Stories from the Toy Store

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.

A Father’s Day Tale

Posted on June 16, 2013 by Betsy

I decided to repost this from two years ago since it is a beautiful example of the love between a father and his son. I met them both while working at the toy store, where I did my best to end Steven’s search for a whale. Happy Father’s Day!

Closing time has come and gone at Olde Mistick Village, the sidewalks are filled with more ducks than people shopping. The neighboring stores are dark, their doors locked, and their employees on their way home. It is time for me to call it a night.

The marionettes swing in the breeze; the pink flamingo seems to wink at me. I gather the puppets outside to carry them into the store. Behind me there is quacking. The three ducks who rule our front yard are on alert. The white leader honks at a lone male that slipped under the fence and entered their territory. The leader’s two sidekicks join in the chase, nipping at the uninvited younger mallard. The white duck pecks at the intruder’s neck; his wings flap with agitation. I move towards the gang of birds, clapping my hands until they separate.

“Do you break up fights every day?”An older man walks in my direction, followed by a younger man. With the same chiseled chins, the two are clearly father and son.

“This is the first fight I’ve seen today.”

“You still open? We won’t be long, I promise.”

“Uh . . . sure, yes, come on in.” I smile.

“We need to hurry, Steven. This woman wants to close.”

Steven, who looks to be in his late thirties, dashes into the store. “Whales, where are your whales?” His attention shifts rapidly from shelf to shelf. “I need a whale.” He looks up. He looks down. Lions are pulled from their shelves. Tigers. Bears. Cats. Dogs. None of the stuffed animals are right. Hoping to locate the whale he remembered having as a child, Steven continues to push toys aside. He mutters, “Big. Brown. Brown with beans . . . Big. Brown. Brown with beans . . .”

“He’ll never find it, not the way his was, with the fabric worn around the tips of the eyes and the end of the tail from his constantly caressing it.” His father adds. “And the head was flat from Steven leaning into it, night after night, when he was a child.”

Steven, who has traveled over an hour to get here, is missing more than just a stuffed whale from his childhood.

We do not sell brown whales in the toy store, nor do we sell giant whales. The largest we have is a 24-inch white beluga whale. I hand Steven the beluga. He brings it close to his nose, leans his cheek against it, and slides his face back and forth brushing the fabric. “Do you have a bigger whale . . . brown whale . . . filled with beans?”

“No, we don’t, I’m sorry.” While I search for anything close to what he describes, Steven paces . . . and paces . . . and then he notices the three-foot lobster displayed on a high shelf above his head. He stands on his tiptoes and reaches for the stuffed sea creature. “This will do,” he says.

“No, Steven, we’ve done this before. You’re not thinking clearly.” The father takes the lobster away and leaves the beluga whale in his son’s arms. He sighs—a long sigh. His hair is grey and thin. He removes his glasses and wipes them clean. He sighs again, and then says to his son, “We’ve made these trips over and over again, from New York to Massachusetts, and to anywhere else that might hold the promise of a brown whale. Steven . . . Steven, look at me, son.”

Steven’s hold on the beluga whale loosens. I catch it before it hits the ground. “We have catalogs. Perhaps I can find a large enough whale for you,” I say and hand him back the beluga.

The ends of the father’s mouth turn up, forced out of kind appreciation. “That’s nice of you, but we’ve been looking for a very long time. I never know what he wants.”

I head to the back stock room, grab six catalogs, and carry them to the front desk. Steven follows me, his arms clutching the beluga.

“How big of a whale do you want?” I ask.

“Very big.” Steven focuses on his shoes while clinging to the toy. We go back and forth. I flip through pages. He peers at pictures. “No, not right,” he tells me over, and over, and over again.

His father stands next to him. “Steven, look at me. Look at me, please.” Finally, Steven lifts his eyes. “We aren’t going to find a whale. Not like your whale.”

“I want a whale,” says Steven. “I want a big, brown whale with beans.”

“Steven, we need to leave. This kind lady wants to go home.”

“My whale, we came to get my whale,” Steven reminds his father.

The father turns away from the counter and gently tugs at his son’s arm. Steven digs his heels in. Thirty minutes have passed since they first walked into the store.

“Tell me about your whale,” I say.

“He doesn’t know what he wants. I’ve been looking and looking—they just don’t make toys like they used to.” His father tugs again.

“Steven, what did you love most about your whale?”

Steven turns, looks at me, and walks back to the oak counter. He runs his hands along the wood. “I liked the way the beans inside felt.”

“They don’t make animals with those beans anymore. Too many safety concerns,” I say.

Steven swirls his fingers around the shape of a large knot in the oak.

His father sighs. “Thank you for trying, but he’ll never understand.”

I arrange the pens next to the register; straighten the shopping bags. I glance in Steven’s direction. “Besides the beans, what else did you love about your whale?”

“Soft, it was soft . . . I could sleep on it.”

We have a two-foot penguin, but it is not soft. We have large stuffed dogs, but they are not whales. We have a three-foot lion, but the color is tan, like a pale honey.

Then I remember Gus. “I have a bear, a large bear,” I tell him. “And it’s brown.”

Steven studies the floor. “I want a whale. I need to bring a whale home tonight.”

The three of us stand in silence. I check the time. The owners must be wondering why I haven’t called with the day’s sales.

“Let me show you the bear,” I say.

“It’s hopeless. We’ve kept you long enough,” the father says.

“I’ll be right back.” From the stuffed animal room, I carry the three-foot floppy bear to the front desk. Gus has lived in the store for quite some time now. Before I close up at night, he gets an extra pat.

