Author: Betsy

Why We Do Things

Posted on by Betsy

I spent the morning of my birthday working in my gardens: noting which plants were returning with vigor, which plants were spreading out of control, and which had been happily discovered by the neighborhood bunny, as well as deer, which frequent our yard. Alas, hostas are their favorite, and so far, the deer repellant is only keeping me out of the yard. Solely because of  the stench. A stench that our dog  finds irresistable. To suck in through his nostrils. Roll in obsessively. And run around the yard in celebration, obviously believing he has made himself that much more attractive by coating his white fur in deer poo.

It is not attractive. Nor cute, or even funny. While it hinges on disgusting, I try not to bruise Merlin’s ego. From a distance, I smile at him. He takes notice. Charges at me, and then (thank goodness) veers to the side as if egging on a chase.  And so I go for  the goal. I dash after him (around the property twice), trap him in my arms and hold him as far away from me as possible. Not far enough. And definitely too close to the mail lady who drives down our driveway at exactly that moment to deliver a package. And two rejection letters. With one whiff of the dog, she tosses our mail and makes a run for her truck.

I should be so lucky.

Bathing begins. Water. Soap. Conditioner. He shakes his fur out. Sprays me. And still stinks. I put him back in the tub. Tell him not to jump out. Or else. Open the rejection letters. Read them with no time to moan because I am dealing with life and poo. And . . . there are open invitations to submit more of my work.  And a couple of good suggestions about reworking the manuscripts. 

Then I remember Merlin. He hangs on the edge of the tub looking quite small and sad, and wanting very much to escape. Back to the spots of poo, I am sure. We repeat the bathing process until his scent is what I call manageable. After filing the letters in my sacred rejection binder, I return to the gardens.

With a kerchief around my nose, I begin to add fresh dirt to the flower beds. It is a long and tedious process, and I  find myself getting distracted by the vines overhead, choking the trees. And soon, I find that this is what I am doing: tackling the invasive weeds.  From the ground, they extend sixty feet above my head in various patterns. They have found their way into the birdhouses: the first place I rid my yard of these unwelcome plants. Above my head, squirrels scamper across the ropes of vine, leaping from tree to tree. I feel small and weak when I study the extent of their existence. I want them gone.

No more, I think, and begin to pull.  Yank,  and bear all my weight against the base of one vine. Thorns cut through my gardening gloves, but I persist.  Bring it on! Hand over hand, I tug hard against the rope. Step backwards. Bend my knees. Shake the beast. Move to the left. Then the right. Widen my stance and . . . Voila! One down, which doesn’t seem to make a difference.

I take off my gloves. Pull out the thorns and go in with a vengeance. Dead tree branches are precariously perched above my head, entangled in the vines. Please don’t come crashing down on me, because if they do, and my daughter is the paramedic on call, she is going to be really peeved at me. She’s already been the EMT on scene when I flipped a car on black ice, only to be trapped upside down until they could cut the car apart. I still have flashbacks when I hear the sirens of a fire truck.

With this memory still strong, I lean back, study the dead branches, and decide to not be so careless. I pick another site and put my fighting mentality to work. Hoping for the best, I throw my weight against one of the larger vines. It is tenacious. Fifteen minutes later, I am nearly swinging like a monkey on the darn thing just to get it to fall down. It doesn’t, but I do. Sitting on my bottom, I try to understand why I need to pull these vines down. More than the yard having a better appearance. Beyond rescuing the trees from what looks like strangulation to me, it is about why I need to do this.

The fight within me to battle the weeds has subsided for the moment. And in its place comes a deeper understanding related to my writing. In particular, one of my newer middle grade novels. My protagonist adores something, and when the item is destroyed at the paws of her cat, she becomes intent on fixing them. She is funny and strong-willed, but I always felt something was missing. Until today. Until I was obsessed with those darn vines, which I was meant to struggle with because of where it led me.

While E.B. Louise makes me laugh, and is a pleasure to wake up to, and work on in the morning, the story is deeper than I imagined. Until I tackled the vines and was faced with asking myself, Why am I compelled with pulling down these weeds? I didn’t truly understand.

The stench of the deer repellant permeates our yard. Flower beds await my return. Vines dangle from the trees. Merlin paws at the door to be let out. Off come the gloves while I run to the house.

Yes, the vines will still be here. The dog will once again rub in deer poop. Rejection letters will arrive in my mail. But what matters is that I now have a clear understanding of why my protaganist needs to fix her beloved slippers. It is, after all, the heart of the piece.

So if you ever find yourself compelled to do something, stop and ask yourself why. You never know what you might discover.

And for those people interested in the gorilla photos I promised, go to www.normanthegorilla.wordpress.com

Happy discoveries to all!

