you look for a sign for D terminal and see that the arrows point you to a down escalator. You think about the bags and falling again, and you run for the elevator. And you wait and wait and wait and then the doors open. A person slips beside you. They ask if you are okay, because you are clearly out of breath.

And then they tell you that you’ve gone the wrong way.

It is 10:21 pm. Has the plane taken off? Will you find D 18, only to learn you’ve been left behind? You don’t think about this, you follow the new directions, go up an escalator (more carefully this time), down an escalator. Find a United employee, ask them to please, please call gate D 18  to tell them you are coming.

“That plane has left,” they say.

No, you think, it has to be there, my father has died and I need to see my sister. I need to be with my sister. Determination sets in and you run in clogs towards an elevator after you find an employee pushing a wheelchair and she can barely speak English, but she tells you to follow her. She is heading for C 16 and from there you can reach the D terminal.

Your phone rings: an automated message from United that you have been rebooked to take a flight out the following day at 9:45 am.

You think no, no, no, and look at the clock on your cell: 10:28 pm. It is the last time you check the time because it just makes your stomach hurt. And really, if the plane has left, what is there for you to do and where can you go?

At terminal C, you thank the woman and sprint. You wish you weren’t wearing clogs, but it’s too late. Your calves cramp, your arms are sore, and you feel like you are running in slow motion. You pass gate after gate, until you see D 1. You see hope. Perhaps, you think.

Perhaps is not a promise, but can suggest possibility.

Your mouth gapes open and you breathe so loudly, sucking in air to keep moving, even when your body can no longer be pushed. You hear, over the loud-speaker, someone calling for assistance at D 18, and at the same time, you see a plane to your left, lifting up towards the sky. You know your sister is on the plane, now in the air, and you worry about how distressed she must be. Or did she stay behind, and is that why assistance is needed? You begin to worry about her and the fact that she just had surgery the week before.

Gate D 10. . . D 11 . . . D 12 . . . Why do you keep going? You keep going for your sister, and because maybe, just maybe, the plane you just witnessed wasn’t the United flight that should have left seventeen minutes ago.

Gate D 14 . . . Gate D 15 . . . Your chest is tight, your body slows down, and you are so close and you gasp in air to keep breathing and . . .

You see her. Your sister is  running towards you, her arms open wide. She grabs a suitcase and tells you to hurry.

The kindness of strangers is a powerful thing.

That night, a single man, against the opinions of all others, would not let the United flight leave without me. Because of him, our four siblings were able to meet up after midnight at the RDU Airport where we wrapped our arms together to form a circle of grief, while around us life went on.

When your father dies, life does not stop; planes are not delayed for the benefit of one passenger.

Though, on this day, a plane was held, because the kindness of a stranger prevailed. 

The pilot was able to make up most of the lost time–all but six minutes.

Not a single passenger complained as I made my way to the back of the aircraft. You remain strangers to me, but I thank you. I thank you for your understanding nods. Your patience.

On September 22, 2011, our family lost a precious gift: Edward H. Devany.

I love you, Dad, forever and always.

P. S. I’m okay, Dad. I’m okay.

Share this:

Don’t rely on your cell phone to determine the actual time in Boise because you will wake up to:

1. Read the time as 7:25 a.m. on your phone.

2. Panic because the girls need to be awake by 7 a.m. for school.

3. PANIC because you have failed your sister on your first day of being in charge of the twins.

4. Turn on the lights in the girls’ bedroom, then yell, “We’re late, we’re late! Get up, get dressed. HURRY!”  

5. Be unprepared for the madness that will ensue, which will include crashing into one another as all three people simultaneously rush for the bathroom, after which  there will be tripping, scrambling for shoes and socks, and then the dog will get involved by barking incessantly.  

6. Suddenly remember—in your state of being half asleep and somewhat disoriented—that you haven’t figured how to temporarily change your cell phone’s clock (the only clock in your room, and to your knowledge, the only clock in that level of the house) to reflect the local time of 5:30 a.m.

7. Inform your nieces that maybe the time is earlier than you thought, and isn’t it a good thing they aren’t going to miss their ride and be late to school!

8. Laugh.

9. Realize you are the only person laughing at 5:30 a.m. Barking does not count.

10. Ask your niece to—just in case—check the time.  “Are you kidding, Aunt Betsy!” says the one niece after finding her watch hidden under a pile of school papers on her desk.

11. Second niece says, “Now what do we do? We’re dressed for school.”

12. Aunt says, sleepily, “Everybody, go back to bed, including the dog.”

 

Don’t Forget About the Automatic Sprinklers

1. If you happen to wake up early in a panic over the girls being late for school (and it is actually only 5:30 in the morning in Boise), at least grab the morning paper—the paper your sister asked you to save so she and her husband can read when they return in a week.