“He’s very soft,” I tell Steven.

“It’s not a whale.”

Now, I am the one studying my shoes. “I won’t be able to find you a large whale tonight. Just hold the bear, see what you think. He’s brown and soft. You can lean into him.” I hand Steven the bear.

He pushes his nose against Gus. He plops Gus against the counter and leans into him. “He is soft. I like him.”

“Yes, I like this bear myself—very much.”

The father pulls at the price tag. “The bear is $130. You didn’t bring enough money.”

Silence returns. I shift the catalogs together and form a single stack, place them on the floor.

The father stares at the door. Steven’s face is buried into Gus’s fur.

I want to buy him the bear, show him he can love Gus as much as the whale. I want to watch him walk down the sidewalk with the bear in his arms, even though it’s always hard when I let go of a stuffed animal I’ve grown attached to, but Steven did not bring enough money.

Then, holding the bear tightly in one arm, Steven reaches into his pants pocket. He removes a black leather wallet, worn with holes visible at every corner. It is a wonder the wallet doesn’t explode all over our wooden floor. A penny pokes through one end, but does not fall out. His wallet is thick with papers, some yellowed, some coated in a worn plastic. There is almost five inches thick of paper memories.

His father settles into a stance; feet spread apart, firmly planted on the wooden floor—a familiar routine, I imagine. His hands out of his pockets, he turns his palms upward, as if waiting at a communion rail.

Steven pops the wallet open and forms the shape into what appears to be a triangular leather cup. “I want the bear,” he says.

“Let’s count,” says his father.

Steven places two twenties on our wooden counter, then another crumpled twenty.

“How much is that,” asks his father.

“Sixty,” says Steven with confidence.

I separate the bills. “Eighty, you have eighty dollars here.”

Steven pulls out a five and a ten—ninety-five. When he stretches the leather further, the penny falls to the floor, where it remains. Next, come the one-dollar bills, all carefully folded into triangles, the points as worn as the wallet.

“One. Two. Three,” he counts.

There is something magical about the wallet, which is not diminishing in size. Instead of pulling rabbits from a magician’s hat, he conjures up one-dollar bills out of faded leather. How does the wallet hold all of the tightly folded shapes? I expect him to run out of money, yet Steven continues to hand another and another dollar bill to his father, never looking up or breaking his rhythm. Not once.

His father unfolds and flattens each bill, using a quarter to work out the creases.

The stack of money on the counter grows higher.

I wait and watch. “Why do you fold the dollar bills into triangles?”

Holding one bill in his hand, Steven lifts it to the corner of his right eye. “When I’m sad . . . this makes me feel better.” He taps the edge of the triangular shape against his skin. Three times. He passes the bill to his father.

“May I ask what Steven has?”

The father talks and talks and talks, like a dam overflowing. Like a man who hasn’t been noticed in years.

I cannot tell you what the father was wearing that day, but I can tell you his words—his story. I can describe the medicine bottle he has carried in his pocket from the seventies, day after day, year after year. The label so worn that it barely reveals the name of the pharmacy. Except for the lingering chalky stink of medicine, the bottle remains empty. The father rolls the medicine bottle between his palms as he tells me that the colored dye in the medicine, administered when Steven was a baby, caused a cerebral allergic reaction. Steven has two markers of autism, and some mental retardation. Years later, they learned that the damage was irreparable—long after Steven’s mother left, taking his brother and sister with him. Steven was six years old at the time. The mother changed her last name, never contacting Steven and his father.

The father talks and talks while Steven continues to pull one-dollar bills from his wallet. He earns $100 per month, emptying trash containers at a pharmaceutical company.

“You really love that wallet,” I say.

Steven nods, eyes still downcast, his larger lip protruding over his top lip—almost swollen looking.

“When did Steven lose his whale? Do you have a picture?” I ask the two men, one talking and talking, the other pulling triangles of money from a worn leather wallet.

His father quickly shakes his head. “No, not with us; it upsets him.”

“It makes me sad,” adds Steven. He taps the corner of his right eye with another folded dollar bill.

“How long ago did he lose this whale,” I ask.

“Six, he was six years old,” his father says.

I lose count of the money on the counter; imagine Steven as a six-year-old boy snuggled against his mother, the whale by his side until the two of them banished at the same time. Is his search for a whale or a mother who abandoned him?

“You only have $128. Are you sure this is what you want?” the father asks.

Steven hugs the bear to his chest. Gus’s feet dangle at his knees. “I want the bear. It’s a soft bear.”

“You don’t have enough money,” his father tells him.

Steven opens his wallet. He peers into it, pulls out the yellowed papers.

The magic is gone.

“I . . . I can—give you 10% off.”

“You don’t have to do that,” the father says.

“Yes, I do.” I smile and ring up the sale, recount the money and hand him $4 change. I make a mental note to pay the difference after they leave. Steven immediately folds the dollar bills into triangles before tucking them into his wallet.

“I hope the bear makes him happy.” The father strokes Gus’s arms. “I never see any emotion from him anymore, he’s on so much medicine; it numbs his emotions, his personality. At least he doesn’t scream and cry like he used to. But he never laughs or smiles, either.”

“I’m hungry,” Steven says.

“What do you feel like eating?” I ask.

“Steak!”

I give the father directions to a nearby restaurant and recommend they walk through the village so they can stop at the pond to admire the newly hatched baby ducks.

“I have to put my bear in the car first, so he’s safe,” says Steven.

The two men step outside the store. I bend over to unlatch the door in preparation for closing, and as I do, Steven turns to me and smiles, revealing slightly yellowed teeth.