 

The Ducks of San Diego

Posted on by Betsy

San Diego is a beautiful city. And that is where I spent the past week, celebrating a family member’s birthday. The weather was perfect (sunny and not too hot) and the company of people we haven’t seen in a while was even better. We walked and walked and . . . walked. Through the entire San Diego Zoo, and The Wild Animal Park. And to anywhere that had gelato. Or really good coffee. We indulged in handmade crepes. Dinner crepes. Dessert crepes.  And in anything made with mango–an obsession of mine. Connection to the internet was minimal, and there was little time to write.  

When I don’t write at length for a few days, I feel unsettled and starved for creativity. And at times, melancholy. And so I explored another way of expressing my feelings: photography.  While I am a novus, I love the art of taking a picture. Or trying to take a picture. Or taking dozens of pictures, only to delete most of my shots. I am compelled to follow certain subjects, shooting from different angles until it feels right. I write in this same vein. 

Discovering that I’ve taken a memorable photo feels almost the same as when I’ve written twenty first-pages and throw away nineteen. But one page has a sense of wonder to it. It breathes life and offers possibility. I can step back and see something really good. A character I need to follow. A story I need to write.

And so, as with life, and writing, and photography, I remain open to those moments. The ones you don’t expect. The ones you want to be ready for before they pass you by and blow away in the wind. Like a dandelion that’s been kissed by a young child.   

With a camera by my side at all times, I was prepared. My first unexpected moment on Coronado Island was when I opened the door to our first-floor suite the day after we arrived. With plans of hunting down a good cup of coffee, I was  surprised to find company on our door mat: a momma mallard duck with her thirteen adorable babies following her.

I did what my husband fully expected of me.  I dropped my purse, jacket, and knapsack at my feet, well, on top of his feet, and turned on my camera.

To feed my creative needs for the week we were in San Diego, I saw the world through my camera lens. In other words, I followed the ducks. Unless they were following me, which they did on a number of occasions. And while I did my best to keep the seagulls away from her thirteen babies, sadly, by the time we left the Coronado Island, the duckling count was down to nine. I wanted to protect them all, just like I keep a protective wing around my characters, especially when they are developing and not yet ready to be introduced to the world.

As for the two male mallards (the brothers) who followed me around like puppies, I left inspired by their behavior to return to my picture book manuscript about ducks. The piece has been sitting in a drawer for months. I can now look at it with new eyes. For this, I thank the brothers.

And for my readers, I thank you for your patience while I went a month without blogging. It has been a month of doing taxes, working extra hours at the toy store, attending two writing workshops, completing writing deadlines, and reconnecting with family. 

 

  

 
 
 

 

Whispering Pines Is Well Worth The Trip

Posted on by Betsy

Five days after leaving Whispering Pines, where I attended a writing retreat, I am still reeling from the high quality of the NE SCBWI event.

Lynda Mullaly Hunt was a stupendous leader. Caring and funny, she kept us to our schedule like the best of ringmasters. She always goes above and beyond what you would expect of an organizer and does it with her unique style!

Lynda, I thank you!

Our mentors also went beyond all expectations, offering the best first-page panel I have ever attended. Their thoughtful comments necessitated endless note-taking on how to craft a first page and beyond. Throughout the two days, we were privy to hear each of the mentors individually. Award-winning author Cynthia Lord, editors Connie Hsu and Alexandra Penfold, agent Rebecca Sherman, and author-illustrator Carlyn Beccia offered advice, shared their tools for crafting, and allowed us glimpses into their worlds. Beyond their presentations, the mentors all gave thorough and thoughtful critiques. I walked away with new tools to use and a way to tackle improving one of my manuscripts. Of course, the advice I received is applicable to all of my writing, which I find thrilling.

To all our mentors, thank you!

The inspiration did not end there. It continued with the attendees. All wonderful and welcoming. The basket raffle, coordinated by Jan Kozlowski, and of course, the food. The endless food. As well as the desserts, which I tried to pass on, but once you’ve seen their desserts, you just let go and dive in. The servers did assure me they contained little or no calories, and I was able to suspend disbelief. Long enough to graciously accept  a serving of dessert. At lunch. At dinner. At . . .

Five days later, I am still left with the images of the grounds at Whispering Pines. The rock in the lake. The bare trees. The empty porch awaiting the presence of writers. Writers thinking. Writers talking. Writers writing. And it seems fitting that a writing retreat be held there. In the dead of winter.

And so, with these images fresh in my mind, I think of the middle grade novel I am revising as a tree. A tree in a forest.  In the dead of winter. This is when you see the tree as it is. Tall and strong. Waiting patiently for spring to arrive. 