2. If instead you fall back asleep (after waking at 5:30 a.m.) and don’t pick up the morning paper before the sprinklers turn on, and the newspaper kid hasn’t put the paper in a plastic bag, so that it gets thoroughly soaked, consider # 3.

3. Bribery

4. When you open the front door because the girls’ ride is coming and the day’s newspaper lies across the front walk like a soggy, chewed-up plastic dog toy alongside yesterday’s newspaper (in a plastic bag), remind the girls how fun it is to run through a sprinkler. And wouldn’t that be refreshing to do? Like right now?

5. When neither girl responds, ask barking dog.

6. When dog looks up at you as if to say “Who do you think you are and where is my breakfast? And look, there is a quail I can chase!” consider # 3 again.

7. Remind the girls that you have no idea how to turn off the automatic sprinkler and you are still in your pajamas, and do they want their friend and friend’s mother to see their aunt outside wearing wet pjs that say Need Coffee Now while holding a cup of coffee, dripping wet?

8. When both girls raise their hand, agree to whatever they say, even if it means taking them to Panda Express for dinner that evening. Or worse, the mall.

9. After one niece turns off the sprinkler to allow second niece to pick up The Soggy Mess, thank them.

10. Thank them again while waving goodbye. Promise to pick them up on time.

11. When one niece says, “Oh goodie, that means you’ll pick us up at 1:15 instead of 3:15!” tell them you are headed to Verizon as soon as it opens so that the cell phone clock can be changed.

12. Shut the door. Pour another cup of coffee. Take a deep breath.

13. Realize dog is not in the house.

14. Panic.

15. Find dog outside, now wet from the backyard sprinkler system.

16. Feed dog. Ask dog for forgiveness.

17. Settle into porch chair. Put feet up. Soak in the view of Boise’s foothills. Ask Buddha for guidance, and when wet dog tries to jump in your lap, promise the dog leftovers from Panda Express.

18. Read. Look forward to another beautiful sunset (photos coming!). Write and write and write.

19. Be thankful for the opportunity to write!

 

Share this:

Though I am eager to start my third day in Chautauqua, I wonder how Monday can match Sunday’s experience. Not only is Send in the Clowns stuck in my head (and I can’t stop singing the song), for last night’s supper, we were treated to the best barbecued chicken I have ever eaten. And then, there were those chocolate frosted brownies next to an invisible sign with my name on it that said, “These special writer’s brownies are meant to be eaten in multiple portions. Do not eat just one!”  I think everyone had an invisible sign with his or her name, because I was not the only one going for seconds—and thirds, and then, halfway to the bus, I turned around, yelling to Nanci. “I can’t help it. Save me a seat. Do you want another brownie?”

Prior to being served dinner, we were encouraged to walk the lovely grounds at Westfield and to pick our own blueberries to eat—one of my favorite fruits. I was so smitten with photographing the blueberries that I realized–too late–that I had nothing to collect the blueberries in. I did the next best thing: I ate one after another, until a gentleman offered me his full cup of blueberries. (I savored them for days.) Thank you, kind sir!

My belly full of blueberries, I listened to the birds sing, studied insects on leaves, and then discovered The Land of Dinosaurs Versus Trucks, which is where I was when the call of “Chicken being served,” resounded through the fields.

 After everyone had eaten, we settled in our seats, where we quickly fell under Joy Cowley’s spell. If I had attended the Highlights Foundation Writers Workshop in 2010, I would have missed Joy. And I can’t imagine missing the opportunity to connect with her. Joy returned this year after a three-year absence, and she is an absolute joy!

Joy Cowley

Joy speaks from the heart and from years of experience, and with such love for others, you feel as if you are a child, alone in a room with her, listening to stories. I would have sat there all night if I could. She stressed that we must awaken our senses, connect with our inner child, and that we need to write our stories. This is essential as breathing. To write for children is a spiritual experience.

 

Joy’s speech lingers in my mind as I walk to the Hall of Christ for Monday’s first general session. On the way, I notice an animal’s tail switching from beneath a plant. I stop and bend down at the curb to look closer. A cat hides in the garden of her home. I say “Good Morning” to the owner and ask her permission to take a picture. “Please do, she loves to pose.” As I reach out and call the cat over to me, the owner tells me her name. This is a wonderful way to start a new day: meeting a cat named Alice.

