Hello from the Gillespies

Every year on December 1, Angela sends out her Christmas letter from the outback in Australia. Monica McInerney’s novel Hello from the Gillespies begins with the letter gone awry.

Angela’s done this for thirty-three years, filling in the yearly accomplishments for the family and embroidering them as needed. She’d begun with a typewriter and photocopier the year she and Nick married and advanced to a computer email over the years. The greeting was always the same – “Hello from the Gillespies.” She’d written about the birth of the twins Victoria and Genevieve named for grandmothers, three years later about the third daughter Rosalind nicknamed Lindy by the twins, and finally the late in life child Ignatius whom they called Ig.

All was well, except for the boredom and/or embarrassment of the children, until this particular Christmas when she gave in to the urge of her best friend to tell the truth. She records Genevieve’s work as a hairdresser in a phony world with pretentious TV people in America; her suspicion about Victoria’s affair with her married boss; Lindy’s wallowing in self-produced debt; and Ig’s long hair, stubbornness, running away from boarding school, and continuing need for an imaginary friend at ten years old. She complains that Nick’s obnoxious Aunt Celia will be coming for a month at Christmas. Then she launches into his financial problems and her own fantasy of the wonderful life she would have now in London had she married her childhood sweetheart.

In the beginning of a series of errors, she is called away from the computer before she can erase this missive that she never intended to send to take Ig to the emergency room after he cuts off his finger. Nick comes in, does not read the letter but knows how important it is to her for it to go out on December 1 and hits “send.” The people on the list include the children, Aunt Celia, and one hundred people who forward it freely to their friends. Thus begins a novel with more twists and turns than a mountain road.

In an interview, the author says, “No family can hang out the sign, ‘Nothing the matter here’.” She goes on to add that we all know sibling rivalry, grief, and joy. While her statement is correct, I think few of us know these in quite the abundance of the Gillespies.

Whether you write or don’t write Christmas letters, whether you love them or hate them, whether or not  they bring on an urge to act them out, you might want to read this book for the fun of reading it – and to find out if Angela is planning to send another letter this year.

Happy Birthday x 3!

The Writer in its November 2013 issue marked the November 29th birthdays of Louisa Mae Alcott [1832], C. S. Lewis [1898], and Madleine L’Engle [1918] with the comment “These birthday triplets transformed the way we write for younger audiences.” I must admit that the three writers’ influence on me is not equal.

Both Lewis and L’Engle wrote fantasy for young people. My appetite for reading as I was growing up limited itself to realistic fiction and nonfiction. As I’ve grown up, my range of reading has increased much like the variety of foods I’m willing to eat. Still, I’ve enjoyed both of these writers more for the works they've done for adults than for children. I did enjoy L’Engle’s trip to Noah’s ark in Many Waters, and have profited from her Walking on Water with its encouragement and instruction for writers.

I didn’t have to wait for adulthood to see Louisa Mae Alcott’s influence. As I read Little Women multiple times, I saw my own family in the four sisters with a preacher father. Mind you, they were not perfect matches. I was Jo with a temper and a penchant for reading and writing. I thought it a mismatch that she was not the oldest until I considered her spunk. My sister Beth, second sister like Jo, matched her spirit much closer. Gwyn corresponded to Amy’s elegance if not to her birth order. Ruth, strong and self-reliant, certainly didn’t mirror Beth March’s frailty. We lacked an attic for me to squirrel myself away in, but my sisters went out to play with their friends and left the nerd to her own amusement of reading and scribbling. The parallels didn’t work exactly, but the same family spirit was present with the March and McGee sisters' support of a crazy obsession with words.

Lewis and L’Engle set a standard and opened a door for much of the wonderful fantasy literature being enjoyed by today’s readers. Like me, many writers and wannabe writers first saw possibility in the example set by Jo March as she pursued her dream and felt Alcott’s heart in a story that took the life she knew and improved on it.

So, happy birthday and thanks for showing the way to C. S. Lewis, Madeline L’Engle and Louisa Mae Alcott!