As a writer, I must protect my tree. My story. I must allow it room to grow and keep weeds from sneaking up around its base. Slowly strangling the story.

While winter still prevails, I can clearly see the vines, which choke my characters. I sit and visualize the core of my story. Then I chip away at the vines, only to discover how deep their roots go. I will need a shovel to dig deeper. And then I yank as hard as possible, sometimes falling backwards. But I get up. Again and again. And I tackle the vine until every piece has been pulled from the ground and my tree, my story, has room to breathe again. New shoots of clarity appear like green buds on branches.  Leaves bring color and life back to my tree. Flowers spring up. Sun warms the earth. Winter comes to an end.

But still, I must continue to protect and care for my story. Watch for new vine to sneak up through the ground when I am not looking. I trim the dead branches. I give the tree room to expand and reach for the sky, until the time comes for me to let go. The time when my story is fully developed and can stand on its own.

When I know I have done my job as a writer.

Tales From a Toy Store

Posted on by Betsy

From working at The Toy Soldier for over four years, I have learned that you always need a variety of skills and attributes in your pocket. Patience. Good listening skills. The ability to negotiate with children and people of all ages. You never know when you need to use these, but they are there, always, for those certain days when you need them most.

Friday was one of those days. Busy. Crowded with visitors from New York and Massachusetts, as well as Connecticut. And then, there was the grandmother. The grandmother sent on a mission with her two young grandsons. One looked about the age of three, while the older boy–I later learned–was almost seven years old.  

The mission: each boy was to buy a gift for their newborn sister to bring to the hospital.

I had approached them to offer assistance, as the grandmother wore a look of exhaustion, after being in the store for only ten minutes. She thanked me and said they were doing fine.

Shoppers came and went. I sold one of my favorite dolls to a sweet couple, who have been buying from us for years. We helped two five-year-old twin girls try on Dorothy dresses. Once they put them on, they didn’t come off. After paying, the girls held hands and marched out the door. For a moment, I turned to watch them from the window, relishing in the image of the sisters wearing the blue and white checked dresses.  Smiling. Laughing.

Pop guns  popped. Cameras snapped. People posed with the giant bear on our bench outside. The bear replaced Norman after Norman decided to retire. Children cried as they left the store, not wanting to leave. Ever. Gifts were wrapped in bags with colorful tissue. I discussed two of my favorite books published by Candlewick. We were sold out, but the customer listened as I recited much of the text from heart, and told her how much they moved me. She preordered six copies of each, without actually seeing the books. Children hugged toys to their chest, begging to take them home. Parents declined. Children negotiated. Parents relented. The register hummed.

An hour passed. The grandmother circled the store again and again. The younger boy carried a board book in his hand and a small doll for his baby sister. The older boy held his ten-dollar bill tightly in his hands. Nothing else.

“Are you sure I can’t help,” I said, “You’ve been here for quite a while. Perhaps there is something I can do.”

The grandmother tells me the story. The stories are what I love most about working at the toy store. The older boy, Matthew, can’t make up his mind. And they can’t go to the hospital without gifts for the sister. Their mother had given them each ten dollars to pick out gifts.

I know there is more to this story. I can see it in Matthew’s eyes. In the way he clutches the money. I will need to pull my skills from my pocket. Listening skills. Negotiation skills. Patience. All of which are coated with compassion.

“Let me get you a something to sit on,” I tell the grandmother. “I will see what I can do with Matthew so you can get out of here.” I hand her a stool and a book to share with the younger boy. Matthew stares at me. He grips his money. “My name is Betsy,” I tell him. “Now, lets see if I can’t help you find a gift for your sister. Your grandma is very tired and I know you want to go meet your new sister.”

“No, I don’t,” he tells me, giving me the first clue to his story.

I show Matthew a variety of baby gifts, all within his budget of ten dollars. He seems uninterested. The grandmother smiles at me from her stool and waves.

“Let’s look at the stuffed animals,” I tell him. “What do you want to give your sister?”

“Nothing.”

“Well . . . I see.”

I add the clues together in my head. I glance at the barely recognizable, now crumpled money bill in his hand. I take a risk.

“What do you want, then?” I ask, though I have a feeling I know the answer already.

“I want to buy myself this shark.” He points to a $15 stuffed shark in the stuffed animal room. He picks it out of the pile and looks up at me. “Do I have enough money for this?” he asks me.

This will require super-negotiation skills. I glance at the shark. I look into Matthew’s eyes. I squat down to his level and smile. “Look, here’s the plan. You have to get a gift for your sister, but let me talk to your grandmother, and maybe with that ten dollars you could afford a little something for yourself. Sound good?”

Nearly two hours have passed since the grandmother and the boys entered our store. Matthew and I approach her. I fill her in.

