Fuzzy Mud

Offer of an advance reading copy of a book by Louis Sachar? I thought of my daughter’s accounts of reading his Sideways Stories from Wayside School to her class and my own love of Holes, which matched or maybe even exceeded that of the ALA Committee that gave it the Newbery Award. There could be only one answer.

Let’s just say to start with, it was a good thing I did not have a pending deadline of any sort when I started Fuzzy Mud. Once those ergonyms began to multiply and I could see where they were going by the periodic pair of “times two” examples that kept going ever higher, my fear kept me turning pages. This out-of-control microscopic life soon displaced my concern for Tamaya and Marshall as the bully Chad came for them. Let’s just say it replaced theirs as well.

Interspersed with the danger to Tamaya, Marshall, and Chad as the threat of the rapidly growing ergonyms supersedes their own conflict, is a Senate hearing that takes place after the episode is complete. Hints of what actually occurred increased my suspense. I neared the end of the book feeling that a satisfying ending was impossible.

While the book is labeled for third through fifth grades, it contains much fodder for discussion beyond people of that age on bullying and whether one should look for the reasons behind the bully’s behavior; how much scientific risk is too much in order to make life better; how responsible we need to be for the environment; and the math lesson that threads its way through the book as the ergonyms double.

If I were using the book as the read-aloud for which it is ideally suited, I would add another chase to the class to find the origin of the expression Louis Sacher uses in “Hobson’s Choice.” Bothered by the definition given in the hearing by the senator, I started searching dictionaries and found those that agreed with the original meaning that I knew (a choice that is only “take it or leave it”) for quite a while before I found one with a secondary meaning (a choice with only two bad results) as it is used in the book. I would hope a rousing discussion would ensue about the appropriateness of change in the English language and the responsibility of writers to use language well.

My final verdict includes my own mental pondering as its questions took a hold like an ear worm long after I closed the book and a hope that classes of middle-schoolers will read it and discuss issues that mirror their own.

Stake Your Claim

According to an article in the July/August issue of Writer’s Digest, writers have a difficult time calling themselves writers. There’s something about claiming a title that demands that you make it true. I’m guessing the phenomenon exists in other fields as well, but I’ll start by addressing my fellow addicts to pen or pencil and paper before moving on to other passions.

Go ahead. Say it out loud. Practice in front of a mirror if you need to. “I am a writer. I am a writer. I am a writer.” The truth is if you write, you are a writer. If you have been published, you are a published writer. If you do a blog, you are a blog writer. If you have a book out, you are a book writer. If you write, you are a writer. Practice the words until you can say them without stuttering, “I am a writer.”

Truth to tell, it took me a while to get brave enough to include those words as I introduced myself. I had figuratively dipped my pen in the inkwell and had a few things out with my byline before we moved to Hattiesburg. Retired from teaching to pursue writing, I sensed that saying the words out loud would cement them in my own mind. My first introduction of myself as writer came in a place that would soon figure strongly in my life.

In my first visit to the de Grummond Children’s Literature Collection, Ann Ashmore welcomed me and introduced herself. I said the words, “I’m Virginia Butler. I am a writer.” I did not faint. She did not raise her eyebrows or look knowingly at me as though I was claiming something I could not deliver. It wasn’t that hard, and her reaction helped me become comfortable with my introduction. I had business cards made with “working writer” on them. Now I needed to buckle down and prove that it was true. Several more bylines and an even greater stack of rejection letters lend validity to my claim, but it is the daily wordsmithing that is the proof.

Whatever your dream, try saying it out loud – first to yourself where nobody can hear until you can speak it without stuttering. I use “writer” in this blog because that’s my passion, but the idea works for artist, dancer, carpenter – for any passion that comes in the form of a dream – perhaps it’s how the noted butcher, baker, and candlestick maker of the old nursery rhyme became who they were. Then back your claim with daily practice to prove your declaration is true.

Peak

Okay, so what does a former zookeeper and expert on red wolves know about writing a funny adventurous book from the viewpoint of a fourteen-year-old boy? Evidently, quite a lot. I read the book Peak by Roland Smith in an advance reading copy. Normally, these copies are offered before the book comes out, but this offer of a book, out for several years and selling quite well, precedes the release of the sequel The Edge which will be out October 6.

The boy named Peak lets us know in the first paragraph that it could have been worse. “My parents could have named me Glacier, or Abyss, or Crampon. I’m not kidding. According to my mom all those names were on the list.” So begins his tongue-in-cheek tale of getting caught climbing a New York City skyscraper, facing the judge, and getting a sentence that befits the crime.

The angry judge doesn’t want the publicity that will begin a copycat daredevil string of kids climbing skyscrapers. His mother and stepfather get a probation deal that will send him out of the country to live with his natural father who runs a company taking people who plan to scale Mt. Everest. Little do they realize the father’s ulterior motive of making Peak the youngest person to scale the mountain. Peak’s early description of his father foreshadows his danger. “When you’re at the end of your rope there’s no one better than Josh Wood. Unfortunately, he doesn’t pay much attention until you are dangling.”

