Being Grateful – Betsy Devany

Why I Will Never Forget Henry

Posted on August 17, 2017July 23, 2019 by Betsy

A few weeks ago, I came across these painted rocks in Colchester, CT. I’d stopped at Starbucks, thinking a caramel latte would cure my blues over the national news. But the rocks are what lifted my spirits. Thank you, anonymous artist, for reaching out to strangers.

I think of these rocks often now, particularly when I’m working at the toy store, where sometimes children, teens and adults need something beyond a toy recommendation. Whether they are searching for a genuine smile, for someone to listen to their story, or to know they are not alone, I embrace these opportunities to spread kindness. And sometimes in making personal connections, a person unknowingly sheds light on my own unresolved issues, as Henry did on a muggy day in August.

Henry shuffles into the toy store and up to our wooden front counter. “I’m looking for WWI die cast planes, for someone who’ll be dead in two years.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that someone isn’t well,” I say.

“It’s not that I’m not well, I’m 84 years old, so I could die next week, or next month, you never know.” Henry offers me a playful smile that shows he enjoys teasing people.

I lead Henry to the room where we keep the collectible toy soldiers. Henry seems familiar but I don’t connect the dots until he shares more about his life. A former history teacher, with a passion for WWI, he visited Toy Soldier for the first time a year ago. “Some nice lady helped me, but it wasn’t you,” he insists, handing me a note from his wallet. The words in neat cursive say Planes that Henry Bought.

“That’s not my handwriting,” I say.

“Of course not. I wrote that. It’s the handwriting of a soon-to-be-dead old man.” He pulls out another paper with the store’s address and phone number, along with a name. My name.

“I’m Betsy.”

“You poor thing. It was you. If it wasn’t for that exhausting honey-do list I would have come sooner.”

“Honey-do list?”

“Yes. The wife’s. She’s sitting on your bench outside, probably adding to the darn list. Maybe it’s a good thing I might die next week.”

I excuse myself and step away to help other customers. Twenty minutes later, Henry is still in our soldier room, his eyes fixed on a limited edition Fokker plane.

“Sure is a beauty, but it’s expensive, and Miss Holds the Purse Strings won’t let me get it.”

I offer to take the plane out of the case to show his wife.

“Oh, god, no. I’ll just describe it to her.” Henry shuffles to the porch while I help a woman select a doll for her two-year-old daughter. After ringing up the sale, I look through the window behind me. Henry is still talking, using his arms to demonstrate the size of the plane to a wife who now seems primed for a nap.

I step out to say hi. “Would you like to see a picture of the plane?”

“No. I don’t need to see it. What I need is for him to stop talking about the darn plane.” She glances up at her husband. “Do you want the plane, Henry?”

Henry looks at me, like I’m supposed to answer for him.

“Do you want the plane?” I ask Henry.

He nods, then shuffles after me. Back into the store, back to the glass case. I slide the heavy metal Fokker of its shelf and hand it to Henry. His eyes glisten. “Can you imagine flying a plane like that, without a cockpit cover?” He continues to chat as we walk to the front counter where I then carefully secure the plane in its limited edition box.

What looks like a five-year-old smile erases from Henry’s lined face. “God forgive me for what I’m about to do.” He pulls out a charge card from his wallet.

“Forgive you for what?”

“Buying the plane.” Henry’s eyes water. “I don’t deserve it.”

Henry’s words, the image of him cradling the plane in his arms, bring me back to my mother, back to her favorite brown leather shoes.

It was the last week in April, and my mother had just been admitted to Hospice. Rather than discuss what that meant, she wanted to talk about her shoes. “They’re almost worn out, I need to replace them. But they’re too expensive.” Even though she could no longer walk, we ordered replacements with expedited shipping. Two days later, my mother smiled, cradling the new shoes in her lap. “Just what I wanted,” she’d said before shifting her legs over the side of the hospital bed and asking for the shoes to be put on her feet.

And then she insisted the shoes be removed from her feet and returned to their box. “I’ll wear them when my old pair is completely worn out.”

My mother believed she would walk again.

My mother believed she had longer to live.

My mother thought she didn’t deserve a new pair of shoes.