“You have a beautiful smile,” I say.

The ends of Steven’s mouth turn up even more. Now his father grins. “I haven’t seen him smile is such a long time. It is worth more than the cost of the bear, more than the time in the car and the price of gas.”

“I hope your search is over. How long has he been hunting for the whale?” I ask.

“Thirty years, just Steven and me, we’ve been looking for thirty years.”

Steven’s smile is broad. He is thirty-six years old and no longer fixated on his shoes.

“Thank you for listening,” the father says. “Thank you for allowing me to go on and on.”

“That’s what I am here for. Have a nice night.”

If I could, I would have found them a large brown whale filled with beans. But all I found was a bear named Gus, and for once, it seemed to be enough.

All in a Day’s Work

Posted on January 14, 2012 by Betsy

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.

Good News To Share

Posted on July 10, 2011 by Betsy

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.

A Whale for Steven (A story for Father’s Day)

Posted on June 20, 2011 by Betsy

On this father’s day 2011, I share a story from the toy store. A story that affected me greatly, long after it happened. It involves the love of a father for a son, and every time I think of that day, I am reminded that gifts do not always come wrapped in pretty paper with spiral ribbon. They sometimes come in the shape of stories. This gift of a story is one that I will treasure as long as I live.

A WHALE FOR STEVEN

by Betsy Devany

Closing time has come and gone at Olde Mistick Village, the sidewalks are filled with more ducks than people shopping. Neighboring stores are dark, their doors locked, and their employees on their way home. It is time for me to call it a night.

Our marionettes swing in the breeze; the pink flamingo seems to wink at me. I gather the puppets outside to carry them into the store. Behind me there is quacking. The three ducks who rule our front yard are on alert. The white leader honks at a lone male that slipped under the fence and entered their territory. The leader’s two sidekicks join in the chase, nipping at the uninvited younger mallard. The white duck pecks at the intruder’s neck; his wings flap with agitation. I move towards the gang of birds, clapping my hands until they separate.

“Do you break up fights every day?”An older man walks in my direction, followed by a younger man. With the same chiseled chins, the two are clearly father and son.

“This is the first fight I’ve seen today.”

“You still open? We won’t be long, I promise.”

“Uh . . . sure, yes, come on in.” I smile.

“We need to hurry, Steven. This woman wants to close.”

“He’ll never find it, not the way his was, with the fabric worn around the tips of the eyes and the end of the tail from his constantly caressing it.” His father adds. “And the head was flat from Steven leaning into it, night after night, when he was a child.”

Steven, who has traveled over an hour to get here, is missing more than just a stuffed whale from his childhood.

Steven’s hold on the beluga whale loosens. I catch it before it hits the ground. “We have catalogs. Perhaps I can find a large enough whale for you,” I say and hand him back the beluga.

The ends of the father’s mouth turn up, forced out of kind appreciation. “That’s nice of you, but we’ve been looking for a very long time. I never know what he wants.”

I head to the back stock room, grab six catalogs, and carry them to the front desk. Steven follows me, his arms clutching the beluga.

“How big of a whale do you want?” I ask.

“Very big.” Steven focuses on his shoes while clinging to the toy. We go back and forth. I flip through pages. He peers at pictures. “No, not right,” he tells me again and again.

His father stands next to him. “Steven, look at me. Look at me, please.” Finally, Steven lifts his eyes. “We aren’t going to find a whale. Not like your whale.”

“I want a whale,” says Steven. “I want a big, brown whale with beans.”

“Steven, we need to leave. This kind lady wants to go home.”

“My whale, we came to get my whale,” Steven reminds his father.

The father turns away from the counter and gently tugs at his son’s arm. Steven digs his heels in. Thirty minutes have passed since they first walked into the store.

“Tell me about your whale,” I say.

“He doesn’t know what he wants. I’ve been looking and looking—they just don’t make toys like they used to.” His father tugs again.

“Steven, what did you love most about your whale?”

Steven turns, looks at me, and walks back to the oak counter. He runs his hands along the wood. “I liked the way the beans inside felt.”

“They don’t make animals with those beans anymore. Too many safety concerns,” I say.

Steven swirls his fingers around the shape of a large knot in the oak.

His father sighs. “Thank you for trying, but he’ll never understand.”

I arrange the pens next to the register; straighten the shopping bags. I glance in Steven’s direction. “Besides the beans, what else did you love about your whale?”

“Soft, it was soft . . . I could sleep on it.”

We have a two-foot penguin, but it is not soft. We have large stuffed dogs, but they are not whales. We have a three-foot lion, but the color is tan, like a pale honey.

Then I remember Gus. “I have a bear, a large bear,” I tell him. “And it’s brown.”

Steven studies the floor. “I want a whale. I need to bring a whale home tonight.”

The three of us stand in silence. I check the time. The owners must be wondering why I haven’t called with the day’s sales.

“Let me show you the bear,” I say.

“It’s hopeless. We’ve kept you long enough,” the father says.

“He’s very soft,” I tell Steven.

“It’s not a whale.”

Now I am the one studying my shoes. “I won’t be able to find you a large whale tonight. Just hold the bear, see what you think. He’s brown and soft. You can lean into him.” I hand the bear to Steven, who pushes his nose against Gus. He plops Gus against the counter and leans into him. “He is soft. I like him.”

Yes, I like this bear myself—very much.”

The father pulls at the price tag. “The bear is $130. You didn’t bring enough money.”

Silence returns. I shift the catalogs together and form a single stack, place them on the floor while the father stares at the door. Steven’s face is buried into Gus’s fur.

