Breakfast Served Anytime

I do like good beginnings. Sarah Combs starts Breakfast Served Anytime with “The butterflies started showing up the night before I left for Geek Camp.” She had me with the butterflies and the geeks and kept me as I followed them through the book.

Gloria, her protagonist, heads to a summer program for gifted and talented students in their rising senior summer to give them a taste of college life. Successful completion promises the carrot of a full scholarship to Kentucky’s flagship university. Practice in making critical decisions begins immediately as Gloria must decide on a major for the camp. She passes over the most obvious choices for herself in forensic science or theater arts and opts for the intriguing “Secrets of the Written Word.”

Other decisions and relationships must be sorted out as she moves toward dependence on herself rather than the adults in her life. I was struck with how much things have changed and how much they have stayed the same in this age that abuts adulthood. I read remembering when I was that age and thinking about two granddaughters who will be in this stage of life within the next two months. The things they must cope with are both different and the same as I remember.

In no particular order, these are my lists.

Changed:
•    Language, both in acceptable profanity and in shortcut jargon
•    Various family structures rather than the norm of two parents, one and one-half siblings, and a dog
•    Opportunities like this Geek Camp
•    Uneasiness at leaving all electronic gadgets behind

Unchanged:
•    Anxiety about what goals and majors one needs to pursue in life
•    The dilemma about whether to accept a scholarship offer or hold out, hoping for a more appropriate one from a school that is a better fit
•    Relationships – which to trust, which to value, which to hold onto at all costs

Sarah Combs captures well the joys and sorrows of coming-of-age. It’s a good read for young adults and for those who want to understand their present day lives in this changing world.

Record-Breaking Morning Glory!

Had I been born at the time, I could have told Papaw it was a bad idea to accept his new son-in-law’s offer to help him and his sons hoe the cotton. There were a couple of things wrong with this idea. The first was that Daddy was a city boy, raised in the home above his father’s barber shop in downtown West Point, Mississippi (county seat of Clay County, population 10,000 or so). His knowledge of weeding was limited. Secondly, Daddy’s eyesight, that had him in glasses when he was but a wee lad, made distinguishing one plant from another problematic.

But Daddy’s heart was in the right place, and Papaw needed all the help he could get. A long morning of chopping cotton made all the men ready for the dinner spread at noon, the main meal of the day. Ever the storyteller, Daddy couldn’t wait to tell about the huge morning glories he had chopped down that morning. An unaccustomed silence followed as the sons looked at Papaw.

Papaw said, “Berton, those were not morning glories. Those were new plants I just bought. They were recommended by the Mississippi State Extension Service for my dairy cows to graze and to curb erosion.”

By the time I was old enough to hear the story repeated in the family lore, everybody knew that Daddy had almost done Papaw a favor. Papaw had joined many other forward-looking dairy farmers in the South to establish the vine that would provide economical feed for their cows and control the gully-washing that took place in hard rains. At that time, nobody guessed that neither Daddy nor the dairy cows could manage the invasion of kudzu, often called “the vine that ate the South.”  

Daddy’s hoe was a small hiccup in the life of the huge morning glory (aka kudzu). It performed as advertised before it began to run on and on like The Gingerbread Man singing, “I’ll spread my vines both left and right, growing a foot each day and night.”

A Gypsy Dreaming in Jerusalem

Wait, wait, don’t hang up. This is not a commercial. Well, not exactly. It’s complicated.

Let me start at the beginning. About two years ago, my friend Allen Williams approached me with a question. “Amoun Sleem wants to write her autobiography. Do you know a writer who would help her shape it into a book?” I knew enough about this unusual Gypsy woman from previous conversations with Allen to know that her story was worth telling. (Gypsy is her preferred term although her people are also called the Dom in the Middle East. She thinks it brings a visual image of her colorful creative people.)

I answered the question I knew he was really asking, “Yes, I will help her.” English, just one of several languages Amoun speaks fluently, challenges her when it comes to putting it on paper.

We began our process with Allen sending me everything that had been written by or about her. An accurate general account emerged of a little Gypsy girl selling post cards at the Lion’s Gate who grew up to overcome discrimination, get an education, and establish the Domari Center in Jerusalem. I saw an unusual story immediately, since Amoun comes from a culture where those who complete an education are “scarce as hen’s teeth” if I may throw a Southern saying into this Gypsy narrative.  

We also established a Facebook friendship between Amoun and me. I began firing questions to her and enjoying her answers. Last spring, she came to the United States. For two days of her visit, Allen, Amoun, and I sat at my dining room table as she told more stories and filled in details. Allen, who has known her for many years, would say, “Tell the story about . . .” when she began to wind down. I wore down a few pencils as I filled my legal pads. I told about this visit in my previous blog “Driving Amoun Crazy.”

Although I am listed as “editor,” my part in this task brought to mind my father’s explanation of an amanuensis who was something more than a secretary who took dictation and put into words someone else’s story. The challenge for me was how to retain her voice as I organized and polished her delightful tales into an interesting and logical order. When I finished, I took it to my husband (and favorite first reader) for review. He brought it back into my office when he finished and said, “This sounds like Amoun.” He didn’t stay long enough to see my happy dance!

