Good Things Happening to Good People

Good things sometimes happen to good people. I love it – especially if they are friends of mine. For ten years, Jo S. Kittinger has served as the regional advisor for the Southern Breeze area of the Society of Children’s Writers and Illustrators. I don’t begin to know all this service job entails, but I have benefitted from conferences she has planned and her availability to counsel experienced, new, and wannabe children’s writers. Unassuming, approachable, and knowledgeable, she’s a perfect fit for this large assignment with few rewards. She was rightly honored for her decade of service at the SCBWI conference held in Birmingham in October 2012.

Jo somehow manages to work her own writing in around her busy schedule with a number of books to her credit, many of them carrying a justice theme. That’s where the good thing that happened to her comes in. In the tribute to Rosa Parks in the recent unveiling of the Parks statue in Washington, DC, the newspaper ran a picture of President Obama holding a little boy with a book. The book was Rosa’s Bus: The Ride to Civil Rights by Jo Kittinger. You can see it for youself at http://huff.to/XD1i3g. The picture book is the well-told account of the bus on which Rosa rode with the history of the time sandwiched inside.

After seeing the picture, I hurried back to get my copy which she signed at the Faye B. Kaigler Book Festival last year. I enjoyed rereading the book and relished the signature, “For Virginia, a dear SCBWI friend! Hugs, Jo S. Kittinger.”

P. S. This also works if the good person is a relative. While I was writing this piece, the news broke internationally of my cousin Dr. Hannah Gay’s breakthrough work with an HIV positive baby. Family memories of Hannah include her reaction when my father called her a “precocious child.” It didn’t sound like anything she wanted to be. Hands on her hips, she protested, “I am not a ‘cocious child.” For many years now, our other memory is the every present phone – even when she was at family gatherings or on vacation – by which she could be paged from the hospital where she took her work with HIV babies seriously. My prayer is that the promise of her work can be replicated and multiplied for babies worldwide. I do wish Daddy was here to see how well his prediction turned out.
   

Thank You Very Much

Security personnel at Baltimore airport efficiently and pleasantly checked people through until my husband put his retired military ID down with his boarding pass. The checker paused, looked my husband in the eye, and said, “Thank you, sir, for your service to our country.” His words may have been even more meaningful to us since some of that service was during the Vietnam Conflict when military men and women often drew the blame for an unpopular war. Nine words – fifteen seconds at most – to brighten our day with appreciation.

The episode started me thinking of others in my past and present who may be taken for granted but could use a “Thank you very much.” Here’s part of my list, but I would wager if I were a gambling person that you have one, too.

•   Our church custodian who cares for the building like it was his own and makes the world’s best tea for Wednesday night potluck supper
•    Personnel at the local cancer center who maintain cheer and/or comfort with their manner and keep jigsaw puzzles going on the tables for those who are waiting
•    My writing partner who’s willing to drive my car two hours each way when we go to New Orleans for our SCBWI meetings since driving is not one of my pleasures in life
•    The book store employee who noticed me wandering around and went out of his way to search several different sections to find the book I wanted.
•    The church nursery worker who countered my protest that she did not have to rock my youngest all the time with, “But he likes to be rocked”
•    An eye doctor who asks every year at my checkup how the writing is going – and actually takes time to listen to the answer [okay, so maybe he marked my chart to remember that I’m a writer, but at least he shows interest]
•    School custodians who kept up with the dirt and moved furniture, but took time to tie a kid’s shoelace or take an injured child to the office for Band-aids
•    Local public librarians who will order a book I want for the library and put me on the list to read it first

I could go on and this doesn’t even include family members which would be a whole new list!

Shakespeare said,
    "Blow, blow, thou winter wind
    Thou art not so unkind
    As man's ingratitude."
Having experiences some of those wintry winds lately, I’m making a resolution out of season to pay more attention to those I need to thank.

Navigating Early

Two-for-one represents a bargain not to be missed. Author Clare Vanderpool appears to have taken that approach as her writing philosophy. Her Newbery winning Moon Over Manifest wove two stories from two time periods together. For a second time, she’s done two stories in one with Navigating Early.

The primary story line pairs Jack Baker and Early Auden at the Morton Hill Academy for Boys. I love prologues that set the stage for a book. Clare includes Jack’s first glimpse of Early in hers, letting us in on a bit of his strangeness right from the start. Jack sees Early filling bags of sand and stacking them beside the ocean, apparently to keep it from washing his section of Maine away. Jack concludes the prologue, “I knew Early Auden could not hold back the ocean. But that strangest of boys saved me from being swept away.”