Thankful

Perhaps this is not true of you, but I often fail to be thankful until what I take for granted is missing. In this Thanksgiving month, I am grateful bit by bit for a working drain pipe. My thanks has several aspects:

1. The leak below the kitchen sink was a small one, and the spread across the kitchen floor could be avoided by not using the drain.

2. On Thursday, the first plumber, son of the plumber-yet-to-be-called, realized the leak was beyond his pay grade and referred us to his father.

3. The father set up an appointment for the next day.

4. The father cared enough about the project he was already working to finish it to the end, pushing ours until after the weekend. Why was the wait a thankful? It made me think he would take the same care when he got here.

5. The father plumber and a different son arrived early Monday morning. They efficiently and pleasantly pulled out a pipe with a hole (circa 1970), replaced it with a new pipe, and cleaned up the mess – all at a reasonable price.

6. A handy woodworking husband took the opportunity to replace the sink cabinet flooring (probably also circa 1970) and caulk all pipes. He’s not the kind to leave things to chance.

So, what do I learn from this?  The same thing I always learn – for a few days – I’ll not take so many things for granted. I think, at least for the next week, I will remember to be grateful that the oven cooks, the central heat comes on, the washing machine fills with water, etc. I’ll notice that my mattress is firm and my pillow soft. I’ll smile at the construction paper turkeys from two special redheads on the freezer. I’ll savor the home-cooked meals I share across the counter from Allen. Unfortunately, I’m prone to forget again and take it all for granted. Maybe that’s why we set aside this special time in November to help those of us who need gratitude reminders.

For each of my readers, I wish a happy Thanksgiving filled with appreciation for the good things – large and small – that have come your way.

Finishing School?

Reading out of my comfort zone and almost out of my vocabulary has fulfilled the advice by TV pundits this week. I’ve been reading a series of books by Gail Carriger in the steampunk category. Now, steampunk is not in the dictionary I normally use, and my computer keeps underlining it in red, hence the “almost out of my vocabulary.” However, Google comes to the rescue with several sources that define it as a subgenre of science fiction based on steam power inventions taking place in an historical period or fantasy world. First recorded use of the word is 1987, and it now covers clothing styles as well as literature.

Better than the definition, let me take you to the recipe Gail Carriger uses for Etiquette and Espionage, Courtesies and Conspiracies, and Waistcoats and Weaponry. Start with a world reminiscent of Jane Austin with a mother who sends her daughter Sophronia off to finishing school where the cover of learning the niceties in life cloaks a course in intrigue and espionage. Locate the school on a floating dirigible. Stir in an element of trust problems with werewolves, vampires, Picklemen, Pistons, and flywaymen. Blend in catty girls, sibling rivalry, and romance.  Add mechanicals, hurliers, and crystalline valve prototypes. Season to taste with Victorian vocabulary and humor.

Given a chance to review the advance copy of Waistcoats and Weaponry that was released early this month, I decided I needed to read them all in order. That worked well with each building on the previous book. In this case, each one seems to improve on the last which does not always happen in series.

Bumbershoot, Sophronia’s mechanical, in the form of a reticule demonstrates Carriger’s ability to combine Victorian language, the steam power mechanical, and fun. In fact, her humor sometimes delves into deliberately inserting something of the modern day into this fantasy world – “with a maniacal laugh that, if inscribed for posterity, might have been written as ‘Mua ha ha’.”

These are books for readers who like this genre and for those like me who could live in a world of historical fiction and nonfiction but like to expand their horizons. The advice from the TV pundits advocated taking on something different outside your comfort zone for continuing mental sharpness. I’ve done that and feel infinitely sharper for having followed Sophronia and her friends and enemies through an unusual world. Now, I have a biography calling.

It's Back

It may come as a surprise to those unacquainted with the system that the Army takes into no consideration the need of employment for military spouses in its timing of orders. Let me tell you about it.