I remain in Alice’s presence a little too long (Nanci secretly snaps a photo of the two of us), and then I have to run up the hill and find the red brick road (yellow in my mind) that will lead me to the Sanctuary. I arrive five minutes early, in time to grab a cup of coffee and a cold bottle of water. The day is about to get even better: the one and only Peter P. Jacobi is the morning speaker.   

Three years ago, I attended a SCBWI conference in Austin, Texas, which is where I first heard Mr. Jacobi speak. He has a presence that commands your attention with brilliance, humor, and an utter devotion to the craft of writing. His voice is rich with musicality and he ends many sentences in an upward swing, as if singing to you. I grab a front-row seat and prepare to go to a place of inspiration, unique to Peter P. Jacobi. Very quickly, he confirms the feeling I had when I first arrived here, that like Dorothy, I escaped the tornado and landed in the Land of Oz. His speech revolves around The Wizard of Oz. Pieces I had not yet understood begin to fit together on the third day of my journey at Chautauqua. Not only am I like Dorothy, but I need to be the scarecrow, the lion, and the tin man. My journey this week will be to find the way back home, to develop the courage to finish writing the story that aches in my belly, to expand the knowledge in my brain by taking numerous writing workshops, and to open my heart as wide as it can stretch, so that the words flow free upon the page. As Mr. Jacobi ends his speech, I smile, knowing I have finally met my wizard.

Because my first manuscript critique is tomorrow, my free time is spent walking the streets, smelling the flowers, checking on the purple martin babies, absorbing the beauty of Chautauqua, and thus following the strict advice given to me by Clay Winters on my first night here. Over dinner, Clay said, “I do not want to see you bent over your laptop or notes, sitting alone on the grass, working on your manuscript. Nor do I want to hear that you are locked in your room alone, revising and revising. That is not why you are here. Do not make this mistake, as others have. Soak in Chautauqua. Talk with other writers and mentors. Talk about writing. Talk about anything but writing. Take pictures. Sit by the lake. Listen to the birds. Unless you are given a short assignment from your mentor, don’t revise at all. Soak in the joy of this special place.”

Thank you, Clay, for those words of wisdom. Thank you!

My afternoon workshops include Writing Dialogue with Mitali Perkins, 200 Words or Less with Joy Cowley, and Characterization with Helen Hemphill. I learn something new in each session to apply to my writing.

As a group, we spend the evening having dinner at the Golf Club across the street, and afterwards listen to Mitali Perkins. Mitali is as lovely as can be, thoughtful, funny, and very inspiring. Add her to your list of Writers Whose Speeches You Must Hear.

After dinner, I walk the streets of Chautauqua with Joy, alone. We discuss our love of pigeons and children and writing. After we say good night, I head for my hotel, and along the way, I think about the young adult novel I am writing. Tackling this particular story will take great courage and an abundance of heart; a thinking brain, but not one that is judgmental. Lastly, I need to allow my spirit to dream, while I search for the rainbow. Only then will I find my way home.

The task ahead is as large as a dragon. One you can’t see, but only feel the enormity of its presence.  “The dragon of Chautauqua,” as Kim Griswell says.

I am willing to be brave.

I am not afraid to fail.

I am ready to take on the dragon.

Share this:

On Sunday morning after breakfast, Nanci and I walk two blocks from the Athenaeum Hotel to Art in the Park: a craft show in Miller Park overlooking Chautauqua Lake. Because the show does not open for another two hours, artists are still arranging their goods on tables. There is pottery of all kinds. Ceramic tiles. Hand knitted mittens. Photographic images of the beauty of Chautauqua stretched across canvas. One-of-a-kind knitted handbags. Wands made from pastel curling ribbons with matching tiaras and skirts: attire for the youngest of princesses.

I remember those days: driving long hours to reach Richmond, Virginia; loading a dolly with twenty-five bins; setting up my 10 x 20 foot booth.  The hours are long. The work is hard and at times, lonely. Except for the people and the children I encountered, I do not miss the craft shows. But I am thankful, for it led me to my true path: writing for children.

While Nanci admires the handmade mittens recycled from sweaters, I check on the purple martins. The babies that live in house # 4 are braver today. Not one, but two babies expose their full heads. They peer up at the morning sky, their yellow beaks open in anticipation–hungry and helpless. I . . . am in love.

Nanci texts me that she has happily purchased a few gifts and is ready to explore the center of Chautauqua. Up the hill and over the red wooden bridge, we head for the town green. First on our list is the bookstore, then the library, and after that, any small shops that entice us to enter through their doors.