A Gypsy Dreaming in Jerusalem has just been released and is available from Nurturing Faith, Amazon, and other book stores. Amoun’s stories bring laughter, tears, and sometimes outrage at the injustice she has experienced. So maybe this is a commercial for the book. My work was a gift. Proceeds from book sales will support Amoun’s work in the Domari Center where she seeks to preserve the Gypsy culture and to help Gypsy adults and children create and fulfill their own good dreams.

I can’t say I have gained nothing from this process. Amoun and I bonded during our work together. The value of the deep friendship I formed with this accomplished effervescent Gypsy woman?  – Beyond all measure!

Tree Hugger?

Since this is National Arbor Day, it seemed a good time to think of trees worth hugging. I’ve known several in my lifetime. I’ll start with a couple from my childhood.

One was a spreading apple tree in the back yard. It bore forgettable apples suited only for Mama’s applesauce – but oh those branches! They spread four ways with enough shade for a four room playhouse. Other days, the trunk made a backrest for comfort as I lost myself once again in Little Women.

The second was a chinaberry tree with lovely delicate flowers in the spring that presaged squishy chinaberries they turned hard later in the fall. They created variations on a theme of “Ways to Annoy a Sister” depending on whether they were grossly soft or pea-shooter hard. Fun, either way.

Fort Sam Houston in my children’s childhood had oak trees that created an arch as they lined both sides of the street in front of our house and a bonus towering oak out back that shaded the swing set and a picnic table. Altogether they formed the setting for a junior high son who woke up one morning to find he had been honored by his peers with a massive T. P. array. It was his honor – he got to clean up. How sad to find they had all been cut down when we returned for a visit a couple of years ago.

My arms won’t reach all the way around one of my favorites. I love this tall backyard oak shimmering in spring breezes, cooling the summer heat, and bared for winter with squirrels using it for a playground. I especially like it for proving the naysayers wrong. Several times shortly after we moved in almost fourteen years ago, authoritarian people pronounced it on its last legs because of a trunk defect and said we should have it removed. Trees dropped or broke off all around it during Hurricane Katrina in 2005. You can see from the picture that it is in its glory as winter finally turned to spring.  

The woods out back formed a major part of my share of the decision to buy our present home. But this tree-hugger can be tempted. The Arbor Day Foundation [https://www.arborday.org] made an offer of ten trees for $10. What did I have to lose? The ten trees turned out to be ten sticks, supposedly color coded to identify them. I spent a good part of a morning deciding. Is that white or yellow? Is that blue or green? Is that – well, let’s just say the Arbor Day Foundation is a little color challenged. I got them all in the ground and fully expected nothing at all to happen.

My pictures prove otherwise. All but two of the sticks thrived and grew, an excellent percentage for me. Two of my favorites are in the pictures. I am really fond of the redbud with good hugging properties. I admire the hawthorn from a distance – too many thorns.

The Frangipani Hotel

You might love it. You might not. In trying to tame this book review of The Frangipani Hotel by Violet Kupersmith, I have finally come to the conclusion that all I can say is that not every book is for every person, even if it is well written. It makes me think of a piece of advice given by editors to writers. They say when they ask a writer who their proposed book is written for, the answer is never, “For everybody.”

For some reason, I had not read short story collections for a while. When I saw this one available in the offered advanced reading selections, I thought I would enjoy a return to that early love. Additionally, it was appealing because the stories were based in Vietnam where my husband had a year’s tour of duty with the Army.

The difficult-to-describe stories are rooted in the culture and folklore of Vietnam either there or among people of Vietnamese descent in the United States. Emotions range from playful to disturbing, from light-hearted to somber, from insignificant to imperative. The characters inhabit this world and other worlds and shift from reality to the uncanny. The spirits seem as real as the people.

I found myself caught up in each story in turn, trying to anticipate its ending. I never did. When I finished, I could picture people who would enjoy the book and just as easily picture those who might not – even though the book is well written. This is what I have figured out. The book is for those who love a good short story that is a mix of O Henry’s final twisted endings with a heavy touch of The Twilight Zone, all set in Vietnam.

I feel sure we will hear from this debut author again.

2014 Ezra Jack Keats Awards

Writer Award WinnersHoping you have some very small people in your life who want stories read over and over, I offer suggestions from the recent Ezra Jack Keats Awards for New Writers and Illustrators that will delight the child and will not drive the adult nuts in the 457th reading. To win the award, writers and illustrators must not have not more than three previous published books. If past experience is any sign, this will get you in on the beginning of a promising career for these new writers and illustrators. To help your selection, I’m giving my own brief take on the winners and honor books.