The box sat in the corner of her room until I shoved it in the closet so I wouldn’t see it when I visited her each day. Four weeks later, the shoes were sent back, the day after her assisted living apartment was emptied.

And then I tried to forget about the shoes.

And I tried to forget that my mother died two days before the first anniversary of my husband’s death from ALS.

I tried to forget the memories and images that accompany watching loved ones suffer through unthinkable and cruel diseases.

But Henry unknowingly triggers these memories, and how I’ve avoided facing the truth of all that has happened these past two years.

“If you were me, what would you do?” Henry is wrestling over whether to buy the plane or not.

I push back tears, wishing I’d made my mother wear the new shoes, when Henry locks eyes with me.

I am at a loss for words. Breathe, I tell myself, picturing the yellow letters on the purple rock.

“Put the plane back on the shelf,” he says. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“You deserve the plane, Henry.”

A minute later, Henry inches toward our front door, a large shopping bag in his right hand. He is almost out of sight when I call him back. “Henry, can you promise me something? Can you promise to take the plane out of the box when you get home? Can you promise me you’ll enjoy having the plane?”

Across the display of card games he extends a shaky hand. I take it. “I promise,” he says with a squeeze.

Henry shuffles down our front path, his wife following behind. He stops and reaches back for her. She takes his left hand with a smile.

I do not know if I will ever see Henry again, but I will never forget him. I will never forget holding my husband’s hand when we’d walk through Olde Mistick Village. I will never forget holding my mother’s hand when she took her last breath on May 30th this year.

And I, too, will keep the promise I made to both of them.

I begin today.

I begin with writing this post.

Loss and Living Life

Posted on September 15, 2016July 24, 2019 by Betsy

I have been absent from blogging for well over a year, and so after many long, contemplative hikes with my rescue dog Buddy, I decided I needed to share where I’ve been before I move to the next phase of my life as a published author.

In May 2015, my husband lost his job again. Within weeks, he had a slight foot drop, his left foot. Minor, but it gave us both pause. At times his balance seemed off. If Buddy tugged too hard on his leash, he would sometimes pull John to the ground. I took John to our PCP, who sent us to an orthopedic specialist. John’s MRI showed a ruptured disk in his spine, as well as a narrowing of his neck. We were facing extensive spinal and neck surgery, with long recoveries. We had no clue something else was at play.

I insisted on a second opinion, because the first doctor wanted to operate immediately. My gut told me to hold off, and to push for more tests, more opinions, because John presented with another troubling symptom. Fasciculations, brief, spontaneous contractions that affect a small number of muscle fibers, causing flickers of movement under his skin. It was like watching microscopic worms burrow up and down his arms.

We sought out more specialists, prepared for our youngest daughter’s upcoming wedding. But when I watched John trip on a sideway in Boston, unable to catch himself to break his fall, I knew. My family knew, too. They quietly told me they suspected a neurological disease was at play. Beyond the first specialist, no one would operate on John’s neck and/or spine. And yet, John clung to this notion that an operation would cure all, telling me how happy he was going to be once his body was repaired. He would stay up late at night, applying for jobs.

He only fell again, and again, and again.

But with the aide of a walking stick, in mid-September 2015, John managed to walk our daughter down the path to be married. I saw in the eyes of my family that day, their fears that we were dealing with something much larger than what could be fixed on an operating table. And so we all, myself included, decided to not share our concerns with John. We let John have hope, for as long as we could. We let him believe that the next specialist might approve his spine and neck surgery. We hoped that our suspicions were wrong.

On Dec. 8th, 2015, my younger sister and I took John to MGH in Boston, where within hours he was diagnosed with ALS. At the time, I thought it was the worst day of my life, but I didn’t know what lay ahead.

John deteriorated at a rate that no one could predict. Less than 3 months after his diagnosis, he lost the full use of his legs. Shortly after that, he was dependent on others for all self-care, no longer able to slowly lift a spoon to his mouth to feed himself.

Many people know our story, through what I’ve shared on Facebook, etc. The medical community all projected that John would live for 3-5 years. Very quickly, I knew this would not be the case. And so in December 2015, I started a new role as a fierce and loving advocate. It seemed like every few days I was dealing with a new crisis in terms of John’s health. My goal, my daily focus, was to keep him safe, feeling loved, and see that he had quality of life. I checked off what was doable on his wish list. I took him to San Diego to say goodbye to his mother, got him a ride in his favorite car (Austin Healey), and I organized a celebration of John’s life, just in the nick of time.