We not reach the library. Or the bookstore. Or any quaint shops, wherever they might be. We get as far as the amphitheatre—a very short, uphill walk from the red wooden bridge. Dozens and dozens of choir members warm up their voices. People swarm through the gates, accepting programs. Others park their bicycles, baby strollers, walkers, and electric wheelchairs. Seats fill. Dogs lay on the concrete next to their owners. Big dogs. Small dogs. Old dogs. Young dogs. One sits between the legs of an elderly man, seated on his scooter. Whispers among the crowd create a buzz like happy bees.

Attending the non-denominational morning service is not on our agenda, but the voices and the whispers and energy beckon. An unseen force pulls us, like the ocean’s current, and we find ourselves in the midst of a crowd, being handed a program, after which, we find a place to sit. “Let’s stay, just for a few minutes,” Nanci and I say, simultaneously.

The few minutes turn into an hour and a half. We are meant to be here, for the music, the inspiration, the enlightenment, and for me, the opportunity to open my mouth and sing with joy. Something I have not done for decades when I, myself, once sang in a church choir, where on occasion, I was a soloist.

The organist, Jared Jacobsen, places his fingers on the keys, his feet on the pedals, and the amphitheatre comes alive. There are no hymnals, no sheet music to read. All I have are words printed in the program. But I remember. My heart remembers, and the words are enough. I sing and sing and sing, as if I may not live through the night.

I have learned an important lesson on my second day at Chautauqua: be joyous. Live each moment as if it were your last. And if ever some unseen force pulls you in an unfamiliar direction, don’t stop to question why. Don’t fight the ocean’s current. Let the momentum sweep you up. Follow. Follow. Allow yourself to let go. Be brave.

We, like our characters, do not always know our needs. Listen to your inner voice. Trust your gut. If you do not, you might miss (as I might have missed that morning) the sound of an angel singing. Paul Robert’s voice is pure and rich, heartfelt and vulnerable.

At the very back of what appears to be at least one hundred choir members, a man in a blue robe clutches the bars of his walker; he pulls himself up, and then begins to sing Mr. Roberts delivers Send in the Clowns like someone being led to a guillotine, allowed to share his gift of a voice one last time.

Now, sitting on my porch, in the early hour of the morning, I hear that baritone voice. The longing in the words of Send in the Clowns intermingle with the songs of the Carolina wren family that lives on our property. A hummingbird flies over my head. A chipmunk peers between the white railings on our porch. Yes, I see you. I smile. I smile because my yard overflows with joyous creatures: finches, cardinals, hummingbirds, dragonflies, bees, moths, insects . . .  

Thank you, Mr. Roberts–for opening your heart, for allowing me a glimpse of your soul, and for handing me the crystal ball. Like Dorothy, I stare at the images that whirl past me in the glass, clouded by tiny flakes of snow. I am scared of what lies ahead in my week at Chautauqua, but I understand what I need to do: be brave like the purple martin babies. I will blink my eyes at the sun and open my wings to the light. Inch by inch, I will step further away from the safety of my home to laugh. To love. To share stories. To make new friends. To learn how to improve my writing. To become a little frog, allowing my mentor to turn up the heat in the pot where she puts me to boil. I will allow unforeseen forces to lead me where I need to go.

And I will stop–whatever I am doing–to listen to an angel sing.

Be joyous.

Be a clown.

Share this:

Eleven hours after leaving my father’s bedside in Chapel Hill, I am on another plane back to Washington, D. C. (my second Washington layover in twenty-four hours). With twenty minutes to make my connection to Buffalo, New York, I run the length of fifteen gates and make the flight. Nearly an hour later, we approach the Buffalo airport, passing Niagara Falls. The tremendous force of the water’s surge reminds me of my father and his determination to live, fueled by a desire that non-writers may not comprehend. My father must write, and because of this deep passion, he has lived past all the doctors’ expectations. Focused and determined, he is thankful for simple gifts: A blue sky filled with clouds. The sight of a bird on a branch outside his small window. A phone call from a family member. A smile from a caregiver. A young child’s laughter. A warm hand to hold. An extra day to live and to write; to love and to cherish. And lastly to know that his most recent illness did not keep his daughter from attending the 2011 Highlights Foundation Writers Workshop. (At the beginning of the week, all of my plans had become precarious, including my trip to Chautauqua.)