I want to buy the bear for Steven, show him he can love Gus as much as the whale. I want to watch him walk down the sidewalk with the bear in his arms, even though it’s always hard when I let go of a stuffed animal I’ve grown attached to, but Steven did not bring enough money.

Steven pops the wallet open and forms the shape into what appears to be a triangular leather cup. “I want the bear,” he says.

“Let’s count,” says his father.

Steven places two twenties on our wooden counter, then another crumpled twenty.

“How much is that,” asks his father.

“Sixty,” says Steven with confidence.

I separate the bills. “Eighty, you have eighty dollars here.”

“One. Two. Three,” he counts.

His father unfolds and flattens each bill, using a quarter to work out the creases.

The stack of money on the counter grows higher.

I wait and watch. “Why do you fold the dollar bills into triangles?”

“May I ask what Steven has?”

The father talks and talks and talks, like a dam overflowing. Like a man who hasn’t been noticed in years.

The father talks and talks while Steven continues to pull one-dollar bills from his wallet. He earns $100 per month, emptying trash containers at a pharmaceutical company.

“You really love that wallet,” I say.

Steven nods, eyes still downcast, his larger lip protruding over his top lip—almost swollen looking.

“When did Steven lose his whale? Do you have a picture?” I ask the two men, one talking and talking, the other pulling triangles of money from a worn leather wallet.

His father quickly shakes his head. “No, not with us; it upsets him.”

“It makes me sad,” adds Steven. He taps the corner of his right eye with another folded dollar bill.

“Six, he was six years old,” says his father.

“You only have $128. Are you sure this is what you want?” the father asks.

Steven hugs the bear to his chest. Gus’s feet dangle at his knees. “I want the bear. It’s a soft bear.”

“You don’t have enough money,” his father tells him.

Steven opens his wallet. He peers into it, pulls out the yellowed papers. The magic is gone.

“I . . . I can give you 10% off.”

“You don’t have to do that,” the father says.

“Yes, I do.” I smile and ring the sale through, recount the money and hand him $4 change. I make a mental note to pay the difference after they leave. Steven immediately folds the dollar bills into triangles before tucking them into his wallet.

“I’m hungry,” Steven says.

“What do you feel like eating?” I ask.

“Steak!”

I give the father directions to a nearby restaurant and recommend they walk through the village so they can stop at the pond to admire the newly hatched baby ducks.

“I have to put my bear in the car first, so he’s safe,” says Steven.

The two men step outside the store. I bend over to unlatch the door in preparation for closing, and as I do, Steven turns to me and smiles, revealing slightly yellowed teeth.

“You have a beautiful smile,” I say.

“I hope your search is over. How long has he been hunting for the whale?” I ask.

“Thirty years, just Steven and me, we’ve been looking for thirty years.”

Steven’s smile is broad. He is thirty-six years old and no longer fixated on his shoes.

“Thank you for listening,” the father says. “Thank you for allowing me to go on and on.”

“Thank you for sharing your story. Have a nice night.”

If I could, I would have found them a large, brown whale filled with beans. But all I found was a bear named Gus, and for once, it seemed to be enough.

A Bath For Big Bear

Posted on April 22, 2011 by Betsy

For years, Norman the gorilla sat in front of the toy store. He posed with customers, listened to children tell stories, and he even let crying babies sit in his lap.

But then Norman began to wonder. Was there more to the world besides sitting on a bench, day after day after day?

So he asked to visit my house, where he sat in our swing, climbed the Japanese maple tree, and then announced, “I’m going to publish a book. If you need me, I’ll be in your writing room.”

“You have to go back to work tomorrow,” I said.

“I don’t think so,” said Norman. “I’ve decided to write my autobiography. It could take me years to find an agent.”

“Years? Agent? Then who will sit on the bench?”

“Ask the giraffe,” said Norman, who when asked to reconsider, said, “My swinging days have only just begun.”

Norman, it seemed, had a new life.

The bench empty, Gerdie the loves-to-gossip chicken spread rumors around the store. Soon, all the animals wanted to audition for the job. The giraffe was too tall; his head bumped the porch ceiling. The rhinoceros was too long; his bum exceeded the width of the wooden bench, three times over. The monkey was too unpredictable; he swung from the rafters and surprised customers by jumping on their heads.

Something had to be done.

We tried dogs. Big stuffed dogs. Small stuffed dogs. Even real dogs. They barked too much. And then there was the goat, but that story is for another day.

In utter desperation, we called a meeting of the village ducks. Might they take turns sitting on the bench? Even with the incentive of extra duck food, the ducks declined the offer.

What was the toy store to do?

Then one day a large box arrived. It had to be opened outside; it did not fit through the door. What was in the box? A parade of waddling ducks stopped to see what was happening. “Quack,” said one.

Finally, the sides of the box split open, and out fell Big Bear.

Big Bear smiled at us. We smiled back, until . . .

“Was Norman this big?” someone asked.

None of us could remember, so Norman agreed to set his writing aside for the afternoon, and drove to the store so we could compare the two.

Norman sat on the bench.

Bear tried to sit on the bench, but his Big Bear bum tipped him over.

After Norman offered sitting-on-a-bench tips, Big Bear accepted the job.

Months went by. Years, even. Bear greeted people. He posed for pictures. And then he began to get dirty from being loved so much. Children shared their ice cream, cotton candy, and fried dough coated with powdered sugar. “A bear that big needs a lot of food,” said a kid with his plate at Big Bear’s mouth.