“I thought that was the problem,” she said. Then she looks at Matthew. “You have ten minutes to choose a gift and if there is some money left over for you, that’s fine. But after ten minutes, I take the money back.”

Grandma has spoken.

“Do you understand, Matthew?” I ask.

“Yes. So I can buy the shark?”

“No,” I say, grabbing a basket. “First we will find something nice for your sister. We’ll put all your possible choices in this basket and then you can choose one. Quickly.” We head back to the stuffed animal room. Matthew helps me check prices on smaller items, which would be suitable as a baby gift. We put them in the basket. We add a few books and toys.

“Now, can you find something you might like for under five dollars?” I ask Matthew. He quickly picks up three stuffed animals, all in the range of fifteen dollars. I check the time. We have four minutes remaining before the deadline is up.

“These cost too much, but . . . we may have a selection in the sale area.” We head to the back of the store. Bingo! Matthew finds a rattle with a pink lamb marked down to four dollars. “I think my sister will like this.” He hands me the rattle.

“Good choice,” I tell him. Then he sees a stuffed beaver marked down to five dollars. “Do I have enough for this?”

We head to the register where I hand him a pencil and a piece of paper. I help him add the two together. We discuss tax. One minute remains. The grandmother gets off the stool and walks towards us. I ring up the purchases. Matthew hands me the wadded ten-dollar bill. It will clearly require ironing. Lots of ironing.

I wrap up his purchases and hand him his change.

“Thank you, lady,” says Matthew, heading out the door.

“Thank you, so much,”adds the grandmother, suddenly looking less tired now that her shopping expedition has come to an end.

“You’re very welcome. It’s my pleasure.” I wave a good-bye and smile to myself, thinking how lucky I am to work at The Toy Soldier.

Tea Party Challenges

Posted on by Betsy

“Grandma, I have a great  idea! You will just love it. Uh-huh, yup. Yes, you will,” says Ava, nodding her head so fast that it resembles a bouncing ball.

I lean in close to Ava, nose to nose. “What is this great idea of yours?” I ask.

“We. Are. Gonna.” Pause while Ava rests her hands on her hip. “Haveateaparty. It will be so wonderful. Yup. It will!”

We head to Ava’s closet in my writing room.  I take the princess tea set down from the top shelf, which is overloaded with boxes of tub toys, puzzles, arts and crafts projects, and anything else a grandmother might need at a moment’s notice to entertain a three-year-old. A puzzle flies off the shelf, nearly hitting me in the head.

“Grandma, that is too much stuff,” observes Ava. When I remind her that all that stuff is her toy collection, and then suggest we go through her toys to purge, she declares she needs all of it. I don’t know why I even bothered to ask her.

With the boxes precariously thrown back onto the closet shelves, Ava begins her customary tea time parade. She leads, balancing her tea set on its tray. I follow behind with our sheltie, Merlin. Our two cats, Terrapin and Joey, bring up the rear.  The cats weren’t officially invited, but the sound of tin cups rattling on a tin tray is as close to dinner as they will get at three in the afternoon.

“Come on, come on, everybody!” sings Ava. She plunks the tray on the living room table and marches off to the kitchen to peruse the cabinet. Pretzels or animal crackers? Popcorn or sugar cookies? I shoo the cats away from the tray and hear a chair scraping across the kitchen floor. Ava must have spied more interesting-looking snacks on the upper shelves of the cabinet.  I hurry into the kitchen before my afternoon turns into an emergency visit to the hospital. I help Ava off the chair and hand her the shortbread cookies she had been trying to reach.  While she attends to the cookies, I pour juice into the teapot.

Ava spreads out her princess plates and declares her spot at the table, not that I wouldn’t have been able to guess. Her plate has two whole cookies while the other three plates contain cookie pieces. And not many of them.

Ava pours the tea. She sits. She waits. She stares at me. “Grandma, where is everybody?”

“Did you invite anyone else?”

“Oh?!” Ava is thinking. Then, “Everybody, it’s time for a tea party.” The cats have not responded to her invitation, so she forces the issue, and tries to pick up eleven-pound Terrapin. Terrapin bursts from Ava’s arms and runs off. If the tea party doesn’t include turkey, spaghetti, or green peas, she wants no part of it.

“Grandma, her not want to come to my party.”

“Maybe Uni and Norman will come,” I tell Ava. 

Ava seems to consider her options.  She finds Joey, our yellow cat, hiding under the kitchen table. Terrapin switches her tail, watching from the top of the entertainment center, well out of Ava’s reach. 

With the cats out of consideration,  Ava heads down the hallway, and then returns pulling Uni, her pink unicorn, by the horn.

“Grandma, you gots to get Norman. He is a big, big guy.”