I am here because of him, because of this man whom I love and cherish. He is my hero and my mentor, my father and friend. His needs became my only focus, when I was summoned to NC this past Monday. Prepared for the worst, I got on a plane, carrying his favorite music: Wildflowers by Judy Collins. Yet when I reached his hospital room, he was eating chocolate pudding and asking for his laptop. In what one would call a true miracle, though a temporary one, he astounded the medical staff, his family too. Knowing how short his time is, leaving him was nearly impossible, but he wanted nothing less for me. In his own loving way to force me out of his room to head for the airport, he did what he does best: he made me laugh. My father popped a red Skittle in his mouth, waved two fingers at me, and then returned to working on his current manuscript. “Don’t worry about me. Focus on your writing. I’m okay, I’m ready to ease on down the road.”

Along with his love and support, his words and his humor, he allowed me a few of his beloved trinkets: a small Pinocchio, Jiminy Cricket, and Mickey Mouse. They sit on the dresser of my hotel room, and the expressions on their faces keep me smiling and laughing and hoping.

 

At the airport, I meet up with my dear friend, Nanci Turner Stevenson, and eventually we realize (she does, at least) that we are in the wrong part of the airport. And that people have been looking for us. Reunited with one of many groups of attendees and mentors to arrive, we board a van and head for the grounds of Chautauqua.

Upon our arrival at the Hall of Christ, we are greeted with smiles and hugs, handed bottles of cold water and a bag of books. Orientation is quick, and then our group of attendees disperses in search of their housing. “Just follow the red brick road,” someone says. And we do, though it doesn’t take long for me to lose my group and trail away from the red brick road, which I imagine is the yellow brick road. The surroundings steal my attention; there is too much to soak in. I am a five-year-old child again, holding a crisp one-dollar bill, in the middle of a candy shop filled to the ceiling with gumdrops and hard coffee candies and penny sticks and lollipops and saltwater taffy and sweet tarts and anything else a child’s heart might desire.

I am no longer in Kansas or Chapel Hill or UNC Hospital or a care facility. There are no hospital beds, grey carts loaded with medicines, elderly people trying to escape, or women cradling doll babies in their arms, rocking in a chair—alone in a small room.

 

Chautauqua is, as Kathryn Erskine describes after our first dinner together as a group, Brigadoon. Sunlight dances on leaves. Chipmunks streak across the brick road. Birds sing. The bell tower chimes. Music from long ago drifts through open windows. Piano music from down a hill pulls me past yellow houses with blue shutters, white houses with wraparound porches, and colorful summer homes that remind me of the Gingerbread Cottages in Oaks Bluff on Martha’s Vineyard. Blooming flowers burst with color: blue hydrangeas, orange poppies, yellow and burgundy daylilies, echinacea, purple clematis, cosmos, lace capped hydrangeas, phlox, and impatiens. Porches welcome you with rocking chairs, swings, and hammocks. Figurines dance on the lawns with open arms. And everywhere you go there are bicycles in shades of blue, orange, red, yellow, green, black, and silver. Wicker baskets on handlebars overflow with fresh flowers, books, or fruit. Some parked bicycles link together, like the elderly couples who walk the grounds, holding hands. Couples sit on benches reading newspapers, side by side. Children play outside, laughing. Chasing. Running with sticks. Jump roping. Rolling across the grass. There are no disengaged children or teens glued to their electronic devices. Time has rolled back to the years when children could be children.

I pull a camera from my SCBWI bag. Click. Click. Click.

I pull the camera away from my eye. Am I really here? Is this place real?

Dinner is well proportioned and delicious. There are mentors at every table and the process of meeting others who understand the part of you that is most essential (the writer or illustrator part) begins. We talk. We laugh. And after dinner, we listen to Kathryn Erskine tell us her story, and in doing so, she gives us strength and courage to continue down the yellow brick road.

As the sun begins to set, I wander past attendees relaxing in rockers on the porch, down steps . . . past a fountain adorned with flowers . . . across the lawn, until I reach the water, where brightly painted canoes and kayaks rest on the sand, upside down. Boats nod, like babies being lulled to sleep. The sky melts into a mauve pink accented by blue, that deepens as the night grows darker. This is where I discover the first gift of my journey here: the Purple Martins. I fall in love, watching the parents croon to their babies, feed them, protect them. With patience, I catch glimpses of their courageous young, peeking through the round entrances to their nests. First the point of a tiny beak appears followed by two curious eyes, then another beak and another set of eyes. I climb on a wooden picnic table and stand on my tiptoes.  I count. Thirteen babies peer at the sky, waiting for their parents. Watching. Wondering. Seeking the courage to fly on their own, alone.

Like the Purple Martin babies, I watch.  I listen. I wonder.  I soak in the beauty of the night, the songs of the birds, the motion of the water, and the laughter of the children, being children. Throughout the week, I will soak in the knowledge of the faculty and welcome their inspiration in this community, which celebrates the arts. And then, I will fly with courage and conviction and great joy, as the purple martin babies will do.