Less than six months after his ALS diagnosis, my husband was at peace. No longer suffering from his daily muscle spasms that left him screaming in the night.

While I was strong throughout this journey of caring for and watching my husband suffer up to the end, it was the grandchildren that would break me down. Those were the moments where I had to fight to not crumble to the floor. Moments such as when 4 y.o. Landon was begging his dying PopPop to wake up so he could play trains with him.

And so, when it was my turn to speak at John’s memorial this past July, I focused on the children in his life, and on how John inspired us all.

Below is how I closed my tribute to John.

Our 4 y. o. grandson lost his best buddy and fellow train lover. After John died, Landon told everyone PopPop was happy. “He’s a zombie train engineer now, driving dead people around,” Landon insisted. A fan of zombie shows, John would have loved this image.

But then Landon asked about the box. The box with John’s ashes. Which is when Landon noticed that Buddy, our rescue dog, was sad too. In his own 4 y. o. way, Landon tried to soothe the dog’s grief. Lifting one of Buddy’s ears, he whispered, “It’s okay, Buddy. PopPop’s not coming home, Buddy. He lives in a box now.”

The box.

The box always comes up with Landon’s other questions: “Is PopPop just dust now?” “So he can never be PopPop again?”

When Landon’s mother asked him how this made him feel, he said, “I just really miss PopPop is all.”

But here’s the thing, we can all rant about how horrible ALS is or we can look to the good that grew from this experience. We had the opportunity to say goodbye. In addition, John had the opportunity to see how many people love him, how many lives he unknowingly touched. How many lives he is going to touch with his invaluable contribution to ALS research.

John is gone. Yet we are given the chance to be thankful for what we have, that we may take for granted, day after day. We must be sure to use our voices to say what we want to before we lose the ability. And use our legs and arms and minds to accomplish good things and go places we might not otherwise go. We have the opportunity to live our lives to the fullest. What a gift that is.

Every day, I’d ask John what I could do for him. His answer was always the same. “I want to stand up and walk. I want to jump and skip and run.” In late May, he told me he was looking forward to the summer, to root beer floats, to seeing friends and family, to watching cool cars from the second floor balcony.

John wanted to live. He died six days later.

Despite his suffering, John was always grateful. It’s a lesson I don’t take lightly. He would always thank people for changing him, washing him, moving him, feeding him, even when he no longer recognized lifelong friends, his nurses and aides, and even his beloved dog, Buddy.

Grateful. Humble. That was my husband.

So here’s to you, my Brave MacLeod, may you rest in peace.

And in the words of a four year old, I just really miss you is all.

P. S. – A heartfelt thanks to everyone who supported our family throughout this difficult journey.

P. S. S. – I’m okay, John. I hope you are too. xo

A Writer’s Distractions

Posted on July 27, 2014 by Betsy

When I struggle with putting words

to the page,

I step outside,

breathe in fresh air,

then search

for tiny miracles.

In truth, distractions

of the extraordinary.

Yet, tiny miracles always bring me back

to the place I’m avoiding.

I, too, want to silently dive deep,

explore a daylily (or an untold story)

unnoticed,

except for the curious human

with her camera,

avoiding her writing.

But isn’t that where magic happens?

Where the best of stories

are born?

Even if fear both propels us forward

and holds us back?

And then I find myself in awe of tadpoles,

having ventured for too long

and too far from the house,

on this path of distraction.

Tadpoles, which have never much interested me,

but now do.

Which invites a flood of questions,

questions about my characters,

and this story I am compelled to write.

So I leave my critical self outside

so she can enjoy

what the world has to offer.

Perhaps, she will find solace

in the company of a frog.

Or take the time to wonder

at how beautiful

a gorilla’s feet are,

while I slip away unnoticed

before she follows me.

The Importance of Being Present

Posted on June 20, 2014July 23, 2019 by Betsy

“Red moon,” he said,

his two-year-old hand reaching for mine

in the dark.

As urgently as my granddaughter

grabbed my arm, earlier that day.

For her, it was the return

of the hummingbirds.