The prologue sets the reader up for a unique relationship. Jack, orphaned by his mother and placed in the academy by a distant military father, must learn the lingo and the water sports of Maine when all he’s known in life is northeastern Kansas and military jargon. He corrects himself in telling the story, “That’s the dormitory at Camp Keyes where I would be stationed – I mean staying.” Early Auden, in today’s terms might have a label of Asperger’s Syndrome savant, but in this post World War II novel, he’s just seen as “strange.” Typically for that time, he’s considered an oddity and largely allowed to do whatever he wants.

When the two loners find each other, Jack is drawn into Early’s obsessions with timber snakes, musical artists that must be played by the day of the week – unless it’s raining which calls for a special musician, the Great Appalachian Bear, and his skewed beliefs about the school hero Fish who was lost in the war. A quest for the great black bear begins when they are left alone at the school and leads them to unusual people and daring adventures. Early tempers the excitement of the primary story with his saga of Pi, that he oddly finds in the unending list of numbers of that mathematic phenomenon.

Early’s obsession with musicians for each day of the week, unless it was raining, weaves an interesting thread, including adjustment for the funeral of the pet frog. They put him on a maple leaf raft to float away and did not sing “Amazing Grace” or “Rock of Ages.” They sang “Up a Lazy River” because it was Monday – Louis Armstrong’s day.

I had just received this advance reader’s copy when I wrote my review of Moon Over Manifest. I promised to let you know if Clare could do it again. Indeed, she has with yet another two-for-one bargain!

Why Southern Children Need a Middle Name

#1 A middle name distinguishes between or among those with the same popular first name. A small church with four Virginias needs a couple of them to go with Virginia Lou and Virginia Ann. A junior high classroom with three Ashleys needs help. Of course, the middle name doesn’t always work. There was my high school typing class where I sat across the aisle from another Virginia Ann. Our resolution was to tell the typing teacher that we both went by “Virginia.” If she called on “Virginia” for the answer to a question, whichever one of us knew the answer gave it. It worked for us.

#2 One can honor an ancestor by pairing a strong common first name with a rather exotic antique name as in Jack Rhesa Butler.

 # 3 The mother’s family of origin may be honored in a middle name like Mitzi Morrow Butler or Benjamin Taylor Butler.

#4 One may dislike one of the father’s names or object to the possibility of the child being called “Junior” as is common in the south or when Anthony Dinozzo’s father shows up on NCIS. A new name for calling may be chosen to go first with the more liked namesake name in the middle, such as Murray Allen Butler.

#5 Probably the most useful reason is the enhanced hearing ability associated with a middle name. Having moved to Caledonia MS for the year Al was to be in Korea, our five-year-old son immediately invited his counterpart from across the street in to play. I briefly interrupted their Lego construction to ask the little boy his name. “My name’s Bobby Brown,” he said. “Sometimes my mama calls me Bobby, but I can’t hear her so good. Then she calls me Bobby Ray Brown, and I can hear her real good.”  

So there you have it. If you anticipate a child with poor hearing, you may want to adopt our Southern custom and bestow a middle name.

Actually, It's HATTIESBURG, MISSISSIPPI

We’ve had storms for which the Weather Channel was unprepared. In the first one, they kept reporting on the “land mass between Biloxi and New Orleans.” Those of us who live here call it “Mississippi.” Granted, it doesn’t have the international fame of states such as New York, California, or Hawaii, and it makes lists most often that start with “Poorest.” Also true, but not so well-known, it has led the list for several years for greatest per capita giving for charities. Go figure.

In the recent storm, the Weather Channel reported that a tornado cut a swath through “Johannesburg, Mississippi.” Our city does have a unique name. [Just for fun type in “Hattiesburg” on a search engine. You don’t even have to name a state to find us.] Railroad entrepreneur and former Confederate Captain William Harris Hardy, erected a depot/post office on his rail line and named the town for his beloved wife Hattie. I’m thinking he may have twirled a few times in his grave on hearing it called “Johannesburg.”  

From past experience with Katrina, we know volunteers come to help after a disaster of this magnitude, but in “the Burg,” we don’t wait for them. The storm had hardly finished before citizens kicked into gear.
•    Westminster Presbyterian took a direct hit in the path of the tornado. Volunteers from various churches, the Islamic community, and others showed up immediately to salvage contents with both Methodist and Baptist churches offering meeting space.
•    One church took door-to-door surveys to point people in the direction of immediate help and to make lists to be ready for volunteer disaster team assignments.
•    Members of churches with praise bands and words projected on screens hefted limbs from yards side-by-side with those who recited liturgies and sang from hymnbooks accompanied by an organ.
•    Local businesses donated supplies and food.
•    People of all ages turned out with everything from rakes and chain saws to heavy equipment.
•    Phones rang all over town followed by the question, “Are y’all all right?” [or “you” if only one person lived there – a point of Southern grammar]
•    There were even festivities as people held block parties for their neighborhoods to grill and eat up food that would spoil without power.