After a DO NOT FEED BIG BEAR sign was put outside, kids jumped on him instead.

“I didn’t sign up for jumping,” said Big Bear after he asked for an early-retirement package and announced he planned to move in with with Norman.

“There’s no room for you at my house,” I said, helping Big Bear back onto his bench. “I’ll ask people to be more gentle.”

And it worked for a while, until a child insisted that Big Bear had asked to finish his chocolate ice cream with sprinkles.

It was time for Bear to have a much-needed bath.

The next day it rained and rained. I came ready with a bucket, a scrub brush, and a hair dryer.

I looked at bear. He looked at me. “Oh, dear, Big Bear, you are very, very large. This may take all day,” I said.

First, I showed Bear a yoga pose. (His feet were the dirtiest, and this was the only way for me to clean them.) Bear rolled over on his head. “Good Bear,” I told him. “Now stay like that while I fill your bucket.”

At the sink, I mixed soap with hot water. I carried the bucket back to Bear.

Bear was no longer alone. Bossy Frog’s babies, who are very, very curious about all that goes on in the store, had wandered over (or rather leaped) to see what I was doing. They stared at Bear. Why was he not on his bench? Why was he upside down? Did he want to join them in a game?

Bear stared back. Why were Bossy Baby Frogs sitting on his head?

After promising the frogs they could help, I began to scrub and scrub and scrub. Bear was patient as could be. Baby Bossy Frogs were not as patient. Besides being very, very curious about all activities in the store, they are also very, very chatty. “When was I going to be done?” asked one. “What do we get to do?” asked another. “I want to be in charge,” said the most bossy in the bunch of bossy baby frogs.

“Try standing on your head, like Bear,” I told them. So they did. For a long, long time. As long as bossy baby frogs can stand on their heads.

“Am I done?” asked Bear.

“Are we done?” asked a frog. “Yes, my head hurts,” said another. “When can I be in charge?” asked the baby frog much bossier than the rest.

“Yes, Bear, you are almost done. And now, Bossy Frogs, it is time for you to help.”

“Hooray!” said one. “Me first!” said another. “I’m in charge!” said the bossiest of the bunch.

Big Bear waited patiently while the bossy baby frogs argued over who would do what. Finally, they came to an agreement.

And by the end of a very long day, Big Bear was finally clean and dry, ready to return to work in the morning.

If you are in the Mystic area, stop by and say hello. Big Bear loves to give hugs, as long as you don’t offer him any food, or run into him at high speeds, thinking he’s a trampoline.

Ducks, Dragons, and a Super Hero or Two

Posted on April 15, 2011 by Betsy

This month, the ducks of Olde Mistick Village have come out in full force. Unannounced as usual, the annual visitors have returned to the large pond with the intention of staying until Labor Day. Our permanent resident ducks now count for one-fifth of the current duck population. The mating has begun.

Ducks waddle up and down the sidewalk, usually in pairs, or groups of three. They chase one another–in the large pond, through the grass, and anywhere else their webbed feet will take them. The fences that line the storefronts are no challenge; they dart under or fly over. In a sense, the ducks rule the road. But like children, they can get out of hand, and this is where I come in.

Now is the time of year when my job at The Toy Soldier takes on another responsibility. Aggressive ducks, especially male ducks being overtly ruthless with females, require duck interventions. With the aid of a rolled-up newspaper, I create loud noises to disrupt their behavior. Most times, it works.

There are those moments during mating season when visiting children witness the male ducks biting the necks of the females. It disturbs the majority because they think the ducks are hurting each other. Unfortunately, sometimes this does happen. Last year, we lost two females to over-aggressive visiting males.

This is a part of nature, as I’ve tried to explain to my five-year-old granddaughter. She is now well aware of why the seagulls hover near the ponds. They watch for unattended baby ducklings, yet to be born this year at the village. Soon, this year’s babies will begin to make their appearances. That is, if the neighboring skunks and raccoons don’t disrupt the eggs. I try not to think about this too much.

With the odds against the babies growing full-term, only time will tell if we will be graced with families of ducks entertaining and delighting visitors of all ages. I can only hope so, but until then, the adult mallards and other ducks, including one lone goose, put on their own performances. Especially when it rains.

Last Tuesday, it rained and rained and rained. I dusted, checked in new merchandise, redid a few displays, and lined up the stuffed animals. Every now and then, I glanced out the window to check for any brave shoppers who had come prepared with large umbrellas. And reliable rain boots.

No umbrellas. No children wearing colorful boots resembling ladybugs or frogs or puppy dogs or ducks. Only real ducks. More specifically, the gang of three who rule our end of the village.

As first, I didn’t see them, but once I followed the direction of the quack, quack, quack, I spotted the threesome on their afternoon waddle around the neighborhood. They were marching away from the toy store in the direction of Mystical Elements. I wondered if they planned to get psychic readings, and what their webbed feet might reveal about their futures. Just as they passed the store, they turned around and headed in my direction. Was I possibly going to make an afternoon sale?

No. The ducks were not interested in our newest arrivals: puppets, books, science kits, and habitats for bugs. When their leader, the darker duck, headed up our walkway and quacked at me for food, I apologized for being out of duck nuggets. I assured him that I did not eat the leftover nuggets for lunch, even though I was starving and had forgotten to pack food for the day. (The last of our duck food had been given to a child who wanted to feed the ducks, and didn’t have a dollar.)