Although he never completely loses the delightful sense of humor that begins the book, Peak grows and changes as he faces the dangers of the mountain, sees the single-mindedness of the climbers, and feels empathy with the Sherpa guides who do the hardest work and take the greatest risks. The narrative moves the smart-mouth Peak through a tough trek up Everest to discover what is really important to him.

A magnificent writing lesson and vivid mountaineering details weave skillfully into the narrative. If you are looking for a book for a reluctant (or enthusiastic) teenage boy, this one fits the bill. Just don’t tell him how much he is going to learn. Oh, go ahead, order both books and give him a pair.

Ginger Boys

My mother wanted a redhead. My paternal grandmother, whom I never knew, had beautiful auburn hair or so we were told. Mama held out hope through four girls, but it never happened.

When my sister Beth, who had married a redhead, was expecting her first child, Mama renewed her hopes. Beth’s doctor encouraged that expectation.

We were living in France on Al’s first overseas assignment from the Army when Donna was born, and Mama sent an ecstatic letter telling us about Donna’s red hair. She mentioned it from time to time in letters during the remainder of our two years in France and Belgium.

As luck would have it, Beth and Don were in New Jersey, quite handy for our family of three to visit as we landed in NYC on our return to the states. It was a nice diversion during our wait over the weekend for our car to arrive. Donna, by now, was a very cute two-year-old with light brown hair. Born exactly one year apart, she and her three-year-old cousin had a great time and began a lifetime bond. Not long into the visit, I asked Beth, “What happened to Donna’s red hair?”

Beth laughed. “Donna never had red hair. Mama wanted it to be red so badly, she saw it that way.”

It took another generation for Mama to get her wish, and she’s not here to see it. Her two youngest great-grandsons, with a strawberry blonde mother, require no imagination to find the red hair. I’m just hoping the angels draw back the curtains of heaven now and then for her to watch and enjoy the ginger boys at play.

Sources of Light

Since Margaret McMullan will be featured on August 22 at the Mississippi Book Festival (http://msbookfestival.com) , our de Grummond Book Group chose her Sources of Light for our July selection. I approach books set in Mississippi during 1962-63 with trepidation. Too often, I find one dimensional characters – both black and white – populating the books. I did have some hope since I’d had positive past experiences with Margaret’s books and her Mississippi heritage. (How I Found the Strong, When I Crossed the No-Bob, and In My Mother’s House)

The book opens with Samantha (Sam) and her mother coming back as she enters ninth grade to her father’s native Mississippi after his heroic death in Vietnam. I knew Margaret’s characters would ring true when Samantha met her teacher. “The first day and every day afterward, Miss Jenkins wore a dark blue dress and stockings that sagged, the seams in the back growing crooked by noon.” I recognized this teacher, but I called her “Miss Hicks.”

Sam moves into a world she does not know as racial tensions of the Civil Rights Movement are coming to a head. Even her lack of awareness rings true since military kids, in a multicultural world of their own, often pay small attention to news that doesn’t seem to concern them. She sees this new world through the lens of a camera given to her by her mother’s boy friend and hears the sounds of love, persuasion, arguments, and anger against the background of an unceasing whistling hum of summer cicadas.

The book is not a comfortable read, but it rings true as characters with complications either try to prevent or try to find their way in the new order that is coming in Mississippi. Sam becomes torn herself in her relationship with boyfriend Scout, wondering just how far she can trust him.

Like Deborah Wiles in Countdown and Revolution, Margaret’s Southern characters are complicated juxtaposing things like their admiration for Sam’s father’s heroism alongside their racism. This young adult book is well worth the read even if you no longer fit the young adult category – but not if you’re looking for something light and fluffy.

Mad About Monday

Call me an oddball. Oh, you already did? Well, if you want to have another go at it, let me give you some ammunition.

A few days ago, I was wandering through some of the stuff that one of my beloved daughters-in-law has promised to put out on the side of the road in a stretch Hefty bag when I die. (An event we are not planning any time soon.) Lest you have bad thoughts for the daughter-in-law, the pile of stuff means little to anybody except me so she’ll be doing the rest of the family a favor to get rid of it – and I won’t care. She is going to wait until I die – I think.

As I plundered, I ran across a statement in a long ago letter to my parents, “Monday turned out like Mondays do here – one day I’ll write a letter devoted to Mondays!” As far as I know, I never got around to writing that letter so I’m making up for it by praising Monday in my blog.

You see, I actually like Mondays. I did when I was teaching. I loved starting a new week with fresh ideas for what my students would learn and experience. (They might have told you I came with innovative means of torture. They are free to write their own rebuttals.) Now I follow a weekend routine saving Saturdays for laundry, writing business, and a modicum of housework and Sundays for church, reading, and relaxation. This means by Monday morning, I’m ready to get back to work on something new and creative or a good rewrite.