We arrived in Germany at the end of September, too late for this diehard teacher to be employed. The woods were full of other spouses in my predicament to the point that the schools could, and did, require even substitutes to be qualified to teach their appointed grade or subject. Only one fulltime job came open during that year. With twenty-five qualified applicants, I felt honored to make the final four, even though I did not get the job. Knowing that I needed to be in a classroom for my own satisfaction and having heard that subbing was a foot in the door for next year’s placements, I signed up.

One of my first gigs was a week or so in my daughter’s fifth grade classroom. I wondered how she would handle this, but I was not to worry long. Two girls tried out the new sub before the first recess. Let’s just say I drew a deep line in the sand. They cornered Anna before she was far out the door, “Your mama’s mean.”

Unmoved, Anna replied, “She wouldn’t be if you didn’t make her.”

Having lost their battle with both Anna and me, they settled down and became part of a class that was a joy. They reminded me, in case I had forgotten, that Mrs. San Filippo had a read-aloud started. They expected the routine continued after lunch every day. Fine by me. The book was The Pushcart War by Jean Merrill.

The close of each chapter left them begging for more. Inclined in the same direction, I promised an extra chapter if all work was completed in time to read before the buses ran. You wouldn’t believe how those fifth graders stayed on task!

The problem came in explaining to Mrs. San Filippo when she returned why she didn’t have at least a week left on the book. The librarian resolved the issue by recommending another book chosen especially for that teacher and that class.

I was excited to see in the latest Horn Book Magazine that The Pushcart War has a fiftieth anniversary edition coming out. I do think I’ll have to have a copy – and maybe find a fifth grader to share it with.

Oh, yes, that foot-in-the-door thing? The next year that same librarian recommended read-aloud books chosen especially for this teacher and her second graders.

Discovering Picture Books

Oddly enough, my love for picture books began the summer I was thirteen. Before that time, libraries were largely nonexistent in the rural communities and schools where we lived. Stories came from our reading books at school and orally from Mama who could have competed with any of the professional storytellers I’ve ever heard. Once we got past Dick and Jane, the readers had some pretty nice tales. I remember one I read in third grade about a little girl who made omelets for soldiers. From an exotic place (France) with an exotic name (Yvonne), she enticed me to decide I’d like to go there one day. Of course, the name was only exotic after I learned that it was not pronounced “Y-vonne.” The Army fulfilled my wish for two and a half years with my husband’s assignment just outside Paris, but I digress.

In a bargain with the State of Mississippi, Mama taught with what was termed an “emergency certificate” in a remote rural community – even more rural than the one in which we lived. Her end of the bargain was completing six hours of college classes toward her teaching certificate every summer. Ironically, word got out that the county superintendent of education said her best first grade teacher was at Laws Hill. That would be Mama. Laws Hill didn’t have two.

On this particular summer, Mama took Kiddie Lit, or Children’s Literature, if you want to be proper. My contribution to her returning to class was baby-sitting one ornery and two agreeable sisters, doing piles of ironing including two or three starched white shirts per day for my preacher father, and cooking in a hot kitchen to keep meals for six on the table. My well-earned and quite adequate reward was exposure to Mama’s homework. I enjoyed her text, Anthology of Children’s Literature, edited by Johnson, Scott, and Sickels, but the picture books were the best – Millions of Cats by Wanda Gag; Blueberries for Sal by Robert McClosky; Petunia by Roger Duvoisin; The Little House and Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel by Virginia Lee Burton and that funny Dr. Seuss guy with his And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street and Green Eggs and Ham. By the end of the summer, I was gleefully hooked on picture books.

November is picture book month, and I’m celebrating with Mama’s old text, generously returned to my possession by the youngest sister, and an array of picture books – the oldies that are well worn from children and students and some new ones from last week’s Louisiana Book Festival. I invite you to join me, at least virtually, in your local library or bookstore for the celebration. You’re never too old for picture books – at least until you are too old for a turn in the porch swing, a cone of ice cream, or a trip to the zoo.

The Poppy Lady

If you've wondered at all about how the red poppies associated with Veteran’s Day and Memorial Day came to be, you’ve probably thought of Lt. Colonel John McCrae’s poem, “We Shall Not Sleep.” It concludes with the memorable line, “We shall not sleep, though poppies grow in Flanders fields.” You would be partially right.