The world I have been spinning in (a tornado of stress and fear) has landed with a boom in this nurturing creative environment: a place where anything is possible, as long as you hold tight to your dreams. I may not fly with the Purple Martins over the rainbow this week, but this I know: My life will never be the same again.

Share this:

With upcoming plans to visit my ailing father, who lives in Chapel Hill, I’ve been worried—and feeling a bit guilty—about leaving the toy store in the middle of the busy summer season. To compensate for being gone, and to starve my guilt, I’ve put in extra hours, which is why I agree to open the store on Friday–a last minute request. I arrive without eating breakfast, and do not pack a lunch or snacks. If all goes well, two employees will arrive around noon.

At 12:30, I am free to go, I write myself out on my timecard and then head outside, accompanied by my rumbling stomach. Suddenly a thud . . . thud . . . thud captures my attention. The Fed Ex guy is unloading large boxes from his truck onto a not-so-small metal dolly.

I hit the button to unlock my car.

Thud . . . thud . . . thud!

Grumble, grumble, grumble goes my stomach.

I dare to look back. The dolly is piled so high, I can no longer see the Fed Ex guy, though I hear him grunt. I hit the remote to lock my car, and then walk back across the parking lot to follow a hunch. Across the numerous boxes are manufacturer names in bold print: Bruder, Creative Education, Harper Collins, Crocodile Creek and Madame Alexander. I know what this means.

“Are these boxes for the Toy Soldier?” I ask.

“All of what’s on this dolly, plus there’s still more big ones in the truck.”

Grumble, grumble, grumble.

Nagging guilt settles in. Nag. Nag. Nag.

I stare longingly back at my car, but my feet don’t move. The owner is alone with a relatively new employee, who I have been training. Groups of people walk into the store. Customers walk out carrying red bags. A young boy plays with his newly purchased popgun. Pop! Pop! Pop!

 If I’ve waited this long to eat, what’s a few more hours? A man walks by, ripping a piece of powdered fried dough and I start to follow him, really it is the dough I am after. Then, visions of turkey and cheese with avocado wrapped neatly in a tortilla come to mind, as does lemonade, freshly made, and—

Thump-thumpity-thump. Here comes the darn dolly. I dash ahead of it, run into the store, cross through the 12:30 departure time on my time card, and then tie my apron back around my neck.

“What are you doing, I thought you—”

“Don’t ask,” I tell the owner.

“Did you forget something?”

“No, I tried to leave, but . . . you need a little more help right now.” I sidestep so a young mother can wheel in a baby stroller.

“We’ll be fine,” says the owner. “You’ve been working too much.”

I gesture to the open door as the dolly arrives. “Do you want me to still leave?” I grab the scissors so I can start opening cartons.

“Welcome back, Betsy!” she says.

Until nearly seven that evening, we unpack over twenty boxes, price close to five hundred items, and manage to rearrange the store in preparation for Saturday. (Thank goodness, the Blue Squid is two doors down from us. I don’t know what I’d do without their scrumptious bakery. If you are ever in the area, trust me, you have to indulge in their award-winning cupcakes! And their famous four-cheese macaroni with lobster.)

 

Somewhere during the afternoon, my husband calls to tell me about a phone call, which I am not home to receive because I am still at work.

“I can’t talk, we’re really busy here,” I tell him, taking Playmobil boxes from a child’s arms for purchase.

“Just listen while you ring,” he says, sounding excited.

I run the register with the phone cradled against my shoulder, which is how I learn that I am the runner-up for the 2011 Barbara Karlin SCBWI Grant. My picture book manuscript, Norman and Rose, won the hearts of the prestigious judges.

I am incredibly lucky, humbled, and in a bit of shock. Since May of this year, my writing has been recognized three times. My other wins were for my middle-grade novel, Savannah’s Mountain. I float up the ramp to tell my boss, and then I resume pricing dress-up capes. Pink capes with sequins. Purple capes. Red velvet capes. Capes for knights. Capes for kings. Capes for queens. Superhero capes. Batman capes, which reverse to become Spiderman capes and are really cool.

Once the capes are priced, there are princess wands and headbands and jewelry and sparkly crowns and dinosaur tooth boxes and pirate tooth chests and lunch bags with matching backpacks, sandwich containers, thermos, and drink bottles. Fancy Nancy dolls arrive, along with Pinkalicious sets and books, books, and more books.

When I finally get home—seven hours past my scheduled departure—all I want is to sit at the table on our soon-to-be finished wraparound porch, put up my feet and relax.