I gather Norman and find him a seat on the couch. Then I plop Uni on the rocking chair. Ava freezes. She frowns.

“Her in my chair,” she says, pointing at Uni.

I find another seat for Uni, and then sit on the couch next to Norman. I hope he won’t eat all the cookies. Norman is always hungry.

“Grandma, it is time to pour the tea.” Ava pours. We clink cups together. We drink.

“Hmm, this is good,” she says. Ava holds her tea-cup and studies our large painting in the living room.  “Grandma, that is beeauutiful.  Where did you get that?”

I look up at the painting. I look down at Ava, who is barely three years old. Surely she can’t be a shopaholic at this age.

“Kirklands,” I say.

“Oh. I want to go shopping there.”

Ava munches on her cookies, intently watching Uni. Her face is serious.  “Grandma, what is that word for . . . not real?”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Oh . . .”  She nibbles on her second cookie. “I remember . . . It is make-believe.  Grandma, Uni is make-believe.”

“Why do you say that?” I ask in bewilderment.

“Look at Uni! Her not eating anything. Her just sitting there. Doing nothing.”

I have to think quickly. Of course Uni is real.  She’s real to me, just as Norman is.  Why would we read stories to them if they weren’t real?

Childhood is magical, and I want the magic to stay as long as it can. So I look to Uni who is sitting on a rocking stool, and Ava is right, she is not eating or drinking anything.

What would you do?

Well, fast as I can, I stick my foot against the stool, shove Uni’s face into the plate and hide a bit of her cookie into my hand, all in a matter of seconds while Ava is busy pouring herself more juice.

“Ava, Uni is real.  Grandma believes she’s real.”

Ava looks up.  Uni is rocking back and forth, her nuzzle now covered in cookie crumbs. 

Ava smiles.  “Her is eating.  Her is real!”

Now if I could just figure out how to get Norman to drink from his very full tea cup without spilling all over his black fur.

I never realized how challenging a tea party could be.

My Writing Room Treasures

Posted on by Betsy

What inspires me in my writing space?
  
1. My books – organized by topics and age groups. Picture books are on the bottom so my granddaughter can reach them easily. Once a month we change the theme on top of the bookcases.
2. My Steiff collection – many are from my childhood. The smallest bears are worn at the tips of their paws, and I love them more because of this.
3. Gifts from my daughters which symbolize their belief in my writing: angels, magnets which remind me to never give up; to listen to my inward voice.
4. Photos of my family.
5.The Critters mug with a shield of my on-line novel critique group. All six of us remain dedicated to writing, to being honest about our work, and to supporting each other outside of the writing world. Thank you, Marie, Kathryn, Faith, Susan, and Paula- my dear Critter family. Kathyrn Hulick designed the shield for us. Marie Tobin surprised us with Critter mugs this Christmas.
6. The angel which appears in my novel, Momma’s Eyes. I happened upon her in Martha’s Vineyard (after the first draft was written) where a song called Savannah was playing in the store. Savannah is my heroine in this particular novel and she had shown me this angel in my dreams. But never did I think I would actually find the angel.
7. Elephant and his tree – A statue I found in a small shop in Athens, Greece. He had to come home with me as I have always been drawn to elephants. One of my favorite picture books is Elephant Moon by Bijou Le Tord.
8. Rocks and sand from places I have been to. Savannah’s spirit was with me when I chose the rocks.
9. Artwork by artists I have met at craft shows.
 
My desk and computer are in front of my windows so I can look out and see the trees. My writing couch is most always occupied by Norman, the gorilla, Merlin, our sheltie, and our two cats, Joey and Terrapin. 
 
What inspires you in your writing space?
  

Rejection: A Reason to Reassess

Posted on by Betsy

My husband does not usually ask me questions about my writing. He allows me my space. He understands when I hold up my do-not-disturb hand because I am deep into the character’s head. He is patient when I disappear for hours on end, laughing alone with a story, or crying as I write something particularly difficult or emotional.

When John learned he would be laid off in the beginning of 2010, he was suddenly curious about how I handled rejection letters, and why I never got upset or took it personally. I told him it is a matter of having a positive attitude, and making conscious choices about how you react. For the first time, I showed him the binder where I keep my rejection letters, carefully filed by date and editor. It is a binder I am proud of. It reminds me that I tried against all odds. It shows my determination. My belief in my work.

I have known what rejection looks like since I was a little girl and the mailman would try to push one of my father’s rejected manuscripts through a thin slot in our front door. I would stand there watching the manilla envelope rip as the mailman struggled to force it through the slot. I would pray that he would give up and try again on Monday so our weekend wouldn’t be ruined by my father receiving the bad news. Inevitably, the mailman knocked on our door.  And not only did I have to sign for the package, I was the messenger.  The expression on my father’s face after I handed him his mail on those particular Saturday mornings are images I will never forget.  