In her book The Poppy Lady, published by Calkins Creek and illustrated by Layne Johnson, Barbara Elizabeth Walsh tells the story of Moina Belle Michael. Concern for soldiers led Moina to join efforts to knit socks and sweaters.

Wanting to do more becomes a theme in the book. She rolled bandages for the Red Cross. She formed personal relationships with the soldiers and gave them a small remembrance as they headed overseas. She trained to become a canteen worker and established a place for soldiers to come and relax when they had time off.

Reading John McCrae’s poem led her to her most lasting contribution to soldiers and their families just two days before the war’s end. She went on a poppy hunt in New York, finding twenty-four small silk poppies and one large one. She wrote her own promise of a continuing remembrance in a response verse to “We Shall Not Sleep.”

This picture book includes well-researched additional resources in the back matter, making it a good choice also for older children and adults who are interested in the origin of the poppies distributed on Veterans’ Day and Memorial Day by the VFW, its Ladies Auxiliary, and the American Legion. As a bonus, a portion of the book’s proceeds support the National Military Family Association’s Operation Purple which benefits children of the U. S. military.

I recommend reading the book and John McCrae’s poem together.

The Walled City

Tension begins with the three rules of survival in the first paragraph of The Walled City by Ryan Graudin and builds relentlessly until the very end. “Run fast. Trust no one. Always carry your knife.” Based on the now demolished walled city of Kowloon, Hong Kong, the gripping story rings true.

Three young people caught in the midst of human trafficking and drug dealing look for a way out of the walled city and the circumstances of their lives. Mei Lei, sold by her father into a brothel where she has been locked up and used for two years, appears to have no hope for anything better. Jin, her spunky younger sister, passes for a boy with swift legs in a hard scrabble existence among the homeless trying to keep herself safe while never losing hope of finding Mei Lei. She will leave the problem of where they will go when she finds her sister in the back of her mind until later. Returning home is not an option since her father would only sell Mei Lei again. Dai, hiding secrets from his past, traffics drugs from the drug lord and looks for a way to his own freedom and to redemption from the guilt he carries.

The calendar turns, beginning at 18 Days. The time belongs to Dai who has been trapped for seven hundred and thirty days with eighteen left to work his risky plan.  He needs someone who can run fast. To be sure the reader does not relax, occasional page breaks mark the time 16 Days . . . 14 Days  . . . 9 Days . . . 6 Days . . . 1 Day.

While the book is fiction and the time is long ago, it brings awareness to real problems that have not gone away since drug dealers and human traffickers are still in business. The author includes the drugs, violence, and prostitution that are necessary to the story but not in a gratuitous or sensational way. I recommend the book to those on the upper end of the 12 – 17 year old group for which it was written and for those who want a compassionate look at how and why young people, and those not so young, get trapped into this lifestyle.

Three Pieces of Concrete

A crystal dish in the china cabinet displays three pieces of concrete. According to an article in USA Weekend on this twenty-fifth anniversary of its destruction, these three pieces of the Berlin Wall are practically worthless. However, I beg to disagree. The article continues, “Wherever there is a piece of the Berlin Wall, there’s a story about how it got there.” I contend that nothing with a story is worthless.

One fall Saturday in 1989, Desiree Rondina called, asking if my husband and I were home so she could come by for a few minutes. I thought it a bit odd that she had included my husband in the inquiry, but I assured her that we were home and the time was convenient.

A bright young German woman, she'd married an American soldier. She lost no time after arriving in the United States in getting a job as an ESL aide down my second grade hall and beginning classes at night and on weekends at the nearby university extension. I assumed her call meant that she had another paper for one of her classes and needed me to edit. Her insights and writing content never called for my help. I assisted in word order which differs in English from her native German. Soon, she would not require even that assistance.

I opened the door when she rang the bell to see her standing with a wide smile on her face and a shoe box in her hands. I knew immediately what was inside and why she had asked if my husband was home.