With no free food available at The Toy Soldier, the ducks waddled across our sidewalk to Garden Specialties. Duck in Charge turned right towards the parking lot to head home, while one of the white ducks seemed to be interested in a stone garden pedestal. Ignoring the others, Duck in Charge continued on his way, while Rogue Duck checked out the price tag. Perhaps he envisioned his duckiness perched on top of the pedestal, ruling the duck community. Whatever caught his eye in the first place, he quickly decided that the pedestal was either too expensive for his taste or wouldn’t fit in the ducks’ living space. The item was left behind for another shopper to buy.

Not long after the duck parade passed through town, a family with a young boy came into the store, umbrellas and all. Temporarily mesmerized, the boy stood in the entrance to The Toy Soldier until he could find his words. “Wow, oh, wow! I love this place. This is the best place in the whole wide world, maybe even the planet. Maybe even all the planets. Do you see this place, do you, Mom? Do you, Dad?”

“It’s pretty special,” said Mom.

“Awesome,” said Dad, heading for the collectible cars.

“This is my kind of store, people. I could live here forever!”

When I asked him his age, he said, proudly. “Five years and four months and twenty days old. Guess when my birthday is.”

“. . . okay.” The pressure was on. He smirked at me. Like I wouldn’t get the correct answer. I thought, thought, thought.

“Times up,” he said, leaning on the counter with a wider grin, if that were even possible.

“But . . .” I reached for the calculator, added, then subtracted, and surprised him (and myself) by guessing the right date. Phew!

“You’re smart,” he said. “But can you fight dragons?”

“Dragons? What kind of dragons?”

“Like that one!” He pointed at the two-headed dragon figurine breathing fire. “That is a huge, HUGE dragon. And it breathes very hot fire.”

“Yes, it does. Pretty cool, huh?”

“His breath is so hot, it’s like volcano breath, and I need to fight him. I have to fight all the dragons with fire breath before they destroy the planet. I need a sword. We have to hurry. They’re coming to get us.”

“I can help you,” I told him, and then whispered, “Follow me and I will show you where the magic swords are. Maybe you could protect me too.”

“Okay, let’s go!”

Up the ramp, we started for the Magic Sword Department, until something grabbed his attention: the rack of pop-guns.

“Wait, this might be more magic than a sword.” Pop.Pop. Pop. Pop.

“Carlton! No guns,” said his mother.

“Where’s Dad?” asked Carlton. “Dad? DAD!”

Carlton’s dad slipped away from the room of collectible soldiers. “Carlton, no guns. You heard what your mother said.”

“This stinks like one of your fart’s, Dad.”

“Come on, Carlton, the swords are much better than pop-guns,” I said.

“They are?” Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. “Are you sure? Are you really, really sure?” he asked me.

“I am really, really sure.”

His mother winked at me. His father mouthed “Thank you.”

We continued to the back of the store. To access our upper level, you must first pass the Pink Room, which is where Carlton’s feet stopped moving. “This is girl stuff. I’m not going through here. I don’t like pink.”

“Are you a true knight, Carlton?”

“Maybe.”

“A true knight is brave enough to travel through the Kingdom of All Things Pink. They have to, if they want to reach the Land of The Magic Swords.”

“They do?”

“Yes. You’re a brave knight, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m just a kid, but you can call me Super Dragon Destroyer.”

“Wow, can I get your autograph?”

“I can’t spell Super Dragon Destroyer, how about a high-five?”

We high-five, after which I reached into a wooden barrel to grab a sword. I handed him the black and silver toy weapon. “I only show these to the ones who can truly fight the dragons,” I whispered.

“That’s me!” Carlton said and swiped the air with the sword. Swish. Swish. Swish. “Wait, you need one too, so we can battle the dragons together.”

I took a sword for myself, and then together, we headed back down the wooden ramp, swords drawn. “Charge!” we said and pointed our rubber weapons at the display of dragons.

“I got him. I got the fire one!” Carlton ran to his parents. “The planet is safe.”

“What would we do without you, Carlton,” his father said.

“Can you buy me the sword now?”

Sale completed, I watched Carlton run down our walkway. With his magic sword held in front of his body, he swiveled in all directions, ready for any dragons that might appear from behind the bushes.

The dragons defeated, I prepared for my next battle; the ducks were at it again. A group ran past me, flapping their wings. Three males chased a lone female. Still holding a sword, I waited for the cue, and when the female appeared to be struggling with the two more powerful males, each biting her neck, I slipped into my role of Super Duck Controller, and heeded the call for help.

Despite the rain, it was another successful day for the Super Heroes of Olde Mistick Village.

Next Friday’s post: Bear Gets a Bath. (another adventure at the toy store.)

This week’s Free Fall Friday link is http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2011/04/15/free-fall-friday-contest-6/

The Dragonfly

Posted on October 28, 2010 by Betsy

For months now, there have been rumors of a dragonfly living in the toy store. According to the children who have seen the insect, it spent much of its time in the stuffed animal room, but occasionally admired the puzzle boxes in the game area. The dragonfly has also hung out with the praying mantis finger puppets and explored the dress-up area, the hats in particular. The last sighting, over a week ago, was by a little girl who asked why a bug was reading books.

I have yet to actually see the elusive insect, though the possibility of a visiting dragonfly seemed highly probable. Throughout the summer months, and even now, while the weather remains comfortable, we keep our door open, which the village’s critters see as in invitation to come in.

Chipmunks sometimes run into our building chasing each other. Birds find their way inside, and occasionally, the village ducks have entered the land of toys, only to be chased out by a curious child wanting to pet them. Fortunately, the baby skunks who appeared this summer kept to themselves in the garden surrounding our porch. Nothing was cuter than the skunk twins, and I quickly became enamoured with them, as did anyone else who happened to see them during their early evening strolls.