New Writer Awards

•    Tea Party Rules is the New Writer Award winner for Amy Dyckman and New Illustrator Honor Award for K. G. Campbell. A bear cub crashes a tea party and poses as a teddy bear because he wants cookies. He even endures the girl’s endless list of rules – for a while. Opportunities for shared giggles abound.
•    Sophie’s Squash, Writer Honor Book by Pat Zietlow Miller, follows the imaginative Sophie who turns the squash she chooses at the farmer’s market into a delightful companion. Those who have made room at the table for a figment of a child’s imagination will understand and relate. An extra in the book is the ending opportunity for a bit of an enjoyable science lesson.
•    I Love You, Nose, Writer Honor Book written and illustrated by Linda Davick, is perfect for the very youngest who are learning the names of their body parts. Laced with humor and featuring children of all races, the book joyfully celebrates the wonder of being and begs for participation by the small listener.

New Illustrator Awards

•    Rain!, written by Linda Ashman, is the New Illustrator Award winner for Christian Robinson. In a nod to perspective, the book contrasts the difference in the reaction to the rain of a small boy and an old man. Christian’s bright colors and comical facial expressions will entertain both the child and the adult reader.
•    Take Me Out to the Yakyu, Illustrator Honor Book both written and illustrated by Aaroon Meshon, takes a young boy in side by side progression out to the ball game with his American and Japanese grandfathers. Baseball and other fun words in both English and Japanese and baseball information for both countries add a bonus in the back matter.
•    My Grandpa, Illustrator Honor Book written and illustrated by Marta Altes, uses Grandpa Bear and Little Bear to explore the relationship between old and young, including the small bear's adjustment to his grandpa’s losses in the aging process.

In the best of all worlds, you have some little people in your life who would love it if you bought a few of these books to read to them. In the second best option, maybe there’s a day care, preschool, or church library that would welcome your gift of a few books for their children.

Across a War-Tossed Sea

Wrap a cherry in dark chocolate and you’ve improved both the cherry and the dark chocolate. Weave accurate history into a good story and you’ve improved both the history and the story.

L. M. Elliott in Across a War-Tossed Sea does just that in her middle grade novel that begins on Labor Day 1943 just east of Richmond, Virginia. Charles and Wesley Bishop, two of the lucky group of children able to flee the German bombings in London, come to America to live with the Ratcliff family. Charles, as the oldest, bears the burden of being father, mother, and big brother to Wesley as well as rising to the challenge given by British officials as they leave to "be good little ambassadors for England.”

Wesley struggles with hallucinations and nightmares recalling the Nazi submarine bombings of the ships in their convoy at night. In daylight, he waffles between wanting Charles’s protection and his independence as he strategizes how to deal with bullies.

The boys are drawn into community activities – salvaging items to use in the war effort, playing football games, collecting milkweed pods to stuff life preservers, and creating the Halloween haunted house.

Their English background causes problems as Wesley learns capitals of states that have little meaning to him, loses out on the spelling bee when he uses the English spelling of n-e-i-g-h-b-o-u-r instead of the American n-e-i-g-h-b-o-r, and sometimes has his intent brought into question because of the difference in British and American meanings for words.

Interwoven with their personal stories are difficulties around them. There are war related challenges to daily life. Prejudices between those who share a language but not a nationality, toward native Americans who were here first, and especially against the Negros living in the segregated community accurately influence the characters in the story.

A good story with history that rings true makes this quite right for a historical fiction fan like me. I think I'll celebrate with a chocolate covered cherry.

Noah and Junior High

“Everybody get out a pencil and piece of paper and write a poem about peace.” Mrs. Fried gave the command to a junior high class back in the eighties. Darron Aronofsky, director of the movie Noah, described her as a “magical teacher” on CBS This Morning on March 29, 2014. I rewound the interview several times to be sure I heard and recorded it right.

Darron dutifully wrote his poem about Noah, though I have no idea how he connected it with peace. He entered and won a contest with the poem and from that point saw himself as a writer. Thirty-two years later, he became the director of the movie.  Thinking that he needed to honor the teacher who put him on this track, he looked her up and cast her in a scene with Russell Crowe. This was a story to warm a retired junior high teacher’s heart until her picture came up. He cast her as a one-eyed crone! She gets maybe thirty seconds of time in the movie.

I think I did better with the junior high student who wrote me a recommendation to send to the selection committee when I was nominated for Teacher of the Year. He did characterize me as a “sorceress” and said I taught him to “soak my writings as well as my decisions in a deep cauldron of thought to rid them of mistakes.” His accompanying portrait was a good likeness, embellished with a sorceress ruff and a wand.

With this connection, I had to see the movie. It was a creative telling of the story with a passing nod at the Noah of the Bible and none at all to the Sunday school version where the animals line up gently two by two to march into the ark. Truth to tell, you’ll get closer to that in Shel Silverstein’s poem “The Unicorn.” The Lord in his quest for two of everything said, “Noah, don’t you forget my Unicorn,” but the unicorns kept playing silly games out in the driving rain until Noah had to close the door because “We just can’t wait for them Unicorn.” The poet’s conclusion was, “You’ll see catsandratsandelephants, but sure as you’re born, you’re never gonna see no Unicorn.”

Mrs. Fried lived up to the standard for junior high teachers everywhere and portrayed the stereotype of an old crone, as they are often seen by students – at least until they’re mature enough to appreciate what they’re learning. I’m sure Mrs. Fried is proud of the success of her student as I am. You may wonder what happened to him. He’s making a name for himself in the field of graphic arts. My story – and I’m sticking to it – is that he got his start when he drew pictures in his corner desk during class discussions and impartations of great wisdom from his teacher.