Desiree had heard me tell that the building of the Berlin Wall had increased the number of men needed in the military. As a consequence, young men past the customary draft age of twenty-one, including my husband, were called into service. In his case, the Army put a square peg in a square hole, and he stayed for an almost twenty-five year career. She’d taken note that the wall had changed our lives. She also knew our last assignment had been in Germany where we’d made a trip to West Berlin, Checkpoint Charlie, the Berlin Wall, and even over into East Berlin.

My husband joined us around the kitchen counter to examine her treasure. Her father lived near the wall and had collected the box of pieces for her to share with people for whom they had meaning. She’d taken some to the local museum. She told us to select three so each of our children would have one to inherit.

The magazine article said the Berlin Wall stood for oppression, the pieces for freedom. Worthless? I think not. 

How Big Could Your Pumpkin Grow?

A lucky toddler on Halloween might have a copy of Wendell Minor’s book How Big Could Your Pumpkin Grow? A really lucky toddler might also have a teenaged brother who is good for repeated readings and who knows you like your books where you can see the pictures without all that silly cuddling or sitting still. Of course, the teenager will be happier with multiple readings if there is something in the book for him. Rest at ease, this book fits the bill.

Starting in a rather normal pumpkin patch, the pumpkins quickly begin to grow larger and more absurd with each page turn. The sense that things will not be normal picks up as kids paddle their carved out pumpkins in a regatta. Multiple synonyms for “big” follow the pumpkins though national landmarks like the Brooklyn Bridge and Mt. Rushmore and folklore like Paul Bunyan and his blue ox Babe with the final pumpkin towering over the Grand Canyon. My personal favorite is the one spewing out the water for a waterfall in Yosemite.

The toddler will enjoy the pumpkins, the bright colors, and the story line. The teenager will get the jokes and see the art. Those needing an educational element will find a good one in the back matter with a two-page spread giving information about the fourteen sites pictured in the book.

Lacking a teenaged brother? – A parent, grandparent, or babysitter will do.

Too late to get the book by Halloween? – No problem, pumpkin season lasts at least through Thanksgiving.

Neither toddler nor teenager around? – Not to worry, locate your inner child and buy the book for yourself.  If anybody asks, tell them you bought it to enjoy the art. You will not be lying.

The Grammar of Y'all

I just finished yet another book with a colorful Southern character added for interest by an author who didn’t learn the proper use of “y’all.” The book lost its chance to be reviewed here.

Even the seventh grade boys in my class in Zion Elementary School in Pontotoc County, Mississippi knew that “y’all” is the plural of “you.” I remember their protests when Mrs. Rogers tried to inform us that “you” is both singular and plural. I had already been enlightened about this ambivalent use of “you” and had been given permission by my grammar police parents to use “y’all” in friendly conversation as long as I used “you” properly in writing and for formal occasions.

I sat back and enjoyed the boys’ rejoinders with our teacher. I felt like the guys had a couple of valid points. “How in the world will people know if you mean one or more than one?” and “Why don’t we just share ‘y’all’ with the rest of the world and give them an easy way to make it clear whether they are talking to one person or several?”

I’ve been on this soapbox before with people who are “not from here” and have assured me they have heard Southerners use “y’all” for just one, perhaps at a door when only one person was leaving. Maybe the hostess said, “Now, y’all come.” The interpretation remains the same. The hostess was really saying, “You come back to see us with your mama, your daddy, your grandparents, your six children, your weird uncle, your cousin-twice-removed . . .” In the South, we are nothing if not hospitable.

Now as long as I am on this kick, let’s take care of that apostrophe. This is not rocket science. An apostrophe goes where the letters are missing. My eleventh edition Merriam Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary lists the definition of “y’all” as “you all.” (I hope you noticed the plural connotation here.) Therefore, the letters missing are “ou” which means the apostrophe goes between the “y” and the “all.” If you don’t get this punctuation right, let me warn you that my parents have a grammar police granddaughter with a radar gun for this one.