There is a slight glitz in my plans.

My table is not empty.

A certain someone is sitting in one of my chairs . . .

And that certain someone is using my computer—without my permission.

No, it is not Goldilocks, nor the three bears, though three creatures are clearly discussing something important. (For those of you unfamiliar with the Baby Bossy Frogs, read http://betsydevany.wordpress.com/2011/04/22/a-bath-for-bear/ )

“What are you and the Baby Bossy Frogs doing?” I ask Norman.

“He’s a star, he’s a star, he’s a star!” sings the less bossy Baby Bossy Frog. “And we are checking his Amazon ratings!”

“Norman has no Amazon ratings, it’s not an actual book and–”

“I am in charge!” says the bossiest of the Baby Bossy Frogs. “You are supposed to do Norman’s hair, while I type submission letters.”

“I want to type,”says the less bossy Baby Bossy Frog, “and it’s my turn to wear the glasses.”

I try to get the frogs’ attention, but they pay me no mind.

I try to capture Norman’s attention, and all he wants to know is: (1) Where did his porch swing disappear to (2) How soon do we leave for our book tour, and by the way, he needs his own suitcase.

“Norman, there is no book tour. At least, not yet.”

“But he won, he won, he won!” says the less bossy Baby Bossy Frog.

I congratulate Norman (he is the inspiration for Norman and Rose), and then I lead him back to reality. “We haven’t sold the book yet. And we still need an agent.”

Norman corrects me. He, at least, already has an agent—as of this afternoon. I have yet to read the contract, which the bossiest of the Baby Bossy Frogs offered to Norman, but I have concerns. I know how Baby Bossy Frogs can be.

Once Norman understands the actual status of the winning manuscript, I leave the Baby Bossy Frogs to console him while I call my father.

He is weary and in pain, but welcomes my news with all the enthusiasm he can muster.

I may have missed the important phone call to learn of my win, personally, but I do not miss the opportunity to share the news with my father. When he begins to sound tired,  I ask to speak to my younger sister, who is visiting him first, but she is not there.

“Where did she go?” I ask.

“She’s running an errand,” my father says, and then he pauses, as he likes to do before he reels me in. “She’s getting my Skittles and candied Baked Beans, I ran out in the hospital. The doctor forgot to write my refill, so he had to call my prescription for Skittles in to the pharmacy.”

Oh Dad, how I love you. You are a hard act to follow.

For everyone who has wished me well and sent congratulations for my most recent award, I thank you, as I thank the SCBWI for this recognition. I am deeply honored.

 

Share this:

The summer has presented me with challenges–one after another–and some, which I had hoped to avoid.  Having an ill parent with few options for an acceptable living environment is something I would wish on no one. It is my worst nightmare, and to avoid feeling physically sick over the situation, I try to find small moments each day to see beauty in the world, and to appreciate the wonder of others.

 

My five-year-old granddaughter is a blessing, particularly now when my family faces some of the hardest decisions of our lives. Ava makes me stop, forget about the barrage of depressing phone calls, and take a moment to live life in an idealist way.

 

In our large front yard, I am free—even for just thirty minutes—to laugh, chase Ava through the grass with our dog Merlin, and wonder at the miracles of the tiniest of creatures. We remain like statues when the hummingbirds zoom above us. We watch the bees on my Echinacea, revel in the sight of a butterfly, and kneel on the cool ground to peer into a daylily to marvel at fascinating insects, which appear to be from outer space. They are smaller than ants in actuality.

A frog leaps before us and Ava is off, chasing the tiny amphibian, catching it . . . losing it . . . and then catching again. Her hands tightly clasped, she tells me, “Grandma, the frog is berry thirsty. And he needs a home to live in.”

Just like my father, I think. Why is it that we cannot find suitable housing for the elderly where they can be respected and loved and treated with dignity? I brush the thought aside and head indoors for a small bowl. Ava follows, and my eyes stay fixed on what is contained within her grasp. “Don’t let that frog loose in the house,” I say. The cats would have a field day.

I fill a small, short container with water, and we go back outside. With great care, Ava places the frog in the bowl. It swims happily, and then leaps for freedom.

“Uh-oh,” she says, leaning over to trap the frog once again. “I think he wants some food.” With great precision, she keeps the creature safe, while using two fingers to add clumps of grass and a smattering of dirt. The frog back in the bowl, it swims the best it can among its new challenges, and then escapes.

“Uh-oh, says Ava, clamoring to catch it. The frog is faster than she is, and soon is nowhere in visible sight. “Oh, no, I didn’t find it a friend!”