She’d spotted a female

resting on a high branch,

a potential mate preening

his feathers nearby.

Our clothesline, his stage.

Then . . . a flash

of iridescent red,

high-pitched squeaks,

beating wings that

skirted our hair.

Breathlessness

as abandoned homework

danced

on a breeze.

We chased it, laughing.

If not for children

reminding us to be present,

how many miracles of life

would be overlooked?

The insect in a daylily.

Shadows in the woods.

The beauty of a half-dead

Japanese maple tree

clinging to life.

Its unfurling apple-peel like leaves

shimmering in the sun.

Do our heads always need to be down?

Our brains wired and ready

for instant response

to Facebook notifications,

e-mails, texts, twitter updates?

Look. Up.

Find beauty.

Give a child your full,

undivided attention.

And so we set aside homework

to wonder at hummingbirds.

Delayed bedtime

to gaze at a brilliant full moon,

shrouded in a milky

red-and-blue veil.

“Look, Grandma!” he said,

his small hand swallowed

in mine.

Clouds shifted; the moon disappeared.

But not the moment.

The moment of just

being.

He ran down the driveway.

“Moon is gone! GONE!”

I raced after him,

swept him into my arms,

guided his tiny arm toward the sky.

“Watch and wait,” I whispered.

Together, we silently anticipated–

not a ding or a chirp or a tweet—

but the reappearance

of an unreachable golden ball

nestled in the night sky.

A ball my grandson called “Red Moon.”

Yes, we need to be brave

in our writing,

but we must also seek the courage

to be present.

The Deer Watcher

Posted on September 12, 2013 by Betsy

Ever since my recent Unavoidable/Terrifying Deer Encounter, driving the grandkids in the car has taken on new meaning. Technically, I am using my husband’s Nissan truck since my accordion of a car is parked in an auto body repair lot. Strips of its frame lay in a pile on the gravel. We will not be reunited for weeks.

I was ten miles from home after a glorious writing weekend spent on Squam Lake when a relative of Bambi’s shot out of the woods and into the path of my Honda CRV. Its fawn had just safely crossed the busy highway, thanks to a number of cars and trucks swerving to avoid hitting it.

A split-second later, all you can do is cry. You can’t change what happened, though you wish you could. And then the memory of your sister, at the age of five, flashes before you. We’d been at a movie theatre watching Bambi when she got out of her seat and walked down the aisle, pointing her finger at the large screen. “Your mother is dead,” she said, as if Bambi didn’t realize.

I love animals, which is why I wanted to rescue the fawn, express my sorrow for being at the wrong place at the wrong time, and then find some nice person to adopt it. And when I explained this to the state trooper, he nicely asked me to remain seated, and then reiterated how lucky I was. The scene was ripe for a multi-car accident, and if my hood had not folded, the mother deer would have flown through my windshield.

I am alive.

I am grateful.

But I still think about the mother deer. I think about the fawn. So I’ve convinced myself that the baby is safe in some field, chasing after butterflies, and does not require years of therapy. My seven-year-old granddaughter told me that the buck found the fawn, and is now taking care of it. “Grandma, the baby is fine. You just have to stop hitting deer with your car.”

“One deer, Ava.” I hold up a finger. “I hit one deer, which I couldn’t avoid.”

And this is why our car routine has changed.

Today, I buckle my twenty-month-old grandson in his car seat. Ava pulls her chest strap tight. “Okay, it’s really tight. I’ll be safe.”

Landon takes his train in and out of his cup holder. “Choo-choo-choo-choo.”

Five minutes later we are on the highway, and Landon is trying to get Ava’s attention. “Dah, dah, dah . . .”

“Ava, why aren’t you answering Landon?”

“Because I don’t understand what he’s saying, and I’m too busy to talk to him,” she says. “I have more important work.”

I glance toward the back. Ava is watching the scenery flash past her.

“What work?” I ask.

“I am The Deer Watcher.”

“Truuuck!” shouts Landon, pointing at a moving van. “Truuuck!”

Everything is a truck. Cars are trucks, buses are trucks, and bicycles are trucks. Except our cat. Our cat, according to Landon, is a “Doggie.”

“DEER!” Ava screams.

I lift my foot off the gas pedal, position above the brake. I scan the road; my heart is in my throat.

