The Chimes

What is Christmas without a little Dickens story containing a few goblins, a bit of social justice, and a satisfying ending that winds up with the downtrodden happy and a lost relationship found?

Our Classics Book Club at Oak Grove Public Library has read one of Dickens’s Christmas stories for the last three years. We started with A Christmas Carol, read The Cricket on the Hearth last year, and The Chimes, the story that was actually sandwiched between those two, this year. Chapter headings follow the pattern of the other two books with staves for A Christmas Carol, chirps for The Cricket on the Hearth, and four quarters for The Chimes symbolizing the quarter of the hour rung by the chimes of the church.

Like the other books, there is a romance stymied by poverty, a child in need of home and family, and rich people condescending toward the poor who will not get themselves out of their poverty. Once again Dickens skillfully points out the absurdity of keeping the poor in prison because they cannot pay their debts when that very act precludes any possibility that they can find a job.

A quote shows the difference in what is seen of the poor from the inside and the outside, “You may see the cottage from the sunk fence over yonder. I’ve seen the ladies draw it in their books, a hundred times. It looks well in a picter, I’ve heerd say; but there an’t weather in picters, and maybe ‘tis fitter for that, than for a place to live in. Well! I’ve lived there. How hard – how bitter hard, I lived there, I won’t say.”

Dickens wraps his sermon on social justice in a tale of goblins much like his ghosts in A Christmas Carol. His protagonist Toby Veck wonders throughout the tale whether it is true that the poor are as worthless as the establishment tells them they are and whether they are an unnecessary blight on mankind. The turn of the story for the obligatory Dickens satisfying ending is so late in the story that it leaves the reader wondering if he is going to disappoint this time. I was glad he came through, but I found an even greater satisfaction in Toby’s coming to understand that his life and that of those who share his station in life does indeed have great value.

Gracie's Mouse

Before the incident with the mouse, my knowledge of Gracie Rangel was accurate but limited. I saw a well-loved efficient kindergarten custodian who removed dust specs before they had time to light and who moved any child in a crisis in the direction of help before tears got a head start. I assumed my perception of her shyness came partly because she was not as comfortable with English as with her native Spanish. But as I said, that was all before the mouse.

A kindergartener in the class next door that connected to the one I taught spotted a mouse one afternoon just as school was letting out. After the children left, Gracie joined the teacher and me on a thorough but futile mouse hunt. Since there seemed to nowhere else for the mouse to go, we remained on high alert for scratching sounds the rest of the week.

On Friday, I rapidly stashed things in an upper cabinet before going home for the weekend. The open door shielded my vision when I felt it. Tiny tracks crossed my foot and started up my right leg. I screamed, threw stuff up in the air, and slammed the door shut only to look into Gracie’s smiling face as she jerked her hands behind her back. As I laughed with her on her successful practical joke, I mentally crossed “shy” off my description. The next week, we found the mouse in my closet, and it came to an untimely end.

As Christmas neared, I saw an opportunity to even the score with Gracie. Happening into the office as they put names into a box for drawing for the faculty Christmas party, I requested and received Gracie’s name before they put it in. For her gift, I crocheted a small gray mouse. 

But I was not to have the last word. The next year, Gracie requested my name before it went into the box. The mouse she gave me brings a good memory and a smile each year as it graces a special space beneath my Christmas tree.

Eventually, I would be privileged to have Gracie’s grandson Peter in my class. He was a quiet child who also appeared to be shy, but if you looked carefully, you could see a twinkle in his eye that looked an awful lot like his grandmother’s.  

The Legend of Papa Noel

Little people – or big ones – might wonder how the jolly fat man makes his way across the bayous of South Louisiana. My friend Terri Dunham, in her book The Legend of Papa Noel: A Cajun Christmas Story, gives us the answer. It seems Santa has a colleague way back in the darkest deepest part of the swamp named Papa Noel who makes toys for good little Cajun boys and girls. Travelling by a pirogue pulled by alligators with names like Renee and Alphonse and led by the magic white alligator named Nicollette, he delivers his wares on Christmas Eve. He has only mild difficulties until the night the fog rolls in so heavy the alligators can’t see where they are going. The night is saved, not by a reindeer named Rudolph, but by the Cajuns who are “some kind of smart. Yeah.” With the event saved, Papa Noel calls out to the bayou children as he finishes his deliveries and heads back to the dark part of the swamp for some rest, “Joyeux Noel to ya’ll and to all a good night.”

The story is told with such authenticity that I decided Terri must have had a doll or toy pirogue delivered by Papa Noel in her own childhood. Of course, my two grandchildren under two needed the book. Since they are not reading my blog yet, they won’t know unless one of my other readers spills the secret that they’re getting a copy signed “Joyeux Noel to the two Butler boys.”