New Life, No Instructions

Trust me, this book is not what you think from looking at the title. When I saw New Life, No Instructions: A Memoir in the list of possible choices of advance reading memoirs, I assumed it would be a new mother saga. While I have had that experience and thought I could relate, there are many ways of finding new life. This one has nothing to do with children, but it addresses the often overlooked truth that improvement in one’s life carries adjustments that may not be easy.

Gail Caldwell hardly had been introduced to life when polio struck her at six months old and left its mark even as she recovered from the disease. Her mother’s determination egged her on to do “just a few more” exercises until she learned to walk after her second birthday. That determination could not make her an athlete. Gail accommodated and made a life with the residual limp an accepted part of her existence. She substituted things she could do – hunting and fishing with her father, swimming, reading.

Gail’s life contained many of the things common to other people – loss by death of a close friend, her parents, and a beloved dog; struggles with alcohol; relationships that soured. Her lifetime of living with the aftereffects of polio that left one leg shorter than the other seemed almost normal to her. She was so young when she had polio that she did not remember a difference. When she developed intense pain well into adulthood, both she and the doctors mistakenly assumed it to be adult outcome of the same disease. There would be several doctors and much time before a more accurate diagnosis came.

Finding the doctor who finally diagnosed correctly that she needed hip replacement coincided with her acquisition of a new Samoyed puppy. The dog and surgery, which also lengthens her leg, bring new adjustments even though both are positive changes in her life. The added 5/8 inch in her right leg didn’t sound like much difference to me. She said the number didn’t sound that different to her either. However, her perceptions of height in her friends and even her animals changed, and it took a while for her to walk comfortably with what would seem like a “normal” leg to the reader.

With a couple of friends who deal with adult leftovers from polio as a child, I related to her well-told story. She weaves together the story of the dog who brings emotional therapy with the physical healing as her hip is replaced and her leg lengthened. I recommend the book to those who are close to someone whose life was touched long ago or who struggles today with the enduring or recurring effects of polio or to those who love a story of someone who can cut the good parts out of a life filled with wormy apples to make applesauce.

Awards Season

You might think that awards season is over. We’ve had the Emmys, Oscars, and Golden Globes. In these awards, who won the fashion show on the red carpet seemed almost as important as the award itself. I was quite pleased that I had actually seen a couple of the movies in the running this year. My non-involved attendance was via TV.

A much louder award presentation came at the American Library Association with the list of their awards, climaxed by the Caldecott and Newbery Awards. I felt more involved, thanks to modern technology, as ALA made it possible to tune in the live action by computer and hear the announcements as they were made. Let me tell you, librarians can rival basketball fans at the Final Four in their noise for favorite winners. I cheered along at home for books and writers I knew. I had read or will read many of these, and several have appeared in my blogs.

The awards are not over yet! Next week, during the Faye B. Kaigler Children’s Book Festival, the Ezra Jack Keats Awards for New Writers and New Illustrators will be presented. These awards may not be as famous as some of the others, but they have highlighted writers and illustrators at the beginning of their careers when recognition might otherwise be scarce. Writers and illustrators like Deborah Wiles, Faith Ringgold, Bryan Collier, Meg Medina, Don Tate, and Jennifer Lanthier have gone on to win many other awards that are perhaps better known to the public. Those awards include Caldecott, Newbery, Coretta Scott King, Pura Belpre, and many state and humanitarian recognitions. Check out the entire list at http://ezra-jack-keats.org.ejk-new-writer-and-new-illustrator-awards.

The Keats Award winners will be recognized next week at the Thursday luncheon of the Fay B. Kaigler Children’s Book Festival at the University of Southern Mississippi. If past experience is an indicator, the recipients will have attendees laughing and crying in their acceptance speeches at this honor early in their literary journey. Those of us who have followed where honorees have traveled after winning this award will be taking notes as we get in on the ground floor of who to watch for in coming years as wea few of my favorite Keats Award Winners from my collection buy children’s books.

I’m moving closer to the award presentations all the time This time I’m aiming for the front row! Since this is poetry month, I’ll borrow from Robert Frost and say, “You come, too.” All you need to know about attending is at https://www.usm.edu/childrens-book-festival.

The Mark of the Dragonfly

For the scrapper child Piper and for the reader, questions abound in The Mark of the Dragonfly by Jaleigh Johnson.
•    Does Piper dare stay out during the meteor storm in order to beat the other scrappers to the best finds to sell?
•    Why are two horse-drawn wagons breaking the rules by being out during the meteor shower?
•    Will her friend Micah survive after being hit by flying debris from the storm-tossed caravan?
•    Who is Anna and why was she traveling on the caravan?
•    Why does Anna have the mark of the green dragonfly indicating protection by Aron, king of the dragonfly territories?
•    If Piper helps Anna, will this bring her a huge reward or will it help the enemy who caused her father’s death?
•    Why can’t Anna remember her past and who she is?
•    Why does the sarnun Reanoll give Piper the prediction, “You should know if you abandon her, she will certainly die.”
•    What does mysterious sarnun mean when she says “I sense the reward you will receive for helping the child get to Noveen will be greater than anything you can imagine”? And what is the danger for Piper and Anna if she follows through as Reanoll adds, “It will also be so horrifying to you. Neither of you will be able to stand it”?
•    Who should Piper trust? – Gee, the green-eyed boy guarding the entrance to Train 401; Trimble, the fireman; its conductor Jeyne; the sarnun Reanoll, or the man who claims to be Anna’s father.