But until the rumors began, we had never had a visiting dragonfly.

This summer, dragonflies captured my interest. Whenever possible, I photographed them, as I did the skunk twins. The window in my writing room overlooks our front yard, and this is where the dragonflies spent much of their time. Whirring and zipping through the air, they were steady companions while I wrote. For me, they seemed to dance in the air, courting or just enjoying life

With this image in mind, I finally met the elusive dragonfly last Sunday. I was about to vacuum the stuffed animal room when I spotted it on the rug, barely moving, except to turn its head. I bent down and ran my finger along its abdomen. Lifting its dusty wings, it managed two slight flaps.

Was this the dragonfly that the children had seen? How long had it been here? How many hours had the dragonfly spent staring out the window, trying to figure a way out, longing to be in the fresh air among the flowers, free to dance in the breeze?

I placed my hand in front of it, expecting nothing, and yet, it inched onto my fingers. With its legs pinched into my skin, I carried the dragonfly out of the store, imagining the dragonflies from my yard. How they loved my flower gardens, where they would linger on sunny days.

Outside, I held it next to a potted plant and coached the dragonfly to climb off. Instead, it clung to my skin. As gently as I could, I placed it on a yellow flower.

Throughout the day, I checked on it. While it never wandered from the original spot, at times, it moved its head, curling its abdomen like a pig’s tail. The dragonfly repeated this behavior numerous times, until the sun began to set and its head no longer turned and the abdomen had turned straight and hard as a pencil.

I shared this story with my granddaughter, whose first question to me was, “Did you help him feel better, Grandma?”

“Yes,” I told her, “I hope so.”

Hats For Sale

Posted on September 26, 2010 by Betsy

Ah, yes, Halloween approaches. The toy store has a full display of dress-up. Firemen suits. Fairy outfits with wings. Secret agent coats with spy sunglasses and mustaches. Dorothy dresses and red ruby slippers. Doctor coats. Knight armour. Capes, and hats. King Tut hats. Crowns. Toy Story hats. Jester hats. Princess crowns. Thanksgiving turkey hats. Witch hats. And all of these hats sit in baskets, or on shelves, or on the spinner rack, the rack I must straighten at least ten times per day because kids (really, more adults and teens) spin the rack, try on every hat, and pose for picture after picture while laughing hysterically. (The babies do not enjoy posing, and in many cases, cry.) Sometimes, I want to cry,too, when I walk to the back of the store–after another picture session–and find a multitude of hats strewn on the floor, as well as glasses. I bend over . . . Pick up . . . Sort . . . Rearrange . . . Stretch on my tip-toes to reach the top of the spinner rack . . . Bend over . . . Pick up . . .

(Well, it can be considered a form of exercise!)

It is nice to see people enjoying themselves. Laughing and smiling. Though, sometimes we don’t have what a child wants. A five-year-old girl who frequents our store wants to be a bat for Halloween. Aside from stuffed bats and bat puppets, all I can offer is a suggestion on how to make a bat outfit, while secretly being thankful that I don’t have to do it myself.

But the best part is when a child finds an outfit he is excited about, and we have the needed size on hand. Last week, a seven-year-old boy was torn over choosing between a Spiderman/Batman cape, a police outfit, or the secret agent attire. I suggested that he try on the secret agent coat. “It’s okay,” he told me. “Just okay?” I said, grabbing the hat to put on his head. I handed him the spy glasses to wear, and pointed him in the direction of a mirror. While he admired his new persona, I assembled a secret agent case, and then helped him put on a mustache.

“I LOVE IT!” he said, still admiring his reflection in the mirror, and then in the glass doll cases. And the glass Steiff cases. And the window behind our register. His mother paid for the outfit while the boy pulled up on the coat’s collar. With a salute, he headed out the door on a mission. “A spy mission to save the world,” he told me.

I wished him well, and headed up the ramp for my own mission: picking the hats, once again, off the floor. In the middle of my stretching routine, the phone rang.

It was my granddaughter.

“Guess what, Grandma! I know what I want to be for Halloween and you are gonna LOVE IT!”

“I will love it. What are you going to be?”

“I. Am. Gonna. Be. A Bat.”

“Oh . . . I love it!” She chatted while I envisioned making this costume in my spare time, which I have none of at this moment.

The next morning, we search for bat costumes on the Internet. Sadly, so many of them are inappropriate for a young girl to wear. (I won’t comment on this now.) Finally, we find a bat costume. A cute one. A black bat. It’s perfect, and the price is reasonable, and there is free shipping!

“How is this one?” I ask Ava and point at my computer screen. It is 7:15 in the morning. I feel hopeful. I am ready to click on the button to finalize my purchase.

“No, Grandma. That bat is black. I am gonna be a fruit bat. A brown one.”

I wonder if I can convince her to be a secret agent instead?

What is Your Definition of Tons?

Posted on September 12, 2010 by Betsy

Now that school is back in session, the energy in the toy store has shifted. Fewer people come through the door, and I can actually hear which songs are playing on the radio. During school hours, the wee ones who frequent the store are generally in strollers. And wearing diapers. Boxes arrive needing to be checked in, priced, and displayed in an appealing way. And while I enjoy this task, I miss seeing the children, the young customers I have come to know and enjoy. I miss talking to them, discussing what books they are reading, and listening to whatever they choose to reveal.