I think Hattie would be proud of her burg, and I would say to the Weather Channel people, “Come on down to Hattiesburg, Mississippi and get to know us. We could rustle you up some fried chicken or gumbo and polish it off with pecan (pronounced with the “a” as in father, accent on the second syllable) pie. We will be happy for you to know the name of our city and state but fervently hope there will be no need for you to use it ever again.”

The Best Laid Plans . . .

Preparations for a rainy Sunday afternoon included a fire in the fireplace, a hot cup of coffee, and the Count of Monte Cristo’s company. Little did I know that the rain housed a vicious tornado that would cut a swath through Oak Grove, Hattiesburg, and Petal, packing winds as high as 170 miles an hour. Shortly after I spotted the brown swirl across Oak Grove Road, the power went off. Uh-oh! I realized I’d missed part of my preparation for this particular Sunday afternoon, but I remedied it easily enough. I got my pen light and hunkered down – not all that different from when I was a teenager with a flashlight under the quilt after lights out.

I’d read our library’s present Classics Book Club selection, The Count of Monte Cristo, when I was in high school. [If you’re a regular to my blog, you may remember “A Teacher Who Made a Difference to Me.”] I remembered liking it, but I recalled little of the story. I wondered if I would enjoy it as an adult. Having finished a good two thirds of the book, I was beginning to see the many threads weaving together as the count manipulated the people in his life so the bad ones got revenge and the good ones got rewards. Not remembering how he untangled all the webs, I was wrapped up in page-turning to see how it all came out.  

The storyline remained as interesting as I remembered. In addition, I saw layers of philosophy and theology that had either escaped me the first time through or that I had forgotten:
•    The question of whether revenge, even for cruel people, can go too far,
•    The quandary of whether excess wealth threatens happiness,
•    Whether God gives free will or just doles out life for us to accept.

Dumas had some good lines as well:
•    What is required of a young man in Paris? To speak the language, more or less; to be acceptably turned out; to be a good sport; and to pay cash.
•    Calderhouse was actually weeping, though it was hard to tell if it was joy or onions that had affected the lachrymal glands.
•    It was the oldest women who were the most heavily adorned and the ugliest who were most determined to make an exhibition of themselves.
•    The friends whom we have lost do not rest in the earth, they are buried in our hearts, and that is how God wanted it, so that we would always be in their company.
•    God is full of mercy . . . He is a father before He is a judge.

Much of the story came back like a familiar tune – an “oldie, but goodie.” It wasn’t exactly the carefree Sunday afternoon I had envisioned, but I was glad to be safe and to have the Count, his friends, and his enemies to keep my mind off the raging storm outside.

Up a Telephone Pole

The young man in the picture, taken a few years after the event in this story, wasn’t Papaw yet, just Erskine Hannah from a North Mississippi farm. In New Orleans seeking his fortune, he knew he wanted to take in the Mardi Gras parade he’d been hearing about, but he had a problem common in our family. He was short. Not to be deterred, he climbed a telephone pole and enjoyed the parade. It all worked out well until he decided to come down. The crowd had closed in below him, and he was stuck!

I don’t think the lengthy time on the pole was responsible, but Erskine got homesick. He missed the land in Oktibbeha County and perhaps his family. He didn’t stay long in Louisiana. By the time I knew him, he seldom traveled far from his dogtrot house on the farm. He found pleasure standing with his pitchfork atop a mound of hay, tasting the sweetness of strawberries from his garden, or watching a new calf struggling up on wobbly legs.

When I visited him after his eightieth birthday, his main topic of conversation involved a new variety of tomatoes, recommended by the extension department, that he was planting that year. Soon afterwards, he bought a new roto-tiller although his diminished eyesight meant he often plowed up vegetables along with the weeds. Like the country mouse in Aesop’s fable, he’d had his taste of the city and returned to the land that he truly loved.

Just the same, when Mardi Gras comes around, I picture Papaw as a young man watching the parade, unable to get down off the telephone pole.