The story is one that children will ask for again and again. Thankfully, it is also one that their adults won’t tire of rereading. The book was first published in 2006 by Sleeping Bear Press, and Terri is making as many book signings this Christmas as ever – nice longevity in book terms and a sign of a good addition to a child’s Christmas collection.

Outsmarting Big Al

Our children learned early on that outsmarting their dad wasn’t an easy go, and their friends who called him “Big Al” figured it out as well. Now, varmints are another matter. They haven’t gotten the word. I won’t even get into his ongoing battle with the squirrels who’ve found many ruses to get the bird food he provides with his hard earned money.  

Last year about this time in a different battle, he found traces of uninvited residents in our shed out back where we keep the Christmas decorations. Armed with boards, hammer, nails, and caulk, he headed out and stopped up every single hole – or so he thought.

Bringing in the Christmas decorations this week revealed that he had missed an opponent. I was a bit surprised when I opened the huge box that held all the medium boxes of Christmas decorations to find acorns scattered in it. I passed over it with a “That’s weird,” and kept pulling out boxes. Down a layer, I pulled out another box and spied this compiled square of shed insulation that you see in the pictures. It filled the empty space between boxes perfectly. Looking closer, I could see a perfectly formed oval nest hollowed out inside.

It fit the description of a mouse nest on the Internet, and I could imagine how cozy the mouse family must have been snuggling together down inside that soft warm nest. I had to admire the ingenuity of the parent mouse in circumventing Big Al and in the clever confiscation and use of the shed insulation.

However, I think I should warn Mama Mouse that the battle is not done. Big Al has more boards, more nails, and more caulk. Already he is plotting a return to the shed with intent to do a more passionate search for holes. He’s making a list of his tools and checking it twice, already aware of varmints who are naughty. (He didn’t find any that were nice.) His goal for the shed is “not a creature is stirring – not even a mouse.”

A Christmas Hope

In our first overseas Army assignment in France, my husband’s boss’s wife took my acclimation from Southern girl to military wife as a personal mission. One memorable day, Mrs. Coleman took me to the opening of a Picasso exhibit at the Louvre and then to lunch that included my first authentic French onion soup.

Another part of her self-assigned mission kept me in reading material. Another day, I put down my book when she showed up at my door. She asked what I was reading. I explained that I was really wrapped up in a biography of a ground-breaking woman doctor for women in India.

Mrs. Coleman looked at me in amazement and said, “Oh, I never read anything that counts.” She handed  me the book she had brought, introducing me to Agatha Christie. While I continued to enjoy books that “counted,” I became a real Christie fan.

I thought about Mrs. Coleman while I read A Christmas Hope by Anne Perry. She would have loved it. This Christmas mystery, set in Victorian England, begins with a murder at a Christmas party. Claudine Burroughs, the protagonist, is more interested in her charity work at a clinic for prostitutes and needy women than in her proper place in society. She sets out to vindicate the accused murderer.

In classic murder mystery fashion, the accused poet Dai Tregarron enjoys a reputation of being a hard living drunk, but Claudine believes someone more respectable is the real perpetrator of the crime. Victorian England mores, a loveless marriage, and a girl who reminds her of her younger self complicate the plot.

This book won’t “count” any more than an Agatha Christie if you are looking to impress a crowd of intellectuals, but it has its place. A Christmas Hope in book form or on your Kindle might shorten your perception of the length of a trip on a cramped plane and maybe even make you forget the kid kicking your seat from behind.

Happy Thanksgivukkuh

It’s a phenomena so rare that my Google sources won’t say exactly when it has happened before or when it will happen again. Guesses ranged from 70,000 – 80,000 years before a repeat. My logic says the holiday Thanksgiving hasn’t been around that long so this must be a first, if not a last. Thanksgiving and Hanakkuh both fall on November 28 this year, and some have dubbed it Thansgivukkah. Thanksgiving has already deteriorated into Black Friday while Hanukkah, which started a night early, continues for eight days of celebration.

Good teachers and Time News Feed note the differences in the two holidays but focus on the similarities. I recommend the entire Times article that can be Googled. It points out that both holidays are about food, religion, refuge from oppression, and thankfulness and both are a reason to go home.

Those same clever teachers have turned the traditional handprint turkey with the palm for the body and four fingers for the tail feathers into a different symbol using both palms overlapping to make the turkey while the eight fingerprints form the eight candles of the menorah. Would that be a menurkey or a turkorah?
It will come as no surprise that I’m rereading a favorite book in celebration and remembering the many second graders who enjoyed it with me as a read aloud. I loved introducing them to the clever Hershel of Hershel and the Hanukkah Goblins each year. Its author Eric Kimmel is a fine story teller, and illustrator Trina Schart Hyman is one of my favorite artists.