“We’ll find something else.” And we do. On the porch, we discover an injured moth. Carefully, Ava scoots it onto the palm of her hand. “Oh, Grandma, he is so sweet. Can you fix him, please?”

Can I heal my father? No, and I know I can’t fix the moth’s wings, but I don’t say this to her. Instead, I follow her around the yard.

“We have to find the moth a place to rest, that’s nice. So he can get better and fly away,” Ava says. “He wants to go back to his family.” No matter how large or small a creature is, Ava is always concerned that they have a family to be with, or at least, friends.

Until our new porch is completed, all of my garden statues are under our red maple tree, and this is where she heads. After she walks around the tree, twice, Ava settles on a cherub lying on its back.

“Perfect,” she says, “This is just perfect.” She hopes the moth will survive, despite its apparent odds, and in the morning, when she checks to see if the moth is still there, she announces happily that it has flown away. The family of moths is reunited. (I find it later—lifeless and snuggled in the crease of the cherub’s wings—in a place she did look and I do not tell her.) I want her to believe the moth lived, as I wish to cling to the belief that the situation for my father will improve. I am not prepared to let go of hope. Some days, all we have is hope.

Satisfied that the moth is settled in for the night, Ava resumes her frog search, and with unbelievable luck, she finds it, or its sibling, or a relative of some sort, I guess. Her new mission is to find the frog a friend. The sun begins to set, which does not deter Ava in her quest. She carries the frog in her clasped hands, while I follow and dig where directed. I check under leaves, around flowerpots, between rocks, and anywhere else, she believes the frogs are hiding from her. In the meantime, twilight falls upon us.

“Ava, you have to find somewhere to put the frog, and not in the house.”

“I know, I know, Grandma.”

Clearly, this quest will soon require flashlights.

Suddenly, Ava remembers one garden statue not under the maple tree. “Come on, everybody!” she says. Merlin and I follow her to the backyard.

“Look, everybody, this is just perfect.” Leaning over, Ava places the frog in the middle of a statue of two frogs. “Perfect! Now, he has a family!”

Thankfully, the frog seems content; he stays exactly where Ava places him, until she runs off to chase a fleeting dragonfly.

“Is he still with his family?” she calls back to me.

“Yes.” Well, for the moment he is, before leaping through the white fencing to explore a world free of curious little girls, intent on being matchmakers or reuniting long-lost family members.

We chase fireflies until I hear the phone ring. While receiving an update on my father, Ava finds other lives to run. Once the conversation with my sister ends, I learn that Ava has played matchmaker with our cat Terrapin. Terrapin is to marry Ava’s Steiff black leopard and have two babies, instantaneously. The wedding ceremony is performed without complications. To my surprise, Terrapin does not flee the makeshift alter, and she even poses for formal photos without a single complaint. Well, maybe a glare or two. Once Ava knows that the babies are being tolerated by the new bride and groom, we settle down to read books . . . and books. I am thankful for the distraction.

Now, two days later,  I sit by the window, awaiting the return of the Baltimore orioles. I review the pictures I took with Ava, and the photos I was fortunate to have the opportunity to shoot the day before, on my way to work: a Great Egret and a Blue Heron. Both phones (cell and landline) are charged and by my side. I have already taken six calls this morning regarding my father, the first at 4 am, at a time when I was doing one of the following: ripping off covers . . . whipping them back, staring at the clock . . . trying to not look at the clock, fluffing my pillow . . . punching my pillow,  opening the window . . . closing the window, petting a cat . . . shoving a cat off of my chest.

I cannot sleep. I cannot eat. I cannot write. And with the beginning of each new day comes the knowledge that my father will be calling, at any point, to ask about my writing.

Through his pain, my father continues to check the progress of my submissions; to remind me he is running out of time. I am losing this race to find success before his last breath, but I will not give up, even knowing I cannot fix what I want to fix, need to fix.

 I will remember the promise I made to my father and to myself. Whether it is through my photography, my interactions with my granddaughter, or another creative outlet, I will find the way back to my words.

In the past, my return to inspiration has started as a low hum, which quivers like a hummingbird’s wings, until I reach out to snatch it. Other times, lightning hits, catching me off-guard. Whichever way the relentless desire to create returns, I am ready. My heart is open, and until that moment, my inspiration comes from the hawk that soars in the sky above our house each night. Drifting on the wind, it flies free and without worries. I watch and I dream . . .

I dream of dancing. I dream of dancing across the page with words and images. I dream of dancing to places only I can find, kept safely, for now, within me.

This is who I am.

This is what I know.

I am my father’s daughter.