“Grandma, DEER!” she yells again.

“TRUCCKKK!” shouts Landon.

“WHERE?” I say.

“Way up there, on the hill.”

“Those deer are in no danger of being hit by me.”

“How do you know?” Ava asks. “There are babies up there.”

I put my foot on the gas. We get off the highway and drive to Panera Bread. (Before my eldest daughter calls me out, I will admit that, on occasion, I might suggest that the grandkids beg me to take them to Panera, while I am a Panera Smoothie Addict.)

I order macaroni and cheese for Landon, chicken noodle soup for Ava, and a mango smoothie for me.

Landon drives his train through the macaroni while Ava and I discuss how The Deer Watcher doesn’t want to be The Screamer Who Gives Grandma An Anxiety Attack.

Here is what we come up with:

AVA’S SAVE A DEER PLAN

Ava is in charge of watching for deer.
Ava points deer out to Grandma when they are standing by the edge of the highway, not up on a hill, so far away that Grandma needs glasses to see the deer.
Avoid highways when we can take a scenic route instead.
Don’t scream “DEER” in the car as a joke. Grandma says that is not funny.

But in a way it is. Humor is what gets us through the tough times.

What a wonderful, wonderful life.

Love and Letting Go

Posted on September 6, 2013 by Betsy

This past week I’ve had lessons in letting go.

I said goodbye to our beloved sheltie.

I said goodbye to one of our cats.

I let my YA novel leave my hands to allow it to become what the world needs it to be.

I let go.

I let go out of love.

Stories whisper to us when to step away, that we have done our job to the best of our ability.

Pets trust us to do what is humane when the time comes, to keep them from entering the place where suffering defines their existence.

It doesn’t make loss any easier.

And when you’ve spent hours revising and revising your work while being a pet caregiver, the related behaviors remain. Long after the heart accepts the loss.

I still automatically rise at 5 to check on the dog. I dismantle the alarm, then unlock the door to let him out.

Except he’s not here.

It’s all gone: His bowls, chew toys, squeaking squirrel. His dog beds, food, medicines. Shampoo, leashes. Pill organizers. His bark, the pitter-patter of his feet. The sound of him plopping beside me. His sigh.

His beautiful, beautiful face.

But not his collar, and his green alien boy, he loved so much.

Our one cat that remains hides beneath the kitchen table, curled in a chair pushed flush to the table. What must be going through her head?

Then I remember. We would not know loss if we never loved. And to love and be loved is a gift.

And so I feed the cat, and then settle on our porch to wait for the sun.

I notice my grandson’s blue hippo in our yard, which he sits on when there is nothing better to do than sit on one’s hippo and wonder at the world.

The cement step is cold against my thighs. A hummingbird whizzes over my head.

A hint of pink peers through our trees.

Another day begins.

I hear her spring to the floor, her red tag clink against her collar, and I know she is ready.

I am, too.

She meows through the screen, and I come inside. Walk down the hallway to my writing room.

I open the door.

I sit.

I open the YA document out of habit. I close it, and pat the place next to me.

Terrapin jumps up, nudges my hand.

I write.

I write out of love.

I write about a dog.

The Wishing Flower

Posted on May 3, 2013July 23, 2019 by Betsy

Growing up in the Devany family, I was beholden to my mother’s Look Beyond Yourself Birthday Tradition, which stemmed from her philosophy to always think about other people. On their one special day in the year, the birthday child had to buy (or make) gifts for their siblings. In my case, there were three. Grabbing anything off a shelf was not allowed, she wanted us to think about what each person would really enjoy. It was a lot of pressure, and some years we tried to outdo one another.

My second birthday without my father was yesterday. Last year’s was tough. I had no desire to celebrate. I let the phone ring without answering. I spent hours alone by a reservoir, watching birds. My gifts sat on the table unopened. Not until I saw two great egrets, one landing high in a tree while the younger one fished, did I realize the problem. I’d been waiting for something. When the elder flew off, as if confident that the younger bird would be okay on its own, I knew.

I’d been waiting for my dad to call and wish me a happy birthday.