Getting me involved in reading fantasy is a challenge. My preference is historical fiction, biography, or realistic contemporary fiction. Yet I found myself reading “just one more chapter” more than once before I could bring myself to turn out the bedside lamp, recalling the 9-12 year old girl in me that has never quite gone away.

As for the questions, they were all answered to my satisfaction except the one about Micah. It seemed a loose green thread left hanging. Perhaps Ms. Johnson is coming back with a sequel to take care of him.

Fifty and Counting

Fifty years ago last Thanksgiving, my sister Beth brought Don Jones home to meet the family. Was he in for a shock! An only child of an only child, he was thrust into the mayhem of the four McGee girls, their parents, and the first brother-in-law. We waited a while to mention Mama’s five brothers’ and sisters’ families.

His stunned silence on that trip wouldn’t last, but we wondered if he’d be scared off. Beth must have been worth overlooking the three rather disheveled sisters who showed up at the breakfast table the next morning. She, alone, had pulled herself together in his honor.

Don made up his own role in the family. Children began to join it shortly after he did, and he said uncles were for making sure they had a good time. Soon, they checked ahead to be sure “Crazy Uncle Don” would be at the family gatherings. He was the one who found E. T. playing at the movie and hauled them all off to see it. Mama wasn’t always thrilled with his entertainment. One year he enriched the fireworks vendor’s pockets and produced a dazzling Fourth of July display. Mama was sure he was going to burn the house down. It still stands.

The Jones’s house, wherever it has been as they moved more often with the phone company than we did with the Army, has been a family stopover. They were handy in nearby New Jersey when our car was held up in the New York port over the weekend on our return from Belgium. Our oldest two children, exactly one year apart in age, used it as a get acquainted time. Later, we descended with all three of our children on our way from one place to another. Their home maintains a welcome if any of the family needs to pass through or be in Birmingham.

Don’s engineering skills have made him a welcome guest to sisters-in-law with non-working refrigerators and such. My own relationship with him involved his picking a stance on a controversial topic, which he might or might not actually believe, just to start a discussion - or argument if you want to be precise. Taking his bait, I disagreed vehemently with him until he got me to the point that I said, “I don’t know,” which had been his goal in the beginning.

Those days are gone, along with the children who have become adults with kids of their own, scattered about the country. His role has switched a bit. In retirement, he and Beth have followed his dream of traveling in their RV. When they near one of the nieces or nephews, they make arrangements to take their family out to dinner, seeing to it that yet another generation of kids has a good time. The Arizona branch of the family has become a little cautious about this. It seems every time they choose a favorite restaurant for this excursion, the place closes shortly after they eat there.

On this their Golden Wedding Anniversary, we wish them happiness and many more years together. We are grateful to Beth for finding him and to Don for figuring out his place in a big family. He can laugh first at the inside family joke, but then I’d like him to take it as the truth when I say, “It has been a blessing.”

Cathedral of the Wild

I’m not quite sure why I chose Cathedral of the Wild: An African Journey Home by Boyd Varty from the books in the advance reading copy offerings. I love to travel but have never had much interest in safari trips. Whatever lured me to it, I am profoundly grateful.

Classified as memoir, this book is that and more. In the author’s note, Boyd Varty fittingly calls it his campfire story. The family story is set in the Londolozi Game Reserve, their home in South Africa.

In 1926, his great-grandfather and an associate established the camp as a paradise for lion hunting. His father and his Uncle John moved it into a larger plan of conservation and restoration of the land to the native animals who had once roamed its territory.

The primary part of the book tells a fascinating story of family life among the wild animals for Boyd, his parents, his Uncle John, and his sister Bronwyn. This far out from the city, they live and work among the South Africans with no sense of the apartheid that happens in the more urban areas. Instead of hunting, they run safari tours. With a sense of pride, Boyd points out that in the four generations, he is the first not to hunt a lion. Besides the living it affords them, they are able to introduce newcomers to the wild and the importance of conservation.  

A sense of humor riddles its way through the book:
•    We have a name for days like this. Tuesday.
•    Thanks to him (Uncle John), we now know that small aircraft can’t fly with fridges strapped to the wings.
•    “Luxury safari” meant guests didn’t have to bring their own food . . . A “walking safari” meant the Land Rover was broken and you got around on foot . . .”

In a coincidence, I had just read the chapter including their relationship with Nelson Mandella, whom they called by his tribal name of Madiba, when word came on the news that Mandela had died. Boyd Varty’s description of him as a humble man with a cheerful demeanor parallels the news accounts. The reserve was a place for Mandella to come and relax away from the demands of public life. Boyd was seven when the visits began and had no idea of the man’s importance.