Out of Nowhere

I almost closed my Kindle and gave up on the advance reading copy of Out of Nowhere by Maria Padian when I realized it would be peppered with more profanity than suited my taste. Hang with me while I put this issue to rest, and I will take you to a discussion of a book well worth the read. I’m not in favor of banning books and know quite well that Rhett Butler would’ve lost power if he’d said, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a darn.” However, I do have a problem with books and movies that seem to have superfluous swearing for the sake of raising ratings. I’m glad I didn’t stop reading, although I did sometimes found the quantity of pepper distracted from a powerful story.  

Tom Bouchard seems to have it all as he nears the end of his high school education – captain of the football team, girl friend, choice of colleges if he gets those applications filled out – until he lets his friend Donnie con him into painting graffiti on the rival school’s spirit rock. Of course, the police catch them. His required community service and his hope for a successful football season becomes entwined with Somali refugees – Saeed and his three soccer-playing buddies who may give his team the boost they need to beat their rivals and Saeed’s sister Samira who is a puzzle to Tom. All the elements of a good high school story intertwine naturally. There’s a love story, Tom’s redemption for his vandalism, and a return to his business of preparing for college.  The additional thread of Tom’s blunders with his friends’ culture was the most powerful element in the book for me as they brought unexpected and unwanted results, some without an easy solution.

I recommend this book (to be released on February 12) as a companion to Inside Out and Back Again, the subject of my post on Monday, for the opposite perspectives of a refugee and a member of a community where refugees settle. With the current emphasis on immigration, wise decisions might be made easier by seeing the people rather than just the political issue.

Inside Out and Back Again

A book is what the author makes it combined with layers of what the reader brings to it. Having seen the publicity surrounding Inside Out and Back Again by Thanhha Lai when it won the National Book Award and Newbery Honor Award, I was glad to find it on our local library shelves.

The inside cover blurb read, “No one would believe me but at times I would choose wartime in Saigon over peacetime in Alabama.” The quote intrigued me because I knew I brought two layers of meaning with me to the book. My Army husband was among the last to leave Saigon in the American withdrawal process. He was in a group of American soldiers held in South Vietnam to insure that the last of three groups of POWs would be released from North Vietnam. I had watched the news regularly for that last airlift, knowing that would be my signal that Al would be in line for his turn on a troop plane headed home.

My other link was my mother’s love for a young Vietnamese woman who had married a GI from the rural community where my father served as pastor. Mama’s relationship with her began with English lessons and mushroomed from there much like MiSSisss WaSShington in Lai’s book. Years later when people gathered to celebrate Mama’s eightieth birthday, she was the person Mama was most happy to see again.

Thanhha Lai writes her narrative of Ha´ coming to terms with her new culture with lyrical sadness leading to a welcoming ray of hope as it draws to a close. Authenticity comes because Lai lived much of the story herself.

I found myself bringing another layer of meaning as I remembered acquaintances like those Ha´ meets in Alabama who would have tried to help her and those who would have wished her and her family gone. Both sets of people are secondary to the beautiful insight through the eyes and heart of a young girl who sometimes preferred a wartime Saigon that was home to a peaceful Alabama that was not.

I didn’t set out to be reading immigration books back-to-back, even though that is certainly a current topic. Quite coincidentally, I followed this book with Out of Nowhere written from the viewpoint of a teenage boy who was part of a community where Somali refugees are relocated. Look for that review in my next blog.

Didn't Need to Read It in the NEW YORK TIMES

Every Christmas I relate to the “Sisters” song in Holiday Inn, but for this blog, I’d rather borrow Jenny Kostecki-Shaw’s title Same, Same, but Different. Her picture book, which you should definitely read if you haven’t, is not about sisters but the title is a great description for the four McGee Girls.

For instance, all of us chose a career in education. Ruth, the youngest, chose speech therapy which eventually evolved into an administrative position that helped parents, teachers, and students work cooperatively toward optimal outcomes for students. Gwyn, next in line, was a high school math teacher who knew that her geometry students could understand “plane” when she put it in terms of the football crossing the plane of the goal line. Beth became a librarian who connected students and teachers to books. I taught kindergarten, second grade, and junior high gifted language arts. Same, Same, but Different.

Jenny’s title still holds when it comes to the practicalities of life. I’m telling this so you’ll get my viewpoint. If one of my sisters wants to differ, she can write her own blog. We share some basics – love of God, family, and friends; a belief in giving back; a strong work ethic; and a way of facing life with a sense of humor. We did have the same parents who taught these regularly. But after we acquired the basics, they encouraged us to be who we were and follow our leanings.