Perhaps those memories shaped how I view my personal rejections. I do not see them as that. I see the letters in my binder as reasons to celebrate. They are letters I have learned from, letters which have encouraged me, letters which have shaped my growth as a writer. For every editor who gave me a small piece of their time and attention, or asked for revisions, which allowed my mind to stretch in new ways, or kept a door open for other work, I am forever grateful. 

Rejection is simply a word that begins with the letters re, and I try to use rejection in a positive way. It leads me to other words beginning with the letters re: revision, reassessment, rejoice, and resolution, among others.

I start by reading the rejection. Once or twice. I put the manuscript and the letter away. I rest my mind. I relish in reading or painting or sewing or beading necklaces.  And then I re-evaluate. I renew my promise to my character to write the best I can.  I reassess my writing and then rejoice in the process of revision. I resolve to keep trying, keep learning, and to always reach higher.

In the case of a job, rejection or being laid-off can offer you a reason to change your life. To reach for a goal, long forgotten. To remember what truly made you happy.

The loss of a job is terrifying–at the very least–but a door opens, and with the right attitude, you will find yourself walking through that door and into a new world. A new year. New possibilities. A more meaningful life.

Step through open doors with courage and conviction. The worst that can happen is you get a rejection.

At least, you tried.

For anyone interested in an editor’s take on rejection letters, click on the link for Editor Alvina Ling’s blog. It is well worth the read. Thank you, Alvina, for sharing your process and insight with writers. http://bluerosegirls.blogspot.com/2009/10/decline-letters-101.html

Where Do Snowmen Go?

Posted on by Betsy

                              

Normally rain brings a sense of excitement and wonder to my three-year-old granddaughter. But not today.  Ava does not jump up and down, begging  for her multi-colored child-size umbrella or her froggie boots or her unicorn raincoat. Nor does she plead with me to let her run outside so she can jump in every puddle she can find. 

Ava is worried about Bobby.

Today’s rain wipes away the snow–which appeared for Christmas this year–and washes away a snowman: Ava’s snowman. The one she had been yearning to build since the leaves changed colors in October.

The air outside is damp. Ava asks, once again, to visit Bobby, who resided in the front lawn where her great-grandparents live. I do not tell her that her snowman is now a pile of dingy mushy snow, even though I think she suspects this.

I dig through my selection of picture books to find an appropriate book. One which will help me in explaining the loss of Bobby.

Ava finds her own way to cope. She sits down and pulls books off her shelf. “Grandma . . . I know where Bobby is.”

“You do?” I flip through the pages of The Tenth Good Thing About Barney by Judith Viorst. Maybe that would work.

Ava taps my elbow. “Uh-huh, I do. I do, Grandma. Bobby is at The Rainbow. He is working there.”

Oh, that’s good. Bobby is not a pile of slush with his features floating away towards a drain.

“What does Bobby do at The Rainbow?” I ask, with much curiosity.

Ava beams, obviously proud of her wonderful imagination. “Bob–by–is workingatthe penguinplace.” She cups her hands to her mouth and whispers. “He feeds the penguins so he can stay cold and not melt.”

“Oh, that is a perfect job for Bobby,” I tell her.

 “Uh-huh, it is. It is just perfect, Grandma.”

With the knowledge of Bobby having grown up and gone out into the world to find a job, I see hope. My imagination begins to run. Ava hands me a pile of picture books to read to her. She snuggles next to me and pulls Norman, our gorilla, close to her side.

 “Me and Norman want stories, Grandma.”

And so I read and read and read, and in the spaces of time where she is turning the page or pausing to talk to Norman, I write notes in the small notebook I keep by my side.

 I write about Bobby.

Take Joy in the Journey

Posted on by Betsy

 

Having returned from Idaho, I reflect on my time in Boise, where I helped to make gingerbread houses, attended The Nutcracker ballet at Ballet Idaho, perfected my Girl Scout salute, watched the movie Up for the third time (cried for the third time), was inspired by nineteen girls to find the true meaning of Christmas, visited the cancer clinic, listened to other people struggling in their lives (hugged them tight), read to my nieces, tended to my sister, learned that my husband was laid off from his job , decorated my sister’s house for the holidays, folded laundry,read to my nieces, loaded the dishwasher, unloaded the dishwasher, danced with my nieces, reorganized the refrigerator, read The Wednesday Wars by Gary Schmidt (laughed and cried), reorganised the laundry room, attended the holiday show put on by first, second and third graders (smiled until my cheeks hurt), read Hush by Jaqueline Woodson, reorganised the craft drawers, watched the film Young at Heart (everyone needs to see this), shopped for party favors for the girls’ birthday party, organized the decoration of the party bags, spontaneously found ways to entertain the girls at the party during a lag in activites (my group was sent to another room as we were having too much fun), and had my first experience climbing a mountain to find a Christmas tree. 