Only as the book progresses toward the end does the political situation threaten them as they become involved in lawsuits that affect their ability to continue the conservation and introduction of people to their beloved wildlife. Coupled with grief after a couple of deaths, the family members find themselves coping with reclaiming their way back from a dark place into healing.

The safari and animals became much of the attraction of the book along with an honest picture of the lifestyle and family that ran it. I will be interested to follow and see whether they achieve the goal that ends the book of reestablishing the elephant corridor from Kruger to the high rainfall areas on the mountains. It would complete the circle back to the great-grandfather who first loved this land and its wild population.

After

Monday’s blog was before. This is after. I don’t want to leave my readers hanging, as in “I’m anticipating that her spoken words will be a beautiful as her written ones.” The short answer is they were.  

The cacophony of the crowded ballroom in the Thad Cochran Center at the University of Southern Mississippi came to a hushed silence as tiny Jesmyn Ward entered in her red dress, as though the audience knew something special was afoot. Gone were the greetings of old friends and introductions of new that had filled the previous half hour as people of many ages and ethnicities gathered to hear this young Mississippi woman, one of their own, who had won the National Book Award for Salvage the Bones. We are nothing if not proud when one of ours “makes good.”

The silence remained as she held the audience spellbound with a speech prepared for them and readings from Men We Reaped. She talked of her conscious decision to love reading and how it had changed her life. Questions in the Q and A afterwards reflected intense listening on the part of her audience. Her thoughtful answers indicated a need to take her questioners seriously and to satisfy their wonder.

A couple of her answers have remained in my mind after it was all over. She was asked if and how librarians had touched her. She began with an answer that she never had a good one in elementary school which took her questioner aback, but then she continued. There was a middle school librarian who noticed that she spent all her free time in the library, alone, reading anything she could get her hands on. The librarian, with her own money, bought a set of the classics and presented them to her as her very own. She spread her arms wide to show how many books there were in the set.   Jesmyn with my friend Rosemary Woullard who introduced her

The other answer that has stayed with me, and I hope will always stay, was to a questioner who wondered how her family had taken the honesty in her books. She hesitated before answering. She admitted that her mother was not pleased with her telling things like her brother’s selling crack at fourteen and thought she was needlessly putting her family up for scrutiny. She said it was hard for her as she wrote these things, but over and over, she came to the conclusion that she had a contract with her readers. Her contract was to tell the truth wherever it took her. She added that she hoped her contract and her truth would help call attention to problems around us and help us be aware of ways we can make our world a better one.

My own takeaway –
•    gratitude for an English teacher who doubled as my librarian during study hall and handed me classics to read
•    a commitment, that I hope is like hers, to keep my readers in mind as I write and never forget my contract with them

Men We Reaped

Jesmyn Ward takes the title for her book, Men We Reaped, from a Harriet Tubman quote, “We saw the lightning and that was the guns; and then we heard the thunder and that was the big guns; and then we heard the rain falling, and that was the blood falling; and when we came to get the crops, it was dead men that we reaped.”

This hard-to-read memoir, beautifully written, intersperses her own story with the violent deaths of five young men important in her life. The first to die, but the last in her narrative, is her brother Joshua. Early in the book, she foreshadows what is to come even in games with her brother, “Our play taught us that violence could be sudden, unpredictable, and severe, soon.” Her matriarchal society had few male role models for the boys. In a world fraught with violence, there was an oddity if one found a child who lived with both parents.

From an early age, Jesmyn found escape in words. Books introduced her to girls strong enough to slay dragons and build secret gardens. She developed a game with her brother and cousin modeled after The Bridge to Terebithia. Naturally, she was the leader. Her education came as a scholarship student in an Episcopalian private school, provided by the wealthy families where her mother worked as a maid. The benefit of a quality education was tempered by the cultural gulf caused by her economic status and her being the only Black girl in her classes for much of the time.

Given the opportunity, she left Mississippi behind. Yet the pull of family and home remained with her as new horizons opened. That life informs both Men We Reaped and Salvage the Bones, her novel that won the 2011National Book Award.

I found her writing heart-wrenching, but beautiful. Those in our area would do well to come hear her speak at the Thad Cochran Center on the USM campus at 6:30 on Tuesday night March 18, 2014. A reception and book-signing will follow. I take a bit of pride in being a member of the board of the Friends of University Libraries, one of the sponsors, which began the initiative for this free event open to the public. I’m anticipating that her spoken words will be as beautiful as her written ones.

Is It On the Test?

Flat Mary Hannah returns to Ingomar School in North Mississippi today after a week’s visit. My great-niece, the real Mary Hannah, is the daughter of my niece Jennifer and granddaughter of my sister Gwyn. Flat Mary Hannah and I have kept a journal each day showing the weather, the location, and our activities.  

The instructions from Mary Hannah’s teacher requested recipes, pictures, mementos, etc to complement the learning. Their goal was to learn about different communities and their traditions, celebrations, climate, animals, food, clothing, cultures, etc.