Ruth can take any problem, analyze its component parts, and come up with the solution(s) without ruffling a feather – but don’t hurry her to that conclusion. Gwyn elegantly balances keeping a beautiful home and being a gracious hostess with having a caring heart. Beth is the one you want if you have a practical need – custom made drapes, wallpapering, repair work, or a driver to a doctor’s appointment. Which leaves me – your plain regular “good old girl” who gets the choice job for the family. They let me write the words – a family thank you note, a memoir account for a church’s anniversary, or the narrative to send ahead to the doctor when we correctly suspect that Mama has Alzheimer’s Disease.

Being different has taken us to live far apart so we don’t see each other as often as we’d like. That distance has not lessened our pride in the title “The McGee Girls.” And I think it has added to the sheer joy when we can be together as were this past week. The New York Times [October 12,2010] reported a study that showed  having a sister made you happier. Adolescents with a sister were less likely to report feelings of sadness and depression or the standard “I feel like nobody loves me.” My own feelings as an adolescent confirm the study, but I didn’t really need it. I’ve always known I was happier times three with these that are the “Same, Same but Different.”    

*In both old and new pictures, left to right are Gwyn, Ruth, and Beth with me behind.

75 Years of Caldecott Awards

Nerd that I am, I’ll be following the American Library Association website this morning to see who wins all the awards with a special interest in a significant anniversary, the 75th year of the Randolph Caldecott Medal, honoring the illustrator selected by ALA as the year's most distinguished American picture book for children.  For generations, Caldecott selections have fostered a love for reading among children and have guided educators, parents and librarians in selecting the best in children’s picture books – not to mention grandparents who buy books for their grandchildren.

Presented every year since 1938, the medal is named for Randolph Caldecott, a 19th-century English illustrator known for the action, vitality and humor of his picture books. Receiving a Caldecott Medal practically guarantees that the winning title will remain in print.  

One of the interesting tidbits each year is where the illustrator was and his/her reaction to receiving news of the win.  Today’s illustrators are quite aware of the American Library Association’s award. With internet buzz and speculation, it would be hard to imagine that a children’s artist would not know about the possibility of winning. It hasn’t always been that way – which is my segue to my favorite Caldecott story. Wouldn’t you know it involves Ezra Jack Keats and The Snowy Day?

Fifty years ago, Ezra Jack Keats waited for a phone call from Playboy. He’d received a check for more than the agreed upon amount for an illustration he’d done for them. When he called to report the error, the secretary knew nothing about it but promised to find out and get back to him.

Instead, he received a phone call from Ruth Gagliardo, a very excited stranger, talking about some Caldecott award. He’d never heard of her or the award. [Librarians tend to be more useful than famous.] She said he’d won for The Snowy Day. He could tell she thought it was something special even before she swore him to secrecy until the announcement was made. He did his best to sound knowledgeable and carry on a sensible conversation. Finally, she asked for a quote to put in the press release. Thinking quickly, he said, “Well, I’m certainly happy for the little boy in the book.” [That would be Peter.] She loved the quote and used it as her conclusion for many years afterwards as she enjoyed telling the story of giving the news to Keats.  

After the phone call, Keats had a dilemma. He couldn’t tell anyone, but he did want to know what he had won. Google wasn’t here yet, so he had to finagle a way to work the question into a conversation. His friends assured him that if he could win the Caldecott that was the best award he could ever get.

* Not to leave my readers hanging – Keats later got the call back from Playboy. There was no mistake. They’d decided his illustration was worth more than the amount they’d agreed upon.

The Sandalwood Tree

Sometimes a book pulls me into a place I’ve never been and makes me reluctant to leave and come home. The Sandalwood Tree by Elle Newmark is such a book. It is set in 1947 India on the cusp of change as British Raj comes to an end with a backstory from 1857 that emerges as Evie discovers secret love letters behind a loose brick in their rented house. She becomes obsessed with finding “the rest of the story.” I joined her obsession and picked up on the frequent repetition of Adela Winfield’s quotation at the beginning of the book, “Death steals everything but our stories.”

Death came early and dramatically for those who lived in the house in 1857, but Evie ferrets out their story discovering new tidbits in the house, the community, and in the hollow of the sandalwood tree. Along the way, her own story unfolds with repeated near misses as she and her husband seem unable to hold onto their fragile marriage.

Carefully researched details of time and place for both stories had me feeling I was in India and wanting to take Evie and Martin in hand and say, “Pay attention! He/she is reaching out to you.” But I was able to join Evie in mentally compartmentalizing their marriage problems as we followed clues to find the story of Adele Winfield who had lived in the house so long ago.