Yesterday, I rose early to write. I wrote for four hours, my way of connecting with my father on the day I long for him the most. Then I thought about my mother’s birthday tradition. I looked beyond myself and discovered what makes a birthday joyous are simple, unexpected moments. When you find yourself cheering for others on your special day, and moments like these:

The hummingbirds returned.

A momma bird laid her final egg in a nest atop our porch fan. My seven-year-old granddaughter made a sign, warning everyone to Not Turn on the Fan because babies are sleeping.

Ava and I wandered your yard, searching for hidden beauty. Both of us with cameras. She discovered tulips, which I don’t recall planting.

An overwhelming number of people wished me a happy birthday, which meant so much to me. Truly, I can’t thank you enough.

My eldest daughter scored a 97 in her nursing exam.

My youngest daughter was invited to teach at the prestigious Gathering 2013 for Paul Mitchell as an educator.

We saved a bumblebee that was trapped in our window.

Ava’s excitement over spotting birds in our yard—cardinals, yellow finch, hawks.

Gorgeous sunrise at the start of the day.

To be captured by a child’s wonder. “Grandma! Look how blue that flower is!”

The day ended with a wonderful Italian dinner out with my family. I returned home with my husband to find colored pencils strewn across our living room table, and a picture, Ava had made. Perhaps she knew what I’d wished for earlier that day when she picked up a dandelion. My greatest treasures are handmade by small hands with the purest of love.

“Grandma, do you know this is a wishing flower?” she had whispered, as if she held magic in her hands.

“It is?”

“Yes,” she said, holding it to my lips. “Make a birthday wish.”

Sometimes, wishes do come true.

Dear Dad . . .

Posted on August 30, 2012 by Betsy

It seems like forever since I’ve last posted on my blog. So much has happened over the past four months, and I apologize for not including you in my recent journeys. I have, in fact, been writing each and every day, for up to five hours at a time. In addition to working the long summer hours at the toy store, my brain was focused on ripping apart a beloved novel because I had a “bit of worry.” (I am forever grateful to the editor who used this phrase in their rejection letter, as their worry led to my worry.) I’ve spent May and June being brave, and doing something I’d never tried before. I bid a heartfelt adieu to a character in Savannah’s Mountain, and then found the courage to sit back and wait for Savannah to return to me. Whisper to me. And she did, and I listened, and I discovered that another character belonged within the pages of her story. As I tossed aside chunks of the manuscript, my father’s words echoed in my head. And this gave me strength and hope that I could face the challenge.

Set aside your personal feelings and do what serves the story best.

I hope, dear readers, to share more about this process and about other journeys, I’ve traveled since May. But for now, I have something important to do. I need to tell my father my good news: news he’s been expecting for almost twenty years.

Dear Dad,

It has been nearly a year since I last held your hand, stroked your head, and told you that it was okay to leave this earth. I know you wanted so much to hang on, and those words “I need to live long enough to see you published” stay within my heart. It is okay that you let go. You deserved to be in peace, without pain. And perhaps that is what needed to happen in order to allow each of us to grow. Since your death, I’ve worked even harder, and my writing has gone to places I’d never imagined. Maybe a bit of your immense talent was left behind on this earth, and now tiny pieces are growing within the hearts and souls of your family.

Lately, your presence is strong, and it brings me much comfort. Perhaps a bit of your spirit was in the dragonfly that insisted on sitting on our jade plant, twisting and turning his head, giving me a quizzical look. It stayed with me for nearly an hour, as if to watch and make sure I was writing on the porch and doing my work as I promised you I would. You may have been the butterfly that posed for over twenty minutes among our flowers or the red-tailed hawk soaring in the sky above me when I learned some good news.

These are moments when I look up at that great blue sky or wonder at the beauty of a sunset or lose my breath over a glorious full moon or take great joy at seeing your great-granddaughter in awe of a beluga whale. This is when I become the little girl sitting next to you in our backyard long ago, watching your fingers fly across a yellow legal pad as you tried to keep up with the setting sun. I remember swinging my growing legs, not knowing how the deep desire to write was finding its way from where you sat in a sagging lawn chair into my heart. This is when the creative seed was planted, only to grow and grow over the years, until I could no longer ignore the passion.