Now that I have cleared all this up, let me say to my blog readers, and I certainly hope there are more than one, “Y’all come back. Y’hear?”  

[If I were Aesop, I would add a moral: If one is writing outside one’s region or culture, it pays to be super careful to get it right and not offend those who belong to it.]

Just Mercy

Just Mercy by Bryan Stevenson traces his journey as a young idealistic lawyer establishing a legal practice dedicated to defending the most underrepresented and his path through the judicial system with one of his first cases. That client, Walter McMillan, insists that he’s innocent. Bryan quickly finds convincing evidence that he is telling the truth. Getting that evidence through the courts, runs into one boondoggle after another.

The book reads like a long episode of Law and Order with side issues along with the main story. The tension builds as almost, nearly, and not quite run a thread throughout. I found myself wanting to shout encouragement to hang in there and hoping for that forty-five minute mark reprieve.

Some favorite quotes from the book:
•    On capital punishment: “I couldn’t stop thinking that we don’t spend much time contemplating the details of what killing someone actually does.”
•    “Jackie’s name was always followed by ‘She’s in college.’ I had begun to think of her as Jackie ‘She’s in College’ McMillan.”
•     “I decided that I was supposed to be here to catch some of the stones people cast at each other.”

The trouble is this is not fiction where one is confident that the good guys will win in the last fifteen minutes and all will be well. While the writer gives signs of hope in his last pages for our justice system, much still hangs in the balance. Striking to me was how often those with criminal tendencies had experienced horrific abuse as children. Perhaps our interventions need to begin much sooner.

This was not a comfortable read but a compelling one. The meaning of the title becomes clear toward the end in a paragraph that brings closure and includes another favorite quote, “The power of just mercy is that it belongs to the undeserving.”

Just Mercy is a book for those who care and are willing to hear what Bryan Stevenson ultimately learned from that early client over their long association, “Walter made me understand why we have to reform a system of criminal justice that continues to treat people better if they are rich and guilty than if they are poor and innocent.”

Out of Season

In the old nursery rhyme,
    Christmas is coming,
    The geese are getting fat.
Few of us rely on fat geese any more as Christmas signals. Our indicators seem to come earlier and earlier and are already all around us. According to my calendar, there are still eleven days to Halloween and more than two months until Christmas.

I find it disconcerting to walk into stores with competing Halloween and Christmas displays and interesting that Hancock’s flyer in the Sunday paper had the Christmas fabric sales right below those for Halloween. Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday, gets squeezed into grocery ads or ignored altogether.

I’ll admit I’ve given up on this and have adopted an attitude of, “If you can’t lick ‘em, join ‘em,” and am learning to juggle the holidays. I went to our church’s Fall Festival as a farmer Saturday afternoon and attended the first extra choir rehearsal for Christmas music on Sunday afternoon. I’ll probably even check out Hancock’s to see if I need to replenish my stash of Halloween and/or Christmas fabric.

Getting ready for Halloween, I need to stockpile for trick-or-treaters. For Christmas, I think I’ll also follow the rest of the rhyme’s suggestion and make charitable plans with hopes of doing better than a penny.
    Please to put a penny in the old man’s hat;
    If you haven’t got a penny, a ha’penny will do,
    If you haven’t got a ha’penny, then God bless you!

Ode to Autumn (Okay, just a jingle to fall)

An overnight sight appeals to my eyes,
September’s lilies bring morning surprise –

Signaling that the time has come
For feet to spring and spirits hum.

Fall foggy haze follows early showers
While morning glories meet night’s moonflowers.

Black-eyed Susans with faces showing
Join with yellow goldenrods’ glowing.

Anoles sneak up to peek over flowers.
Armadillos root beneath rose bowers.

Hot cocoa sports a marshmallow top.
Homemade autumn soup simmers, “Pop, pop.”

I grab parched peanuts to shell on the fly,
But sit to relish sweet potato pie.

On the field, comes the call,
“All right folks, let’s play ball.”

Backers cheer.
Rude ones jeer.