Besides the quote that formed the theme of the story, I had two other favorites.
•    “I didn’t know then that love is not only something you feel, it’s something you do.”
•    “It’s not that the past doesn’t matter, it’s that the future matters more, and the present matters most of all.”

The Sandalwood Tree was in the first gift set sent to my Kindle from librarian daughter Anna who knows a good book when she reads one. I wonder where she got that?

You'll Be How Old?

Cleaning out long unopened drawers in the old sewing machine turned up a memory with a story. In the mid-seventies, my good friend Marty and I could carry on a phone conversation while keeping an eye on our ankle-biters. We had three apiece about the same age.

One of these conversations had me urging her to go back to school for a degree in elementary education. Gifted with a love for and ability to relate to young children, her talents needed a wider berth than her current service as a teacher’s aide and children’s Sunday school teacher. I felt free to tell her so.

Her response was, “That would take four years. I’m thirty-five years old! Do you know how old I’ll be in four years if I go back to school?”

I replied, “And how old will you be in four years if you do not go back to school?” Our conversation ended for that day, but I like to believe a seed was sown.

Marty had graduated from high school knowing everything as many teenagers do. She enlisted and served a stretch in the military, married a good guy, and had three sons to be followed by a daughter during our friendship. She had a good life, but I wanted her to have more – for herself and for the children whose lives she would touch.

The Army moved us to Germany, and Marty’s Christmas letters sometimes came and sometimes didn’t, depending on the time she could spare from the four children. And then one memorable Christmas, I got the one where she laughed at herself for having become a college freshman along with her oldest son.

The treasure I found in the sewing machine drawer was a different correspondence – her graduation picture and announcement – “cum laude” to boot. The back of the picture reads,
    “To Virginia
     Finally!!
     Love, Marty
     Dec. 95.”

She entered her classroom as the teacher that fall. Though both her life and her teaching were cut much too short a few years later by a blood clot, the find brought a smile. I think of the children she taught and loved, many of them facing the challenges of poverty and English language learning. For them and for her, I’m grateful that Marty figured out that age is just a number.

Frozen

Sadie Rose’s mother, memory, and voice froze when she was five years old. Suggestive photographs she finds eleven years later begin a thaw for her voice and memory.

Themes of prostitution, political corruption, and prohibition made me wonder at my original perception of Mary Casanova’s Frozen as a young adult [YA] novel. Maybe it was for adults? I tore myself away from the book long enough to find both YA and adult listings! This is not that unusual since adults enjoy good YAs, and young adults reach over into adult shelves.

Her discovery of the pictures leads Sadie Rose from the sheltered life she’s had with the Senator and Mrs. Worthington out into the frontier community of northern Minnesota to seek answers about what happened to her mother and about her own identity. In the process, she stumbles upon her father’s identity as well and the cause of his death. Roadblocks come for her in the form of weather conditions, decisions about whom to trust, and politics of the region. The return of her voice parallels her growth from the shelter of being cared for much like a hothouse flower to an independent decision maker.

The book interrupted my “to do” list often as I kept returning for one more chapter. The only flaw I found in the book was a need to know more about the secondary characters, especially the motivation of the Worthingtons who took Sadie Rose in but were unwilling to be seen as adoptive parents. Perhaps there could be another book from Mrs. Worthington’s standpoint.

Returning to my question – is the book for adults or YA? The answer is “yes.”

It Could All Go Wrong

Discovering my jasmine blooming in January made me first anxious and then philosophical. Noticing the new blooms just as winter weather predictions finally showed up, brought questions. Would they be ruined by the freeze? Even worse, would the plant be killed?  Quickly, I realized my worry over what could go wrong had me breaking one of my childhood declarations of things my mother did that I would never do.

Mama had trouble anticipating a pleasant trip or event on the horizon for fear that she would be disappointed. She left me frustrated when she wouldn’t discuss an upcoming trip because “something might happen” that would keep us from going. I love anticipation. I’ve held to my childish declaration and opted to enjoy a prospective journey, knowing I may have to figure out how to cope with disappointment if it comes.

Life itself has an endless list, some much bigger than trips or individual events, that could go wrong – or right:
•    marriage
•    children
•    vocation choices
•    home locations
•    whether to follow one’s dreams . . .

For writers, there’s the recurring item of whether to submit that manuscript.

I got my camera and took a few pictures of the jasmine and devoted some time to taking in the aroma before coming in to do some research on the plant. It turns out that while some are deciduous, others stay green and bloom in the winter. Maybe mine is one, and I just don’t remember it blooming in January last year. If not, at least I had the joy for the day and will have the pictures. As I look at the life list, mine has gone right more often than I had any right to expect, and I am grateful.