Now, it is still dark outside, and I have been awake since 4 a.m., because before I can go on to the stage of becoming a published author, I need to hear your voice and tell you what you’d been waiting for all these years. You saw something in me that I didn’t yet understand. At times, I still don’t. So I settle on my porch in a lawn chair and listen to one of the recordings of that wonderful, musical voice of yours. Hearing you speak gives me much comfort, and I thank you for letting me record you over the last year of your life.

Are you listening, Dad? I got the call, and I now have a brilliant and loving agent (Emily van Beek with Folio Literary), who speaks of my writing with a tone so familiar, I poured over all your emails, I can never delete. And there it was. My Emily’s words reflect yours. So perhaps you had a hand in this. Perhaps you sent her to me so I can be pushed, and will then ultimately give my best work to the world. Know that I am listening, and that I will continue to listen to you, Dad.

Know that I’ve kept my promise.

Lastly, I want you to assure that we are all good here on this earth: your children, your grandchildren and your great-grandchildren. And Mom, we are watching out for Mom.

Not a day goes by when I don’t miss you, when I don’t give thanks for having had you in my life. I am so, so lucky.

I love you oodles and boodles and Skittles galore.

Your daughter, Betsy

P.S.- Dad, I’m doing great. I hope you are too.

Whispering Pines Writing Retreat 2012

Posted on April 13, 2012 by Betsy

This year, the method for choosing Whispering Pines attendees came down to the luck of the draw: a lottery. As long as you met the deadline, you had a chance at having your name pulled from the hat. But within a few weeks, I received a sympathetic e-mail from the lovely Mary Pierce. While I felt a sense of loss, I quickly moved on. I spent more hours writing each day, finished another novel, and wrote two new picture books. Writing fills my soul, but I kept flipping to the month of March on the calendar, yearning for the pines that whisper in the early morning, for my friends, and for the opportunities to improve my craft.

Why is the Whispering Pines Writer’s Retreat so special? In an intimate setting, it is one of a kind. Yes, the food is fabulous, the setting breathtaking, but in truth it comes down to the mentors. Because of Lynda Mullaly Hunt’s efforts, attendees spend the weekend with welcoming, generous, and astute editors, agents, writers, and illustrators. So when Lynda announced a few openings (provided you wrote picture books), I received a “Yes, you’re in!” e-mail. And on Friday, March 23, I bid my family farewell and headed to West Greenwich, Rhode Island.

As soon as you turn down the road leading to the retreat center, your body relaxes. You open your car window to suck in the fresh air. The pine trees pull you further along, welcoming you. Come, they whisper. You are a writer. Come be with your kind.

This year, our fabulous mentors included Michelle Poploff, Vice President, Executive Editor at Delacorte Press; Yolanda Scott, editorial director at Charlesbridge; Andrea Carcardi, Agent at Transatlantic Literary Agency; Suzanne Bloom, Author/Illustrator; Alexis O’Neill, Marketing/School Visits Expert/Author; and Jo Knowles, YA Novelist. When not critiquing individuals, they were available to attendees, always offering encouragement. Their first pages panel offered honest opinions, and ultimately a mini-class on how to craft a first page and grab the reader’s attention from the get go. . Even though my work was not included, I learned so much. I always do.

Attendees indulged in the finest of foods, had one-on-one critiques, blocks of individual writing time, and critique group sessions. Our annual basket raffle turned into a successful silent auction. Our mentors gave hour-long presentations on both Saturday and Sunday, while the weekend ended with another lively game of Jeopardy.

Alexis O’Neill shared her tips for giving school presentations, and always, you knew the feelings of kids were foremost in her mind. I highly recommend you visit and study Alexis’ website: www.schoolvisitsexpert.com. As she told us, “My assembly is always about the kids. What can I do for them?” I could not have asked for a better mentor that weekend. Alexis critiqued one of my picture book manuscripts and helped guide me in the right direction. (We both realized during my session that our names were familiar. Alexis was a judge for the 2011 Barbara Karlin Grant. My picture book manuscript, Norman and Rose, won the runner-up grant. A small world, indeed.)

Andrea Cascardi also spoke to my heart. With 20 years of editorial experience, she is a hands-on agent, offering an editorial eye. She told us to trust our gut, and listening to her, I felt as if I had found my way home. Andrea discussed the importance of moving the human heart and offering hope. One must dig deep, but also know when to take a step back. Thank you, Andrea! I am digging deeper because of you.