One might ask the all-important question about this activity, “Is this going to be on The Test?” – a question I detested from my students and hate even more now when it comes from the powers that be who claim to be all-knowing about education. My students sat in stunned silence as I answered their question with a rant about the value of learning being far more important than whether or not I would make a test question from the wonderful information I was imparting. When I wound down, someone inevitably asked, “But is it going to be on the test?”

I look at the things Mary Hannah did to get ready for this project. I’m sure they read Flat Stanley by Jeff Brown on which the project is based. She made a nice colorful reproduction of herself as Flat Mary Hannah. She wrote a personalized thank you note ahead of time to accompany her request that I host her likeness for a week. There was a good bit of learning going on before the project even reached me.

I look at the places Flat Mary Hannah has been this week and will take back to her class, conscious that she came at an unusually good time for experiences with me. In Hattiesburg, she went with me to the de Grummond Children’s Literature Collection  with more than 160,000 books from American and British authors, some dating back to 1530, to a book club meeting, and to a Friday night Back Door Coffeehouse. She saw original paintings for Curious George and Ezra Jack Keats’s Peter and Archie.

Arriving just in time for a combination history and missions trip with a group from my church, she traveled to Alabama where Sewing Seeds of Hope is helping people with health and housing in the Perry County area where Coretta Scott King was born and on to Georgia for a Sunday school lesson taught by former President Jimmy Carter, a tour of the Global Village and Discovery Center with its models of Habitat for Humanity’s homes in countries around the globe, and a visit to Koinonia Farm founded by Clarence Jordan.
Multiply these experiences by the ones brought back by Flat Kylie, Flat Nathan, Flat Tessa, Flat Carson, and all the other Flat Children in her class and think of the learning that will take place as the second graders at Ingomar School share their stories.

Will any of it be on The Test? I don’t care. The reward for passing The Test is temporary at best. I expect they will remember this experience the rest of their lives.

Hurricane Boy

We did it! Hurricane Boy by Laura Roach Dragon, published by Pelican Publishers, is hot off the press! Okay, Laura actually wrote the book. “We” is like the four-year-old who put the napkins on the table after Grandma spent the week in the kitchen cooking Thanksgiving dinner and proudly says, “I helped.” It could also be compared to the scene in My Fair Lady when Professor Higgins and Colonel Pickering congratulate themselves singing “We did it” while ignoring Liza, the one who really pulled the ruse off.

Let me clarify, her name really is Laura Roach Dragon. It is not like Lemony Snicket, an invented name to appeal to her middle grade audience. She’s had a bit of trouble convincing some of those on the business end of this book. They’ve sent back papers asking her to sign her “real name” to the document. However perfect her name is for a middle grade author, she did not make it up.

She did write a fine story. We [the Louisiana/Mississippi SCBWI group that meets monthly] heard early drafts – that were already good – and offered encouragement and critiques. Drawing on her twenty years of counseling as a licensed clinical social worker and her own experience before and after the devastation of Hurricane Katrina, Laura introduces us to a Ninth Ward New Orleans family, already dealing with crisis even before the storm hits. Hollis, his two brothers, and a sister live with Gee, their maternal grandmother. Their father abandoned them as their mother was dying of cancer. Diabetic Gee is in a wheelchair. She, along with most of the neighbors, ignores the warnings of the “weather idiots” who tell of storms that never materialize or swing another way. Except this one comes and the levees break.

I feel the rush of water when the levee sends the flood, covering everything in the house but the attic, and share the mad scramble to the roof. My hands hurt as I hold onto the roof and my arms ache while I wonder if any of the helicopters that come and go will do more than take pictures. I panic along with twelve-year-old Hollis when the family breaks up in different rescues, and he is left as the oldest in charge of his younger brother and sister. I suffer the boredom of the shelter through days of waiting when no news comes from the scattered family. I become Hollis, trying to be strong enough to protect my siblings and make things right again.

This is a book for anyone who experienced Hurricane Katrina or a similar disaster, for those who know family estrangement, for middle graders, for lovers of a good story. Laura’s characters are unique rather than stereotypes. The good ones have flaws and the bad ones points of sympathy.

My mother had an Appalachian saying she used when people hogged credit for what someone else did, “We killed a bar’. Pa shot it.” To paraphrase a bit, “We made a book. Laura wrote it.”

(Laura is on the left helping critique another member's writings at one of our SCBWI meetings.)

I do know who gets credit here. I’ m holding onto the idea, nevertheless, that this is like a championship win with the home crowd advantage. We helped by screaming “Lau-ra! Lau-ra! Lau-ra!”

Bashful Bluets

The bed of daffodils and snowdrops circling the southwest corner of my yard has followers in Hattiesburg who anticipate any sign of spring. As they tire of winter, friends who haven’t made it by my corner of a busy Hattiesburg street, want to know. “Are the daffodils out yet?” The dazzling daffodils and sparkling snowdrops bring anticipation on those final gray days preceding spring. My friends watch for them.

The showy flowers lead me to look for a smaller omen of spring closer to the ground. When daffodils bloom, I look for bluets. Some may tell you they are weeds. In a generous mood, they might elevate them to wildflowers. Bluets make their home on roadsides, open fields, or in the first green growth on the lawn. Usually, you have to pay attention to see them. Even Mama, who put gifts of dandelions in vases, couldn’t find containers small enough for the bluet offerings we brought. They wasted away on the counter until she threw them out.