The goblins who hate Hanukkah haunt the synagogue, blow out the candles, break the dreidels, and throw the potato latkes on the floor until Hershel comes to the rescue. Usually, none of my students were Jewish, but a bit of background information on the holiday along with a few turns playing the dreidel game had them giggling at Hershel’s trickery and requesting a turn to borrow my book afterwards to read for themselves.

Happy Thanksgivukkah to all of you! If you need a good story to celebrate, Hershel’s is hard to beat.

Egg Bowl Warfare

‘Tis the time for all those football grudge matches! In Mississippi, we call ours the Egg Bowl. The University of Mississippi (Ole Miss) and Mississippi State University have the tenth longest uninterrupted series going back to 1901. The winner is awarded the trophy which turned out to be shaped more like an egg than a football. Both teams have had years when the only good thing in their season was the Golden Egg Trophy.

There have been many down-to-the wire nail-biting finishes, but never one so unreal as in 1983. With the score 24-23 in favor of Ole Miss, Mississippi State freshman kicker Artie Cosby kicked the ball straight and true headed right through the goal posts. At the last second, a 40 mph wind gust pushed it up and back making the ball fall short of the goal line, taking away what looked like a sure win for State. Many rather irreverent jests followed with suggestions that the timely wind showed God was an Ole Miss Rebel at heart or questioning whether God might be cited for interference with a kicker.

For many years, the game was played on Thanksgiving night. The holiday hasn’t been quite the same since 2003 when they moved the Egg Bowl to the weekend, and I’m glad to see it back on Thanksgiving this year. Not that there weren’t complications with having it on the holiday. We frequently had Thanksgiving dinner with the Mississippi State branch of the family. Since the game came on late in the afternoon, we would finish our pie and head back to the hotel. I never could figure out which was harder – sitting on my hands and not gloating when Ole Miss played well or hiding my misery when they enjoyed Mississippi State’s triumphs. It just worked better to enjoy all the company and good food but watch the game separately.

How interesting it became when one of those nieces brought her prospective husband Don to meet the family. With a bit of chagrin, Sallie introduced him as an Ole Miss grad. One of my sisters did her usual introduction of herself, as she has to all the new in-laws, as the favorite aunt. [If you have been reading this blog long, you guessed right. It was Beth.]  I pointed out that I got extra points in this case since I was the only aunt who graduated from Ole Miss.

I don’t know how Don has handled watching the game with all those rabid State fans. I do know he and Sallie are raising a child who’s getting mixed messages. They’re handling it with a sense of humor – at least until Charlie makes a decision to go to one school or the other. They sent my favorite Christmas card last year and have given me permission to use the picture. I’m thinking Charlie might do better as a referee than some of the others I’ve seen call the Thanksgiving games.

In the meantime, Charlie is a little confused. When his extended family went berserk cheering after State beat Arkansas last week, he shouted, “Go, Ole Miss!” Just the same, before you get to feeling too sorry for Charlie, it could be worse. His parents could have gone to Alabama and Auburn.

Mountain Dog

Yes, you’ve seen Margarita Engle’s name in this blog before. No, I am not on her payroll, but she writes what I like to read so you may see her again. Mountain Dog is a bit different from some of her other books, in that it is set in present day America rather than in a historical background.

The descriptions I read of the book included many causes of interest to me – children of parents in prison, refugees from oppressive governments, a cowboy church, adjusting to bilingual cultures – and a new cause in search and rescue dogs that sounded intriguing. From past experience, I counted on Margarita to weave a poetic story. I was not disappointed.

Back and forth, Tony the Boy and Gabe the Dog tell the story of loss and gain. They use the word “rhyme” frequently and effectively to express their feelings in an almost lost meaning of harmonizing or being in accord. Enough science for a six week term of elementary school weaves deftly through the poetry. [I’m taking this as validation for what people thought was a strange choice on my part to graduate with a double major in English and Science.]

Just a few examples of many lines that caught my ear to whet your appetite:
•    On his first visit to his mother in prison: “The social worker pointed out different groups – Catholics, Hindus, Protestants, Muslims . . . Prison, she said, is open to all.”
•    Adapting to wilderness life with Uncle Tio: “Life in a tent feels so different that it’s easy for me to pretend I’m on an expedition in a magical land where nightmares don’t exist and all the dreams are peaceful.”
•    After another visit with his mother when he unsuccessfully tries to give her one more chance: “If I turned into a tattoo on Mom’s face, I’d be a teardrop.”
•    Describing the two more weeks of school before his anticipated summer in the wilderness: “No cricket music or tree rings, just the speed of airplanes and other really hard word problems that send 99 percent of my mind flying away.”
•    His inability to trust in real hope: “Every time I start believing in safety, something happens that makes me feel like an old toothbrush in the lost-and-found box at school. Nobody wants somebody else’s trash.”