Up from seats with heavy hefts,
Angry fans call, “Can the refs.”

An interception comes all the way back,
The stadium responds “yakkity-yak.”

If there’s a time we have it all,
I've got to say it must be fall.

About Failure

What one learns at a writers’ conference may have as much to do with life as with writing. Keynote speaker Candice Ransom began the session with her presentation “Keep Calm, Carry On (But Don’t Pitch a Fit).” I wouldn’t have guessed that her theme would be in praise of failure.

She spoke specifically to the writers gathered for the Southern Breeze SCBWI conference in Birmingham, knowing she spoke to those who experienced failure in the form of rejection letters on a regular basis. She admonished the group to realize that those who managed to publish a book sometimes heard that anything less than 7,500 sales was still considered a failure. She took us through a passage in her own life much longer than I can put in this blog when she experienced both personal and professional difficulties. I sounded like one disaster piling on the other like two teams of football players after a loose ball.  

Giving up her writing in the midst of anxious waits in hospital corridors might have seemed the most logical thing to do – inertly accepting her fate like the ball at the bottom of that heap. Instead, she took her writing with her to keep her company and give her a focus besides her worries as she awaited doctor’s reports and test results.

With the string of difficulties behind her, she now has books coming out again along with speaking invitations to writers’ groups like ours.

Her take-aways were certainly good for writing, but perhaps they were even better for living. She advised us, in the face of failure, to keep calm and carry on. She added, “If we aren’t failing we aren’t doing anything interesting.”

Countdown to Revolution

What a good choice I made to read Countdown (published 2010) and Revolution (published 2014) for my birthday celebration! This wasn’t a shot in the dark since I am a fan of Deborah Wiles’s previous trilogy – a gentle trio for summer reading in the shade of an oak tree with a supply of apples. I was in for a surprise. Gripping replaced gentle.

Both books, set in crisis periods in American history, seem to interrupt the story with pages of memorabilia from their time periods until you realize those pages inform the story. Franny’s community in Countdown, living in fear during the Cuban missile crisis of 1962, learns to “duck and cover.” Tensions between her mother and older sister escalate as Jo Ellen insists on becoming involved with what her mother perceives as a radical group at college that may get her into trouble.

Revolution, set in 1964 with its “twist and shout,” finds Sunny sorting out her family that becomes more blended with every turn. The bigger issue becomes the Civil Rights Movement as it comes to Greenwood, Mississippi. I found it touching as Sunny recalls being six “when everything was simple, and I always knew just what to do.” Freedom Summer brings a yellow-haired young woman activist to town that reminds Sunny of her missing mother. The reader recognizes Jo Ellen from Countdown.

I’ve heard an expression, “too good for kids.” I’d never say that, but I would say, “too good to be limited to kids.” A win for Revolution would be no surprise to me, either once or twice, as it is on the long list for the National Book Award and in the Newbery Award chatter.

Thinking about the yet-to-come last book in the trilogy, I have questions. I’m heading to the SCBWI WIK 14 Conference in Birmingham today where Deborah will be presenting. I can wait on the first two questions, but I may elbow someone to get out of my way so I can ask her the third.
•    Which character(s) from the first books will appear in the third?
•    Which historical turning point will it cover?
•    How soon will it be out? I hope I don’t have to wait another four years!

Writing Rule # 4

Rule 4: Change your writing location to spark creativity.

To be honest, I didn’t come up with this rule, but I love it. Kimberly Willis Holt suggested it at a writers’ conference. A different view seems to uncover some kaleidoscopic spark in the gloomy gray matter of the brain.

With cool fall temperatures that allow me to be outside, I am ready with my new location on the patio swing and an excellent view. I’ve inventoried my supplies:
•    Glass of iced tea – check
•    Cup of very sharp pencils – check
•    Cup of highlighters and various colored pens – check
•    Long legal college ruled writing pad – check
•    Revision file folders – check

My view of lantana and goldenrod fans that spark into flame, so you’ll please excuse me if I cut this blog short and get after those rewrites while the fire is still burning.

Leather or Crystal?