As for the manuscript I’m putting in the mail this week, maybe it will find a home. If not, I’ve had the joy of living with its characters for a time.

The Very Old and the Very Young

Mama introduced me to the idea of a special relationship between the very old and the very young when she read aloud a poem called “One, Two, Three” by Henry Cuyler Bunner. The poem begins:
    “It was an old, old, old, old lady,
    And a boy who was half-past three;
    And the way they played together
    Was beautiful to see.”
You can tell from the number of “olds” that she couldn’t go running and jumping, but neither could the “thin little fellow with a thin and twisted knee.” So they played imaginary hide-and-seek though “they never stirred from their places right under the maple tree.”

Tomie de Paola has two beautiful stories about this kind of relationship. The first is in my well-worn copy of Nana Upstairs & Nana Downstairs, autographed to my second grade class – “The Beautiful Butler Bunch.” It portrays his relationships with his grandmother and great-grandmother, but the focus is on the great-grandmother, Nana Upstairs. She points out the fresh “little person” in the feathered red hat over behind the brush and comb. Only she and Tommy have the ability to see the little man. [When I heard him speak, he admitted the little boy was him. He changed to spelling so nobody would recognize him. Ha!]

In Now One Foot, Now the Other, Tomie tells the story of Grandfather Bob who builds block towers with Bobby, tells him stories, and teaches him to walk. Then he reverses the story after Grandfather Bob has a stroke as Bobby builds towers for his grandfather, tells him stories, and teaches him to walk – “Now one foot, now the other.”

Part of the wear and tear on Nana Upstairs & Nana Downstairs came from our second grade love of the book and frequent readings. Since my students were at an age to lose grandparents or great-grandparents, I sent it home frequently for parents to read aloud and talk with their children in a positive gentle manner about death’s separation between people who have a unique relationship.

When I was very young, I had two great-grandmothers and one grandfather. I hope you have a similar memory. And if you admit to being very old, I hope you have a very young person in your life. 

The Tragedy Paper

Questions loom from the first page of The Tragedy Paper by Elizabeth LeBan. From the early part of the book, I had a list. What has Duncan done that nags his conscience and threatens his acceptance as he returns to Irving for his senior year of high school? Can an assigned senior project of a tragedy paper for one class possibly hold this much importance in students’ lives? What is the significance of his tiny room assignment in the corner of the dorm? Will the traditional secret Senior Game ruin the lives of its participants? As a writer, I questioned whether she could maintain a story with what amounts to two protagonists as Tim, who has albinism and appears in his own story only on CDs, becomes at least as important to the novel as Duncan. As a reader, I added another. Could she maintain this interest and intensity to the end of the book?

The worry that Duncan’s offense was too slight for this much concern and the equal worry that it was too monstrous for healing nags away throughout the book. Her simple definition of a tragedy paper is order to chaos to order with a hefty magnitude of choices. By the end of the book, I realized her novel was itself a tragedy paper, which satisfied my reader and writer questions. Tim and Duncan carry the story together like partners in a doubles tennis match. High interest and intensity continue to the end of the book, leaving only enough respite here and there to allow the reader to breathe.  

In her end notes, the Elizabeth LeBan says she had this very assignment and took it as the basis for her novel, proving that the old writer cliché, “Write what you know,” works. My review is from an advance reader copy. This debut novel will be released January 8, 2013. I recommend the reading if you have the stamina to be caught up in the magnitude of chaos and choices. I hope Elizabeth LeBan has more to come.

Dog-Eat-Dog? Nah . . .

I’ve heard there’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, but as I do change-of-the-year reflections, I’m thankful that I’ve had two careers that know nothing of it. I’ve been pretty amazed as I’ve moved into the writing world in my second look at “what I want to be when I grow up” that I have not found it here. There are so many people writing and such a few openings for publishing that one would think good ideas would be kept close to the vest. Not so. Writers I’ve met from big names to wannabes share ideas and helpful hints on which publisher might be interested in your piece of work. Some are even kind enough to do meticulous editing.

I had come to expect that kind of helpfulness in the teaching world. Teaching kindergarten, second grade, and junior high in Texas, Germany, and Louisiana for close to thirty years, I only came across one teacher who guarded her good ideas. Most teachers knew they could share a new method with a teacher on the hall, and it would return with improvements.