Lest you worry, the ending doesn’t cast a rosy glow on all participants, but it is entirely satisfying. You could improve the way I read it by having a middle school student who likes reading aloud to share the two voices with you. Just be sure to let the student choose whether to be the boy or the dog.

Unexpected Object of Gratitude

The answer wasn’t what we expected once, much less twice. Our International Friends Group has met weekly for a number of years. International post-graduate students, visiting professors, and their spouses who have come to the University of Southern Mississippi meet to perfect their English, learn American traditions, and form friendships.

My partner, who usually takes the lead in the discussion, recently decided to begin each session by having them answer the question, “What is something good that has happened to you this week?”

The first week, one of the women said, “I saw blue sky.” Seeing our surprise, she went on to explain the smog that regularly hovers in her home area of China.

The next week she started with the same question. One of the men who had been absent the previous week said, “I saw blue sky.” This time we were only surprised by the repetition.

The double reminder did start me thinking about how I assume skies are blue. Except for cloudy or rainy days, blue skies are routine in Mississippi – sometimes broken by fluffy white clouds – but beautiful either way if one pays attention. I normally take little notice of them ahead of me as I virtuously take my daily aerobic exercise with a couple of turns down and back up the hill in front of my house. I’m too busy looking to see how much longer I have to go to get to the top of the hill.

No more will I take this for granted. Now that this wonder has been called to my attention, I’m planning to lift my eyes and relish the sapphire sky that rises above forest green oaks and pines in my upward trudge. I’m thinking I might even add some briskness to my step in my thankfulness for blue.

Every Day After

Just hearing the anecdote behind Every Day After by Laura Golden put the book on my To-Read List. Her editor, Michelle Poploff, told the story to workshop participants at the WIK 13 event of Southern Breeze Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators. Laura’s husband insisted that she submit it after she met Michelle at a previous conference. Another draw for me was its setting in the Depression Era South. Historical fiction remains my favorite genre with a special preference for Southern writers who tell it true.

If you’ve grown up in the South as I have, you have either a mother, grandmother, favorite aunt or all three plus a few neighbors with a “saying” for every situation. These sayings prevent pride, toughen weakness, ease anxiety, inspire achievement, and soften sorrow.

In her debut novel, Laura Golden begins each chapter with one of these sayings as its title, hinting about upcoming issues for protagonist Lizzie Hawkins.Her first chapter title is “A Gem Is Not Polished Without Rubbing Nor a Man Perfected Without Trials.” Her last chapter is “Misfortune Is a Good Teacher.” Sandwiched in the middle is one of my favorites “He Who Makes a Mouse of Himself Will Be Eaten by the Cats.”

It would seem that Lizzie had trouble enough with the deprivation of the Depression, making sense of her father’s desertion, and trying to hide the mental state her mother has slipped into. But newcomer Erin Sawyer piles on more trouble when she appears on the scene determined to better Lizzie in school, steal her best friend, finagle a way to send Lizzie to an orphanage, and expose the secret about her mother. The sayings in the beginning of each chapter with liberal sprinklings inside help Lizzie turn some “mighty sour lemons into lemonade.”

Closing the last page with reluctance, my thoughts ran . . . Every Day After, debut novel . . . Laura Golden, Southern writer who tells it true . . . maybe a sequel or a second book . . .

Salute to Veterans Day

I think it would be unseemly of me not to acknowledge this Veterans Day since I share my life with a 25-year retiree from Army service. I often hear the word “sacrifice” attached for what military men and women do, and in some ways it fits.

I expect the greatest sacrifice for this particular veteran and for many others are the absences from family at crucial times. In South Korea, Al missed the birth of a daughter and was even out in the field for the day, making him late getting the Red Cross message announcing her arrival. He missed family weddings, several firsts from his children, piano recitals, athletic events, holiday celebrations, and simple daily routines. He also missed three cases of chicken pox back to back, but I don’t think he was terribly cut up about that one.

His most notable sacrifice may have been the extra eleven days he and his fellow soldiers remained, just waiting in Vietnam, as they served to guarantee that the third and last group of POWs would be flown out of North Vietnam. At home, seven-year-old Murray and I stayed tuned to the newscasts, waiting to hear that the POWS were in the air. We knew when they were airlifted, Al and the remaining soldiers in South Vietnam would follow soon.