By tradition, the third anniversary is marked with leather. The modern list calls for crystal. Since the change from September to October marks the third anniversary of this blog, I think the occasion calls for me to treat myself. So which way do I go?

Maybe it will help – or not – to reflect on the process and what I have gained from three years of blogging. I list a few in no particular order except as they come to mind:
•    Responses – sometimes with rebuttals – from friends, sisters, children, and especially grandchildren
•    New friendships as followers now include a friend of a sister and friends of friends
•    Renewed contact and conversations with former students
•    Getting to tell old stories with no eye-rolling that I can actually see
•    Sharing books I have read and loved
•    Unexpected conversational exchanges with references to the blog from people I did not know were reading it – especially like the one who told me she had forwarded one of them to her daughter

So how do I choose? The list has not helped my dilemma. I’ll just go with my obsessions. I have more crystal than I like to wash from purchases when we lived in or traveled to Europe and gifts of various kinds. You can see it in the picture. I will forego a picture of my shoe closet since you might question the rest of my reasoning. One can never have too many shoes. I’ve decided this anniversary calls for a trip to the shoe store!

I begin my fourth year with gratitude for the opportunity to say what I’m thinking. You may read or not; roll your eyes or not; share it or not. I take pleasure all the same of thinking of you as I write and hope my words trigger your mind to some thoughts of your own.

Ready, Set, Celebrate!

Since this is my birthday, I have only one thing on my “To Do” list – my customary Monday greeting to my regular [and occasional] loyal blog readers. I’m prepared to celebrate another wonderful year past and to anticipate the one ahead for the rest of the day. I have my Almond Joy bag, a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle, and the first two books in Deborah Wiles trilogy.

I requested our library to purchase these books that are getting a lot of chatter among book lovers – Countdown published in 2010 and Revolution that came out this year. I love the Oak Grove public librarians! They bought the books and had them shelved face out the next time I came to the library. I checked them out.

The following week, buzz began as Revolution made the longlist for the National Book Award! I’ve even heard it mentioned in Newbery speculations, but it will still come second. I’m reading them in order.

Will I get the candy eaten, the puzzle completed, and the books read today? Probably not. It might have to be a week-long celebration, but I’m starting right now!

The Giver

None of my students thought Jonas was dead at the end. Yet, “Does Jonas die?” was the most asked question about The Giver, according to Lois Lowry in her speech a few years ago at the Faye B. Kaigler Book Festival. For seven years, I read the book aloud to eighth graders. My students and I never even thought of that question since we felt assured at the end that hope and joy had come to Jason and the baby Gabriel. We did ponder a different question.

Seeing the movie brought back memories of discussions that rose from the book. I give credit to parents who were willing, even eager, for their children to think and reason about difficult issues and never questioned my selection of this frequently banned book.

As always, I wondered if the movie would measure up to the book. Though the time frame and age of the protagonists were altered, I was reassured that Lois herself felt the movie had remained true to the spirit of the book.

I enjoyed the movie and found Lois’s assessment essentially correct. Of course, when one loves a book that is made into a movie, there is almost inevitably something amiss or lacking. I found the mark on the arm that distinguished those destined to become The Receiver less effective than the “pale eyes” of the book. I did, however, like the hand to hand transition of memories as Jonas and The Giver faced each other better than the book’s version of giving them with The Giver’s hands on Jonas’s back as he lay on a bed.

In the end, I would give my usual evaluation when I have enjoyed both a book and the movie made from it. The movie was good, but the book was better. I recommend experiencing both.

My different question about the book requires a spoiler alert so read further at your own discretion. In the very end of the book as Jonas and Gabriel approach Elsewhere, “Suddenly he was aware with certainty and joy that below, ahead, they were waiting for him; and that they were waiting, too, for the baby.” Since the time is obviously Christmas with its room filled with lights of red, blue, and yellow, my question is “Which baby – Gabriel or the One normally associated with Christmas?”

Did I ask Lois the answer when I had the opportunity at the Book Festival? No. I love the ambiguity.