Our journey in the mountains of Idaho began in the late afternoon on a Sunday with my sister, her husband, their two young daughters, myself, and Tessa, their very energetic and independent schnauzer. It began with a view of the mountainside, and the knowledge that we had to climb quickly–if we were to avoid the impending loss of sunlight. The girls ran ahead to test the depth of the snow, which was up to their knees. Tessa buried her face in a snow bank, and then shot out of sight. I began to make my way through the snow with my sister by my side. Breathing the fresh air, I realized there were no street sounds: cars honking, music blaring, people shouting. It was remarkably silent, except for the sounds we made. 

In that wonderful silence, I thought about my writing; the peaceful hours in the morning when I begin a journey with a new voice, which grabbed my heart, urging me to follow.  To listen. To write their story. These voices don’t allow me to give up. There is a reason they slip into my mind, and my job is not to question why, but to simply get their story right, even when the path to writing the manuscript seems insurmountable.  

Reminding myself that I have faced writing challenges with success keeps me moving forward in search for the perfect tree. Even when the temperatures dropped and my fingertips stung through my gloves. And even as I paused to wonder whether the two tiny trees we noticed–in the first ten minutes–might be a compromise for one large tree, so we could go home. 

 But then I remembered my nieces. I remembered how the journey through a first-draft can be long and arduous, and how, no matter what, I continue to write.  

I needed to continue to move forward.  

My sister was tired. She made the decision to head back down the mountain and wait for us in the car. I promised her I would keep track of the girls and that we would soon return with a tree, not realizing that well over an hour would pass before we would see her again.  

Twenty minutes went by. The girls began to bicker. They were cold. And tired. They were worried about their mom at the bottom of the mountainside in the car. They didn’t like that Tessa continued to disappear from our sight. 

“We have a tree to find.” I tried to keep my lips from shaking, and wiggled my toes inside my boots to keep them from going numb. “It’s just around the bend. Ahead of us. I can feel it.” 

“You said that already,” said Lili. 

“Yeah,” said Sofi, “at least three times already, and we haven’t found the right one yet!” 

“We will,” I promised. We had to. 

The sunlight was fading. The temperature had dropped. The girls’ cheeks and noses were red. Their father was out of sight, though we continued to call back and forth. 

I slipped my gloves off and held my warm hands to their cheeks, which were as cold as icicles. “We can do this, girls. For your mom.” 

We continued up the  mountainside to find their father. And the reason for this journey: the view ahead of us. A gift we did not expect.   

 

 Our tree was not far from that view. A tree we carried down the mountainside in the dim light. The girls led us in singing carols, and even when we slipped (more than once), we kept our spirits high. For we had found a tree, and whether or not it was indeed the most perfect of trees, the joy was in the journey. 

 

I was once again reminded of my writing and the journeys I take with my characters. It is important that I make myself stop and take a step back, especially when I have been in the depths of a manuscript for weeks. Only then do I see the view; the true story I was meant to discover.  

Take joy in the journey.  

Happy Holidays! 

 

Darkness falls as we tie the tree to the car

 

 

An Unexpected Gift

Posted on by Betsy

With the constant barrage of advertisements for holiday sales, we have lost the meaning of Christmas.  This deeply saddens me. I will not shop at every given moment only because the media tells me to. Instead of buy, buy, buy, I want to dig a hole in the snow and find a warm bear to hibernate against. Someone can dig me out when spring arrives.

But family calls. I throw the large bag of holiday catalogs into our recycling bin, pack my bags, and head back to Idaho.

Once I arrive in Boise–well past midnight–I have tasks to accomplish. And in doing these tasks, I put expectations on myself: to give my best effort, to remain cheerful and energetic, and to do whatever my sister needs from me to help her and her young daughters through her health crisis.

I have no concept of how much I will get in return.

After five hours of sleep and a neck in spasms from the plane ride, I receive my first surprise gift, befitting for a writer. I am asked to read holiday picture books to a group of eight-and-nine-year-old Girl Scouts–most of whom I’ve never met, once their planned activities are completed. I take the place of my sister, who is one of the troop co-leaders, and obviously unable to attend. There are nineteen girls who feast on pizza, juice, and popcorn, all of which fuels their group energy to a level, which is a little daunting to me. Especially on no sleep. This group is a larger challenge than the room full of young toddlers I had read to at the library last week. But the girls are so charming. They win me over with their smiles and enthusiasm.