As a child I developed a lifelong love for their tiny delicate blue to white blossoms with a hint of red or purple along the edges. They signaled the time to start asking Mama if we could go barefoot. The coolest mama in North Mississippi was the one who was first to allow her children to shed their shoes to play in the yard. Mama was never interested in being the coolest. (This applied to other issues as well.) “The ground is not warm enough yet,” she would say. My sisters and I never figured out what the standard temperature was for bare feet, and we often wondered if we were going to be the very last to have our feet released from their bonds. We did know the bluets signaled the time we could take turns asking the daily question, “May we go barefoot today?”

No longer worried about going barefoot, I still keep my eye to the ground when the daffodils bloom. I look for the tiny bluets hidden away among the sprouting spring grass.

In a bit of serendipity yesterday after writing this blog, a huge patch of them burst into my line of vision as I left my book club meeting at Oak Grove Public Library. They spread across the right-of-way between the parking lot and the highway – not hard to find at all!

The English poet John Keats said, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” I think it applies equally well to dazzling daffodils, sparkling snowdrops, and bashful bluets.

Half a Chance

 “Last times and first times shouldn’t matter more than all the middle times, but somehow they do,” is Lucy’s observation as her family moves once again in Cynthia Lord’s newly released Half a Chance. My own curiosity about that phenomenon drew me into the story.

Lucy’s fatigue with moving and dread of going from the known in Massachusetts, starting over, and making a new place for herself in a New Hampshire community is compounded by her father's immediate leave for a long absence to do a photography shoot. I assumed that her emotional neglect because of her father’s ambition will be central to the story. It is not, though his distraction continues throughout the book. Neither are her mother’s efforts to make a new home in this place.

The story centers around her new friend Nate and his family who come to their summer lake house where they watch the loons and document any chicks for the Loon Preservation Committee. Soon it becomes apparent that his Grandma Lilah will probably be spending her last summer here as her mind plays tricks on her.

Lucy rejects adults’ idea that children think only about themselves. She says, “We care a lot about other people, but most time, we don’t have the power to change things for them.” Now she sees a way to help by using her own photography skills to document the loons and to get prize money for renting a boat big enough so Grandma Lilah can safely see the loons one more time.

Her father is to be a judge of a photography contest with an award big enough to make that happen. She explains part of her problem to her new friend Nate, “One bad part of having a dad who’s famous is sometimes it feels like I can’t have photography as my thing, just because he got there first.” The other part is whether she can legitimately enter since she is related to the judge.

My favorite piece of wisdom in the book comes from Grandma Lilah, even as she fades into dementia, “Don’t ever choose the people who don’t matter over the people who do.” One would think this is good advice for the tweens, primary readers of this book, and their peer pressure, but I think the advice holds for all of us.

From the time I began to read independently, the surest sign that I was into a good book was slowing my reading pace as I neared the end. In those days, I knew how many pages were in my book so I’d know when to reduce my speed. On a Kindle, I use the percentage. I began to slow at 90% and reduced my pace to a crawl at 95%. I didn’t want Lucy, Nate, and Grandma Lilah to go away with their last times and first times. Maybe they will return in another book with a redemption of Lucy’s preoccupied dad.

How's the Weather?

A friend posted an internet article with the headline, “Parents check the weather where their children are because they love them.” It must be true. Summers, I ask how hot is it in Arizona? Spring and fall have me checking where the tornados are in Texas. This winter I’ve wondered how deep the snow is in Maryland.

There has been an upside to all the snow this winter. The Snowy Day month continues from January on through February, at least according to this picture I got yesterday. Grandson Ben doesn’t know yet, but his father does, about my absorption in the life and work of Ezra Jack Keats. Ben has experienced enough of what he calls “no” this winter to be wrapped up in the book after his trip to the library. (He’s just eighteen months so we think his “s” will be here in a while.)

I look at the picture and wonder what page he is on. I wonder if he sees himself with Peter drawing patterns in the snow with a stick or smacking some snow off a tree. Maybe the intent expression is because he’s helping Peter build a snowman or throw a snowball.

Then I look at his feet. Maybe he’s pointing his toes this way and that like Peter.

His father is indoctrinating him in other things besides reading. Just check out the Cubs cap and the Saints slippers. I might have chosen different teams (Mets and Giants, if you’re curious), but those don’t really matter. He got the right book. I’m glad to see Ben developing his love for the library, knowing that was where Ezra fed his love of art and taught himself to paint.

I wonder if Ezra ever imagined when he wrote The Snowy Day that more than fifty years later, little boys would sit on their father’s laps entranced by his story. I wonder if he had a notion of how large the multitude of children would be who joined Peter as snow angels.

I’m plotting something to do with Ben when he gets just a bit older. I’ll take him to the de Grummond Children’s Literature Collection so he can see the originals of the paintings he enjoyed as his dad read the book to him. I hope he, too, will become a fan of Ezra.