Jeannine Atkins

Snow lightly fell soon after I learned about the death of my friend. I rescued some daffodils, broke some quince branches, which opened for me in warm water.

Peg was a wonderful mom, nursery school teacher, and writer. Here she is with me, Ellen, and Jo (I'm sorry you'll have to click on the picture to see Jo!)  in November, taking a break from scribbling rather furiously on her yellow pad. She asked someone passing by the big wooden table we claimed in Greenfields Market to record the morning. Peg had patted her hair, and commented that being on chemo, she’d decided not to have it permed. “A waste of money, if it’s going to fall out.” She enjoyed her silver curls, but she was practical. She loved to laugh, and she faced facts.

We called her Peg or Peggy, but on her book jackets she was Marguerite W. Davol. I love the language in her picture books such as Batwings and the Curtain of Night, the joy of The Paper Dragon, and Black White, Just Right, a sort of love letter to her grandchildren.

Maybe what I most miss and what I’ll always have is the belief we had in each other, which all my good writer friends – many of whom I know here, online -- share. Those car trips, book fair tables, writing dates in Greenfields or Esselon were marked by celebration, complaints, and a little gossip among the work. Most importantly, we knew that whatever we said might be met with a laugh or a hug or concerned look, but always, always with conviction that we’d keep going on.  No matter what, we’d write what we dreamed of writing. What a gift. Thank you, Peg.