Along with the sacrifice came opportunities for him and for us as his family. Both he and the Army have a penchant for organization so they worked well together. The Army put that square peg in a square hole and gave him a meaningful career.

Many moves showed us our nation and the world. They taught us to adapt and make friends quickly. Within three years, either we or our neighbors would be moving. There was no time to lose. With almost everybody far from their families of origin, we became like family and were fast friends in more ways than one.

Our children, like other military brats, have trouble answering the question, “Where are you from?” Only one remembers living in the place where he was born. The flip side is that leaving for college or moving to a job in a different place was just one more in a long line of adjustments and caused them little or no trauma.

Truthfully, most of the service men and women and their families that I’ve know seldom think in terms of sacrifice. They cope with new orders, move where they are assigned and make it home, and look to balance strong families with adventures in new places. They live by the motto, “Home is where the Army (or other branch of service) sends us.” Maybe that attitude gives cause for even greater appreciation.

I think I’ll celebrate this Veterans Day in Thanksgiving month with gratitude for being part of one of those families and for the veteran who made it possible. I’ll give extra thanks for the many children populating my classrooms who belonged to that special tribe called “Military Brats” especially because they normally fit only the first half of that description.

Happy Tenth Birthday!

When we moved here twelve years ago, the nearest public library was in adjoining Forrest County in downtown Hattiesburg. Using it required a fifty dollar annual fee and a twenty minute trip one way through crazy college town traffic. Ten years ago, Lamar County opened a neighborhood branch, the Oak Grove Public Library, free to all and seven minutes of rural driving away.

Our branch would win few prizes for size, but it is unrivaled in friendliness and helpfulness. Whatever the staff members don’t have on the shelves, they borrow for you in a few days and give you a call or email when it comes in.

I could tell you stories of ways they have served, but I will stick to one. I was never more grateful for their proximity and support than in the days following Katrina. With a manuscript deadline of September 1 and the August 28 weather forecast showing the storm bearing down on us, I notified my editor that I might be a tad late. I needed one last proofread and expected to be without power for a few days. I was partly right. Our electricity was out by 11 AM on the 29th. Restoration came thirteen days and six hours later.

The library had electricity restored within the week. The staff reserved a table for me and my laptop. I enjoyed their space (and their air-conditioning) and emailed the manuscript from the library long before I had electricity at home. Although a hurricane is a fair excuse for a late manuscript, I hope this remains my only experience with both.

Evidently many people share my love of our library. The parking lot is well-filled every time I pass. The first full year (2004) the library had 28,830 patron visits; 4,208 reference requests; and 51,691 materials checked out. This year with two months left on the calendar, they have had 84,126 patron visits; 18,066 reference requests; and 104,722 materials checked out. You can add five more on my list to be checked out this morning.

Talk at the birthday party included the wisdom of the original planners to put the library on one edge of the lot, leaving room for the anticipated addition coming soon.

A very happy birthday to us – and many more!

A Tangle of Knots

Notified by my friend Augusta Scattergood that Hattiesburg, Mississippi is mentioned in the first sentence of A Tangle of Knots, it went on my must-read list.

If you’re the kind of reader who skips prologues, don’t. You’ll miss Hattiesburg since this is the only time it is mentioned. You’ll also miss clues to the tangle of mystery knots that snarl through the book. Pay close attention to things that seem unimportant. They are not. Pay particular attention to the quote, “Talent is only rewarding if you wield it well,” and to the fact that Talent is always capitalized. It almost becomes a character in this gnarled story.  

Mysteries (knots) abound. The Asher family includes Will who keeps disappearing, Zane on the verge of delinquency, Marigold who can’t find her Talent in spite of being dependable and normal, and Mrs. Asher hiding a secret in plain sight. Miss Mallory with a Talent for matching children to adoptive parents often matches them before they get settled into her home. V, with her lack of speech following a stroke, surely fits in somewhere. Constant tension and urgency plays between those with Talent and those who are Fair. Then Toby makes runs to the airport for luggage with contents to be sold by the Owner of the Emporium, with the Owner having a remarkable propensity for powder blue St. Anthony’s suitcases. The man in the gray suit with trails of knotted rope beneath his jacket keeps turning up, and Mrs. Asher’s hairpin (beige, cracked, knobby, as wide as a rib of celery, and as long as a pencil) takes turns being there and not there. And through it all, Cady, with her Talent for knowing the exact cake for each person, wins bake-offs and hopes that one day the special Adoption Day celebration will be hers.   

Cady’s cake recipes, sandwiched between chapters, are a bonus.

Lisa Graff wields her Talent well and comes up with quite the tangle of knots which seem to snarl more and more until she pulls the right one and lays out a beautiful rope that has been there from beginning to end. It’s a story well worth a read even if you are not privileged to live in Hattiesburg.