I had one that returned fortuitously from further than down the hall. I had spent considerable time in Germany making a set of timed tests for second grade math facts that included all the addition/subtraction combinations, got progressively harder, and mingled in review combinations. Before the day of doing things on the computer, I had made squares and printed the combinations in my very best second grade script. One of my parent volunteers asked for copies of the tests for her friend who taught in another school north of us.

Wouldn’t you know that the only box the Army movers ever lost for us was on our next move to Louisiana and included my carefully done tests? Not having the time to start over in my new school, I used some generic tests furnished by the school district that were not so carefully thought out.

The next year we got a new teacher on our hall transferring in from Germany. At an early second grade teachers’ meeting, she picked up one of the district tests and said, “I have a better set of timed tests than these if you would like to use them.” She pulled out her folder, and there were my tests – in my handwriting! She had received copies from a chain that began with my parent volunteer’s friend.

The proverb says, “Cast your bread upon the waters, for after many days you may find it again.” I would add, “And sometimes it has butter on it.”

Making a Reservation Instead of Resolutions

Enough breakables exist in my house without my adding resolutions. Instead, I celebrate the New Year by making a reservation. I register on January 1 each year to take advantage of the early bird senior rate for the Children’s Book Festival at the University of Southern Mississippi. This year’s guest list looks particularly outstanding in the current brochure. This will be my twelfth year to attend, and it seems to get better every year. Recent additions to the festival include the Magnolia Children’s Choice Award and the Ezra Jack Keats Awards. I can’t wait to find out who won and meet some of the winners. You can check it out for yourself at www.usm.edu/childrens-book-festival.

Coleen Salley, before her death, added splash to the festival for years as a lovable curmudgeon, children’s literature professor, storyteller, and author of Epossumondas books. My enthusiasm for the festival is similar to hers. She once told a television reporter in an interview, “When my friends go on vacation, they go to Palm Springs or Acapulco. When I go on vacation, I come to the Book Festival.” The story-telling event now bears her name, and I’m thinking she’s looking down with a smile that this year’s winner of the Coleen Salley Storytelling Award has the intriguing name of Trout Fishing in America.

The festival is designed for librarians and teachers with CEUs properly awarded for attendance. I can only think this must be the most fun way in existence to accumulate those necessary units. It is also for those who love books for children and young adults, those interested in how authors and illustrators create their work, and those curious about what librarians do on a holiday. [For the last, I will give a hint. They don’t wear their hair in buns, peer over their glasses, and go, “SHHHH!”]

Three months and two weeks from now, should you decide to come, you can find me and thank me for suggesting such a good substitute for a resolution.

Moon Over Manifest

Rarely do I read the same book twice, at least within a short space of time. My stack awaiting a turn is too high to allow me that luxury, but sometimes . . .

Moon Over Manifest, a debut novel by Clare Vanderpool, took the bloggers who predicted Newbery winners by surprise in 2011. I followed several discussions, and it hardly made the conversation. I wondered what kind of book could come out of the shadows to be the winner – a very good one as it turns out.

Set in two time periods almost twenty years apart in the small town of Manifest, Kansas, mysteries belonging to both periods weave themselves together as Abilene Tucker in 1936 unravels both her present time and the town’s historical story while searching for her own answers about her father who has sent her there for the summer. Along with the intertwining story lines, you’ll find Hattie Mae’s news reporting in the local paper that sounds a lot like the county papers where I grew up and clever advertisements for such things as Velma T.’s Vitamin Revitalizer and Old Uncle Jack’s Lumbago Liniment.

Mixed into the mystery and fun are insights both touching and perceptive.
•    “Maybe the world wasn’t made up of universals that could be summed up in neat packages. Maybe there were just people. People who were tired and hurt and lonely and kind in their own way and their own time.”
•    The time gap adds poignancy as Ned completes a 1918 letter from the war zone with “Don’t I wish, buddy. Don’t I wish” and Abilene ends her wondering whether her father is thinking of her in the next chapter with “Don’t I wish, buddy. Don’t I wish.”
•    You’ll need to read the book to find the significance of Miss Sadie’s question for I couldn’t bear to spoil it for you, but I would recommend that you keep her question in mind as you read. “Who would dream that one can love without being crushed under the weight of it?”  

As to why I read it twice in short order, there was just too much going on to feel like I had it all at the end of the first reading. It was like eating a piece of steak that’s so good that the polite part isn’t enough. One is compelled to go back and gnaw the pieces from the bone – and they turn out to be the best of all.

I gave the book to two granddaughters for Christmas – signed, of course. Yesterday I received an ARC (Advance Reading Copy) of her new novel Navigating Early that will come out in January. I’ll let you know if Clare can do it twice.