This past weekend, there were a number of memorable customers: the seven-year-old girl who proudly announced to me that she was now a Junior Dinosaur Hunter; the girl who wants to be a giant bat for Halloween and needed help finding baby bats to be her babies; the boy who always wears a tie, and has a collection of over five hundred ties; the three-year-old girl who grabbed my hand and led me through the store showing me everything she liked; the two young brothers who negotiated for almost an hour in the stuffed animal room until one brother’s terms of repayment abruptly put an end to the negotiations; and the seven-year-old girl who came in yesterday, after school, to spend her savings.

At 3:30, she walked into the store with her grandmother, dressed in a plaid school uniform. She came to buy something. Anything. Whatever she could afford with what was in her change purse, or rather a long knitted sock with a brass clasp at the top.

Generally the accompanying adult or the child, or both, are aware of how much the child has to spend. They go back and forth, discussing which toys are affordable, and which would require that the child wait and save up more money. In most cases, the child chooses not to wait. They want to buy something now. Today.

I offered my assistance to the grandmother, hoping she knew the child’s spending limit. She didn’t. “Oh, she has her own money and has to choose herself. This could take a long time,” she said. “A very, very long time.”

After letting her know I would help, as needed, (and that I understood her predicament), I returned to the day’s shipments. I priced the new product “Find It” and began to make room on glass shelving to the left of our register. First I put away the school themed items: die-cast school bus, remote control school bus, a Ravensburger puzzle with a school bus and cats for students, and an assortment of back-to-school books. Shelves clean, I worked on displaying the new game, which is very intriguing and sounds like a lot of fun for all ages.

Behind me the girl continued to look and look and look. “You can’t afford that,” her grandmother said. (The two of them were standing in front of the glass cases where we keep the collectible dolls.) Ten minutes went by. “No, you can’t afford that, either.” After ten more minutes, and five more “You can’t afford that,” the grandmother sighed, and suggested they go home.Pleaded was more like it. The girl refused.

This was my signal to assist, while following my Six Steps to Get a Child To Leave the Toy Store Smiling and With a Purchase They Will Enjoy.

1. Introduce yourself to the child and let them know you will help them.

2. Assure the adult involved that you are experienced in these type of situations, and with any luck, they should be able to leave the store within ten minutes.

3. Ask the child what they are interested in, or more importantly, what they are hoping to buy with their money. (Pray that the child is not set on taking home a Steiff or Madame Alexander doll, because if that is the case, you will have a challenge on your hands.)

4. Find out how much money they have with them.

5. Knowing their interests, show them a variety of items within their budget. If they keep going back to the collectibles, distract them before they even enter that area. (You can easily distract a child by asking them questions about their family, pets, siblings, etc.) Children love to talk about themselves.

6. VERIFY HOW MUCH MONEY THEY HAVE.

In this case, steps 1 and 2 went smoothly. In step 3, I confirmed the challenge on hand. She wanted a doll. A $91.00 doll. I jumped to step 4 and asked, “How much money did you bring with you?”

“Lots.” She smiled and jingled her lavender and gray knitted sock, its contents clinking.

“How much is lots?”

“Tons.” Clink. Clink. Clinkety-clink.

I began to ask for her definition of tons when she sprang to step 5 on her own. “My brother has lots of money. He has millions of money. More than me.” Clink. Clink. Clink.

“I see,” I said and steered her away from the collectibles, in the direction of the games and puzzles.

“I have to sleep in a bunk bed.”

“Top or bottom?”

“Bottom. My brother–the one who has the millions–he sleeps on the top, cuz I have rules. Lots of rules.”

At this point, her grandmother sent me a distress signal. I needed to have this child out the door in less than five minutes. As a writer, I was intrigued by the girl’s conversation. What kind of rules did she have? Did the brother follow them? Did she make up the rules herself and . . .

The grandmother was fading. Fast.

“How many dollars do you have with you?” I said, wishing to hear more about her rules.

“Don’t know. Let me see,” she said and shook her sock. Clink. Clink. Clink. “See. Told you. I have tons.” She held the sock closer to my ear so I could varify the tons of money.

“Why don’t we count what you have, just to be sure.” I walked her to the register, picked up the calculator, and asked her to empty the sock. There were wadded dollar bills–two of them, and coins. Tons of coins. Pennies and nickels and dimes and quarters and coins from other countries.

We counted. The grandmother sorted the nickels. I flattened the dollar bills. The girl made a stack of pennies. A very tall stack, which teetered precariously.

Money counted, she insisted on buying the $91 doll. Her sock contained $3.86 in American money. Two minutes remained before the deadline was up.

I rushed through the store, desperately seeking small items priced $3.00 and below. The girl dragged her feet, mumbling about the doll, and why was it that her baby brother had millions and she didn’t.

Nothing caught her interest. I had a basket filled with little Schleich animals, lanyard in different colors, coloring books, and temporary tattoos. (Silly bands were not allowed in her household.) The girl shuffled behind me, clinking her coins, and clinging to her dream of buying the doll. The grandmother announced “Time is up.” The girl’s eyes flooded with tears.

“You said you like dolls, right?” I said.

She nodded, beginning to cry.

“What do you feed your babies?”

“Cheerios, jello, crackers . . .”

“How about a baby bottle?”

“Okay,” she said and wiped her eyes.

I leaned closer to her and whispered. “How about two baby bottles?”

She beamed and followed me to the register. Out dumped the money. We all shared in counting out $3.17. “You’re an angel,” her grandmother said as they left the store.

I wished them well, thinking, I am not an angel. I am a writer who is incredibly lucky to work at a toy store.

Our website is finally up and running. Most of the pictures were taken by me, which I hope reflect the true essence of The Toy Soldier. www.toysoldiermystic.com