P. S. Shortly after I read the book and wrote this blog, A Tangle of Knots appeared on the long list for the National Book Award. I wasn’t the only one who liked it!

From Halloween to Christmas

Yesterday was Halloween, and I’m thinking Christmas – not typical of me. I normally relish the gratitude of Thanksgiving before delving into the merriment of Christmas but something special is afoot. The Friends of University Libraries, of which I am a member, along with several businesses and organizations in Hattiesburg and the Pine Belt have launched the third annual Give a Child a New Book project. Distribution will come through the Salvation Army’s Angel Tree program.

As we began planning for this year’s drive, I remembered something that happened in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. The Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators, of which I am also a member, chose me because of my Hattiesburg address to send 1,558 books to be dispersed to schools affected by the storm. With the help of my Delta Kappa Gamma sisters, we distributed them to appreciative librarians and children in twenty-five schools. One librarian was in a low income area school where people struggled to hang on even before the hurricane. She fought back grateful tears as she told us that children in her school thought they owned a “lot of books” if they had three or four.

I compared that image to the one of a new grandson who needed his wood-working grandpa to build bookcases before he was a year old. (Did I also mention that his first word was “book”?) It’s what I would wish for every child. I can’t quite do that, but I love the idea of a giving a child a book of his/her own for Christmas that doesn’t have to be returned anywhere, that can be read over and over.

If you are in the Pine Belt area, some of the drop-off places are Main Street Books and Click Boutique downtown, St. Thomas Catholic and University Baptist churches in mid-town, The First Bank and Enterprise Rent-a-Car in West Hattiesburg, and the School of Nursing or Cook Library on the University of Southern Mississippi campus. For more locations check www.facebook.com/GiveAChildANewBookDay on Facebook. “Like” the page to follow the news.

If you are stuck for a good book selection, think about a book you loved as a child, a book you loved to read to a child, a book that has won awards (Kids watch for books with a sticker on the front.), a book I’ve blogged about, or one you picked out at Main Street Books where you can efficiently purchase and drop off at the same place!

If you are not in the area, the idea is still good. Consider starting a group of your own or add a new children’s book into the mix of the way you were already planning to give back at Christmas. (You were planning to give back, weren’t you?)

In December, as you finish celebrating Christmas in your own home, take a minute to relax and picture the child who is reading the book you selected. I’m thinking it will add an extra merry to your Christmas.

The Death of Santini

Initially, it was the Wendell Minor book jacket that captured my attention in the offered advance reading copy of The Death of Santini (publication day – October 29). I’ve become fond of Wendell’s work in book jackets and children’s books and no longer ask “Wendell Who?” as I did in a previous blog entry. The author, Pat Conroy, has been on my “Authors  I Need to Try” list for quite some time so I jumped at the opportunity.

A quote from his previous novel, The Prince of Tides, sets a theme for this memoir, “In families there are no crimes beyond forgiveness.” Pat Conroy uses words skillfully to bring his family to life and to draw vivid pictures of his setting. While he otherwise has little good to say about his experience at The Citadel, he credits the beginnings of his life’s work to its extensive library, voracious reading, and English teachers who encouraged his writing. His readers thank them.

A person with a perpetually half-full cup (me) struggles to read a writer whose cup is half-empty (Pat Conroy). He admits he is comfortable with disaster and catastrophe and wary of triumph of any kind. For instance, the book blurb mentions the seven children who were “dragged from military base to military base” which is an accurate assessment of Pat Conroy’s view of his life. Many other military children, including mine, saw living in various states and countries as opportunities to see more of the world.

His account of his dysfunctional family gave me the feeling that I was eavesdropping on things that were none of my business. I had to remind myself that he wrote this to be read. I overcame my guilt and clicked my Kindle to the next page. Truthfully, I could not have pulled myself away. Death is a regular visitor and comes for other family members before it comes for Santini bringing with it many disrupted relationships. In times of these life crises as well as celebrations, his larger-than-life father makes an entrance with, “Stand by for a fighter pilot.” Pat Conroy’s ambivalence about the father who abused him as a child and became a companion in his adulthood comes to redemption in an uneasy peace and a sense of pride in his father before the death of “The Great Santini.”

In his jacket cover painting, Wendell Minor captures the poignancy of Santini’s death with an empty flight jacket across the back of an empty chair on an empty porch against a background of a bird making its way into the sunset.

I have moved Pat Conroy off my list of “Authors to Try” and added his titles to my endless “Books to Be Read” list. Since even his novels are based on his family, I’ll just deal with my eavesdropping guilt and my half-full cup.