Yolanda Scott discussed picture books, an absolute love of mine. She shared Charlesbridge’s unique qualities, and then discussed the vital elements of picture books: character, plot, and voice. Whenever an editor gushes over their love of picture books, I am spellbound. Thank you, Yolanda! Your words drive my current revisions, keeping me focused on the importance of structure, and picking the stronger emotional path.

Michelle Poploff addressed setting, how it has a life of its own. Details are what bring a book to life, as long as it is all for the good of the story. What struck me the most about Michelle is how she champions her authors. An enthusiastic editor is a dream editor. I also loved being introduced to novels she has worked on. Some I was not familiar with, though that will change. Books have been ordered. Thank you, Michelle!

I have met Jo Knowles before, having attended her workshop at an Encore Presentation though New England SCBWI. Jo has a way of making you less afraid to reach deep inside, knowing it will stir emotions and memories. She addressed the importance of first pages, citing a number of examples. Jo reminded us that our job is to compel the reader early on, so to keep them reading. As a volunteer, I won an arc of See You at Harry’s. This is a beautiful story, and one that obviously came from deep within Jo’s gracious spirit. Thank you, Jo! www.joknowles.com

I think about Suzanne Bloom, how she shared some of her artwork from childhood, and I smile. Watching her draw was magical. Listening to her read A Splendid Friend, Indeed was sheer delight. Suzanne talked about making choices, her love of peeling back. “It is all about what is going to work out there,” she said. And Suzanne is right. For picture books, children need fun words, juiciness, flow, and rhythm. Like Alexis, she stressed how she is all about the children, telling us to fall in love with our characters. And in the end, she reminded us how lucky we are. We are doing our art. I am grateful for this gift. Suzanne’s words stuck with me as I drove away from the retreat. They still stick with me now while I write and revise: “You do it for the children.” Thank you, Suzanne! www.suzannebloom.com

This weekend would not happen without the dedication and hard work of a number of volunteers, but mostly two people: Lynda Mullaly Hunt and Mary Pierce. Mary took on more responsibilities this year to help Lynda, whose first novel, One for the Murphys, comes out in May. www.lyndamullayhunt.com I cannot wait for my copy to arrive, for if it reflects even a small amount of Lynda’s essence, the book will be a gift to the world of children’s literature. When I think of Lynda, a single image comes to mine, one that has beckoned to me in previous years, but more so this time: the rock in the lake. In the way that Lynda supports us, humors and cares for us, she is a rock. She is our rock, and the Whispering Pines Retreat reflects who she is as a human being. Thank you, Mary! Thank you, Lynda!

As I drove away from the weekend, leaving my friends, feeling a bit sad, I realized this year’s message: It is all about the children. What can we give them? How can we shape the future through our stories? How can we offer hope? Laughter? Encouragement? How can our characters, who breathe life onto our pages, be examples of strength through their own struggles? How can we introduce more heroes to this world?

You must take a vow to give your very best. Make writing your profession, even if you work elsewhere. Carve time in your day to write. Carve time in your busy schedule to attend writing workshops or retreats. Seek out mentors. Become a mentor. Children deserve our best.

Yes, writing can be lonely. It takes conviction and courage to spend hours in solitude. Yet it is a gift. As Suzanne Bloom says, we are doing our art. So open your heart, dig deep into that place of aching, and let the thought of giving something back to the children of this world lead and inspire you to revise, and revise, and revise, until you reach a level of excellence. But do not stop there. Continue to learn and grow as a writer for the rest of your life.

It has taken me several weeks to blog about Whispering Pines 2012, and then I realized why. I have a tradition of calling my father after every conference or retreat. He would relish in my words, wanting to know what I’d learned. Always pushing me to dig deeper. Since he passed in September, this is the first Whispering Pines Retreat I could not share with him.

So before I finalize this post, I sit on my porch, admiring the clouds. Visualizing my father’s spirit, somewhere in the blue sky. Surrounding me. Watching over me. Encouraging me.

I tell him what I learned at Whispering Pines.

I promise to never give up.

I remind him that whether he is on this earth or not, he will always be my rock. And I am grateful.

What Makes You Grateful?

Posted on January 6, 2012 by Betsy

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