The leaders segregate the girls into four groups: learning how to properly break eggs (a class I need to take), decorating cookies, making the sugar cookies from scratch, and a craft activity, which I am asked to run. Being a quick learner comes in handy when you have to teach nineteen kids how to make something you’ve just been shown how to make yourself. The key is to look like you know what you’re doing, and hopefully, you will, soon–preferably before your next group of kids comes running to the craft table. It helps to maintain a level of flexibility, especially when you need to find a quick substitute for Rudolph’s nose. The red hots are not cooperating, which my first group of girls quickly point out to me. I eye the room and remember seeing red napkins when the pizza was being devoured.

 “Who wants to hunt down some red napkins?” I ask. Five hands shoot into the air. I ask another mother to run the emergency errand. Five hands plunk onto the table.

“But, Mrs. Betsy, the noses won’t stay on.”

“Ah, yes, I kind of noticed that . . . so we have an opportunity here to practice being  flexible and creative. Any ideas?” One hand shoots into the air. Mine.

Red napkins arrive. The errand mom stays by my side for support. I stare at the napkin, willing it to tell me what to do. The clock ticks. I smell the cookie dough. I want to eat some. Then, as in writing, I let go and trust my instincts. I don’t think about it. My fingers tear the napkin into small squares. I ask the other mom to give each girl two pieces. “We are going to improvise,” I tell them, trying to sound confident.

The final red hot, which was hanging on for dear life, slides off its candy cane base and plunks onto the table. The Girl Scouts moan as a group. The situation is not looking pretty. I need to rally the troops. Quickly. I start to sing Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer. My table joins in, softly at first. Next, the cookie decorating station is singing, and then the kitchen class, the egg-breaking class, until no one is silent. We sing as red napkins become noses–scrunched into little balls. Red hots disappear while the girls’ tongues now appear red.

After an hour, the station rotations come to an end. The girls’ aprons are covered in flour. They play horsie. Eat more popcorn. Drop popcorn all over the carpet. Chase each other into the bathroom. Have pillow fights. Their energy level continues to climb. There is no end in sight and all I can think about is how I want to sink my teeth into a sugar cookie, fresh from the oven and coated with powdered sugar frosting.

It is time to do the dishes, clean-up, and gather the girls in front of the fireplace with their sleeping bags to settle down–if this is possible. With my Girl Scout fingers in place (one girl corrects me as I have the wrong salute at first,) I vie for their attention. Three girls respond. My temporary confidence sinks. If I were standing in snow, I would have been up to my thighs. I try again. “Ah . . . Girl Scouts.” Now, ten girls come to the other side. With the help of the troop mothers, the room falls silent. Hope pulls me out of the snow bank and within five minutes, the room is taken over by sleeping bags filled with chatty girls in pajamas, maintaining an energy level, which obviously would have carried them through the entire night until the break of dawn.

I need a nap. A long one.

I move through the crowd of giggling Girl Scouts and attempt to swap places with another mother, offering to clean the kitchen while they tame the crowd. No such luck.

The picture books are pointed out to me. I carefully climb over the girls and sleeping bags and pillows to reach the pile of books, and then climb back across the room and head to the front of the fireplace.

I ponder the noise level. I ponder the selection of books to read to this group.

I ponder an escape route.

And then I remember my expectations of coming to Idaho: to help my sister and her family welcome in the holiday.

I ask for quiet. The laughing, whispering, and giggling continues. I remind myself, Betsy, you are a writer and a reader and you can do this. Don’t think about their age level. Just read.

I hold up the Girl Scout salute–no correction needed this time. The girls begin to settle down. I hope my two nieces won’t consider me an embarrassment when I warm up the audience by telling them a few stories about the toy store where I work; about the ducks who occasionally wander into the store; about Norman, the gorilla, who now lives with me. There is a moment of silence. I seize the opportunity and begin to read The Night Before Christmas. This edition is a pop up book.I read, using different voices. Santa’s deep voice. My narrator voice. The nineteen girls are now snuggled into their sleeping bags, their heads on their pillows. Many hug beloved stuffed animals.

Is this possible? Can a simple, well-known story capture the attention of a group of energetic girls, seemingly too old to be read to from a picture book meant for a younger audience?

Yes, it is possible.

The girls are a captive audience. I pick up The Polar Express and began to read. Not a word is spoken, though their eyes sparkle. Eyes which say I believe.

I reach the part in the book where a crowd gathers in town to await Santa’s arrival. I pause for effect. Then with one arm raised, I play Santa presenting the first gift of Christmas. Though it is I who receives the gift.

For at last, once again, I hear the ringing of the bell.

Thank you to Boise Girl Scout Troop #131 and to all the Mom Elves.