Happiness is . . .

Happiness is . . . finding something in the mailbox other than junk mail, routine magazines, and rejection letters. I’d been waiting for this issue of Thema with its theme of “Eyeglasses Needed.” I confess to a little jubilee dance for the appearance of my memoir article about my father’s visual challenges that appears inside. As I headed to the house to check out editor Virginia Howard’s collection for this theme, I thought about the 3 Happinesses x 3 connected to it.

First Three Happinesses: My article, “Borrowed Eyes,” appeared first in Lifeglow published by Seventh Day Adventists for the visually impaired. In a coincidence, one of their marketers came by the Marshall (Texas) Public Library to ask the director (my daughter) about placing free copies of the magazine for its patrons to pick up. He was a bit chagrined when, along with her permission, she showed him the article her mother had written. The second appearance came in The Lutheran Digest, which also serves those with vision problems. In this third appearance in Thema, I expect most of the readers have minor vision difficulties that are easily solved with the eyeglasses of the theme.  

Second Three Happinesses: This makes my third appearance in this literary magazine. The first was “Katrina’s Aftermath,” a poem for the “When Things Get Back to Normal” issue in the Autumn 2008 twentieth anniversary year. The second came in the Summer 2011 issue with “A Change in Plans” for the “About Two Miles Down the Road” issue. This third one is for the 2013 Autumn issue of Thema’s twenty-fifth anniversary year.

Third Three Happinesses: I’ve been happy three times with the story. Days of good memories and quiet satisfaction came as I wrote and polished Daddy’s story. Validation and fulfillment have come in its publication. Ongoing pleasure will come as I read one-a-day of the other writers’ takes on the topic in this issue of Thema, saving them to relish like a daily piece of dark chocolate.

If my ‘rithmetic [about which I write “not much”] is correct, that makes me nine times happy. If your happiness comes from either of the three – writing, publishing, or reading – check out Thema at http://themaliterarysociety.com. A literary magazine that has been around for twenty-five years has to have something good going on.

This Is How I Find Her

By the fourth chapter of This Is How I Find Her, I turned back to the book’s description thinking I must have been mistaken that I was reading fiction. Sara Polsky’s young adult debut novel captures the emotions of her protagonist Sophie and the realities of dealing with a bipolar mother so realistically that I was convinced it was a memoir.

The reader discovers the meaning of the title in the first chapter as Sophie arrives home from school to find her mother with her legs dangling from the bed, her hair disheveled, and her breathing so shallow Sophie has to lean down with her ear to her mother’s mouth to hear it. Spotting the glass of water and the half-empty pill bottle, she calls 911.

An intriguing back-story gradually unfolds with Sophie, her cousin Leila, longtime friend James, and her mother that ultimately explains the estrangement between her mom and her mom’s sister Aunt Cynthia. Caught in a situation where she must ask for help, Sophie turns to the only family she knows even though they have distanced themselves from her for five years. The main story brings her adjustment to the limitations of what she can do without help even though for some time she has taken care of herself and her mother with some degree of competence. Conflicting emotions of responsibility for her mother’s care, the need for a life free of those worries, and the insecurity about the real feelings of her relatives toward her and her mother keep Sophie searching for answers. Mingled with that story is another about those who are important in her life – James, Leila, her aunt and uncle, and her mother. Without a pat conclusion, Sara Polsky brings the book to a satisfying, realistic, and hopeful end.

Shortly after I read this book, I saw a discussion questioning how we can teach empathy to children and young people or even adults in today’s world where meanness and bullying are sometimes not only tolerated but esteemed. I think the power of compelling story like this is at least part of the answer. This is a good read for anyone, but particularly for those seeking understanding of the complex lives of those who are bipolar and those who care for a loved one whose life ranges from ecstatic creativity to suicidal depression.

Accidentally Amusing

Neither the newsman nor the company CEO that provided the story he was telling intended to be funny. Foreseeing what could happen to his employees if the government shutdown continued, the CEO suggested they begin to look for alternative ways to gain an income. Included in the list were working at fast food places and doing creative writing. I’m guessing that writer types who were  listening at dinner lost their food or drink in their chortles.

The CEO and the newsman didn’t intend any humor here – really. They just didn’t take into account the stories of “instant successes” that were long years in the making.

Having just returned from a Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators conference in Birmingham, AL, I could have given them some fresh information. Every agent and editor warned participants that from acceptance of a manuscript to publication would take at least a year and a half and sometimes much longer if a picture book awaited a turn in a noted illustrator’s queue, hardly helpful if you need food on the table or a roof over your head. Rush jobs on timely topics are exceptions.

Let’s assume a few things:
•    The writer can actually write something other people want to read
•    The writer keeps himself/herself in the chair long enough to finish
•    The writer finds an agent or editor who believes in the work
•    The editor can convince the editorial team that the work will be good for their publishing house
•    The team can convince the marketing department that the book will sell
•    The marketing department can convince book stores, with a special emphasis on Barnes and Noble, that the book belongs on their shelves
•    The book store turns the book with the cover out on the shelf so it is noticeable
•    A reader sees the book, buys it, loves it, and starts a viral reaction by telling his/her friends who tell their friends, who . . .
•    The book wins a prestigious award or two
•    The writer is invited to give presentations and make school visits, for which he/she is paid handsomely
Then, just maybe, the writer can pay the mortgage and put the food on the table.

That two years suggested by the agents and editors is the short part of the project. By the time the writer makes enough money to cover the food and rent, the government will either have decided to kiss and make up or will have gone belly-up altogether. Proof came from an agent speaking at the event who said Sue Grafton’s books only took off at G. Writers write because they must and fervently hope for the day when readers will also love their words.

I had a good laugh, but when I’m desperate for food on the table, I think I’ll check and see if Wendy’s is hiring.

City of Orphans

I already knew Avi could spin a good yarn before I won a signed copy of City of Orphans in a drawing from the Children’s Literature Network.

Avi tells the reader on the first page that he has a story that uses words like “luck,” “chance,” “coincidence,” “accident,” “quick,” “miracle,” and a lot of words he guesses he doesn’t even know.

Maks, his hero “newsie” (newsboy), anchors this story set in New York City in 1893. Quirky characters populate the mystery of who stole the gold watch. Emma’s family knows it wasn’t her, that she was falsely accused before they put her in prison.

With help from his apparently orphaned friend Willa, whom he found homeless in an alley, and coached by the peculiar Bartleby Donck, Maks becomes the boy detective to clear her name. The hardscrabble setting of immigrant families weaves into the story like another character. The community is beset by the prevalence of tuberculosis before the days of modern medicine. They know it as the “wasting sickness.”

I would have a hard time choosing the best part of this book – the setting, the characters, the plot twists, or Avi’s voice. Avi makes the reader feel clever figuring out where the plot twists are going before the characters in the story see it coming.

As the book nears the end, Avi returns to his words at the beginning. “So there’s the story. Too many coincidences? Or just miracles? You decide.”

I decided. Not too many. Just right. In another coincidence, I read the book on the way to Arizona to celebrate grandson Jack’s birthday. I’d already bought his present, but this was too good not to share. He didn’t object to getting  a signed book as a bonus!

Gadabout Grandparents

Retirement is not what it used to be. I remember doing minimal checking with their grandparents for a convenient time to bring my children for a visit when we lived several states away. Rarely did they have something that might interfere. Times have changed. Retirees may work second jobs that fill a longtime hankering or volunteer at something that satisfies a passion. Others start something wholly new that takes on a life of its own.

Take my friend Martha Ginn, for example. In her first life, she successfully worked in the business world, raised a fine son and daughter, and shared a good life with her husband Roy. On something of a whim after she retired, she began to do fine needlework and quilting. She made some standard quilts in beautiful patterns before she began to branch out.  In a synopsis, as one thing led to another, the quilts became ever more intricate and ever more revealing of the hidden artist who created them. My personal favorite is one she made with squares that she designed to show the things that are important in her life. From quilts, Martha progressed to fiber art designs of all sizes and shapes worthy of hanging and of the many ribbons they have won in exhibits. When I visited her, Roy made sure I didn’t miss seeing every piece of her work, including whatever was in progress.

Naturally she saw a need for an organization of quilters who shared ideas and techniques, so Martha became a ringleader first in the Pine Belt Quilters of South Mississippi and then in the Mississippi Quilt Association. Her work turned up in quilting books and magazines along with articles she wrote to explain her techniques.

This year she may have received the biggest honor yet as an American quilt exhibit traveled to China. Martha was thrilled when a picture of her quilt was selected for the cover of the brochure, but that was not all. She was chosen to represent the quilters and present programs on American quilting to several civic and educational groups in China. Lest you think all this might have gone to her head, she still does quilted post cards to send to friends, depicting things that are meaningful in her relationship with them. I’m proud of my collection.

Robert Browning was onto something as he thought past youth, “the best is yet to be.” Another good life awaits after retirement. People paint, tutor, golf, do woodwork, or bake. Some of us play with words. Few sit idly in rocking chairs. Today’s grandchildren are still cherished, but they may have to fit themselves into the busy schedule of grandparents on the move.

If you are interested in more about Martha and pictures of her work, check out her website at www.marthaginn.com.