If that is not enough weirdness, let me add that my favorite time of day is 5 AM. Before you groan, just think about it. Nobody calls you on the phone at 5 AM. Nobody rings the doorbell at 5 AM. Truthfully, I think few people know that 5 AM is a real hour in the day. Even my husband sleeps right through it. Peace and quiet reigns with no demands from anybody since nobody else is up. I frequently get more words on paper or in the computer between 5 and 7 than I do during the combined hours of the rest of the day. As a bonus, a frequent treat is a beautiful sunrise. Another little known fact because few people are up to see it: sunrises are even more beautiful than sunsets.

I know many of you have looked forward to today because it’s Friday, and Fridays are good in their own way. After all, it’s only three days until Monday comes again.

Serafina and the Black Cloak

In the basement of the Biltmore Estate in Ashville, North Carolina, “Serafina opened her eyes and scanned the darkened workshop, looking for any rats stupid enough to come into her territory while she slept,” and so begins a strange story.

Robert Beatty in Serafina and the Black Cloak weaves a tale that keeps the reader wavering between belief and unbelief that mystical forces control residents of a mansion known for its Southern charm. But then, what Southern mansion worthy of its salt doesn’t have a bit of supernatural history? Denials abound, along with advocates who vouch for eerie occurrences.

The question becomes personal for Serafina who has her own questions from her residence with her father in the basement. Who is her mother? How did she come to live here? Why can she never show herself to the true residents? How did she acquire the skill of catching rats in the dark that has led her father to bestow on her the title of Biltmore Estate’s C. R. C (Chief Rat Catcher)?

Serafina’s real challenge comes after she witnesses a man whose black cloak seems to swallow up a little girl and children begin to go missing. Her skills, whether from her mysterious background or her practice of catching rats in the dark, bring her out of her safe basement haven on a hair-raising adventure to solve the mystery.

Middle-graders and adults who like to teeter on the edge of disbelief will enjoy the book. Extra pleasure awaits those who are familiar with Southern mansions, especially the Biltmore Estate.

Go Play or Helicopter

I don’t know if the Delta gate attendant had read the statistics I saw published recently on the negative outcome of helicopter parenting, but he was doing his part in prevention. Citing the need for each passenger to hold his/her own boarding pass to expedite secure loading, he concluded, “If your child can hold a chicken McNugget, he can hold his own boarding pass.” A round of chuckles let him know that his point had been taken.

We’ve come a long way from the hands-off parents who issued the admonition, “Go out and play, and be home for supper.”

I’m all in favor of parents who show up to cheer on their children in musical recitals, sports events, dramatic productions, or wherever their passions take them. No children that I’ve ever known have been hurt by knowing they had parents in their cheerleading corner. That’s not the issue.

The research on helicopter parents, intent on sheltering their children from any difficulties or hard choices, indicates that their children reach college unable to weigh alternatives or fend for themselves with roommates and professors. This week, I read a new study showing an alarming percentage of these students suffering from depression. Their lack of experience in making choices and resolving conflict leaves them feeling helpless. Somewhere between the “Go Play Parent” and the “Helicopter Parent” is a happy medium.

I’ve long contended that every baby should come with the following instructions, “Do not do anything for this child that he can do for himself.” There are times when parental intervention is necessary, but I loved the morning “notes from home” time when a second grader, obviously coached in tact by a parent, made his/her own negotiations with me for some concession. And there was the time my junior high son unloaded at length in the afternoon about a perceived injustice. At the end, I asked if he wanted me to go to the school. “No,” he said, “I’ll take care of it myself,” and he did.

Recently my daughter and son-in-law were asked by other high school senior parents about how they had responded to some of the items on the college forms. They didn’t know. Marissa had filled out her form. Her rising level of competence has a corresponding lowering of anxiety for this grandmother as she strikes out on her own.

Raising independent children is no easy task and requires a lot of wisdom about when to step in and when to back off. Maybe a start is holding one’s own boarding pass.

Writing Rule #5

This blog will start with a couple of disclaimers, add the important but dry stuff, and end with an invitation. The first disclaimer is that this may be of interest only to those who want to write for children and young adults, but if you want to read it anyway, go right ahead.  

The second disclaimer is that this rule is number 5 only on my blog list. If you ask for advice about children’s and young adult writing, there’s a good chance it will be the number 1 answer. At any number of author, illustrator, or editor presentations in a variety of settings, an audience member with a hankering to write a children’s book will ask some version of, “How do you get started writing children’s books?” or “How do you get a book published?”

The old hands, whether published or unpublished, can mouth together the words that are likely to come from the speaker, “First you join SCBWI.”

We’ll just get the acronym out of the way to start with. We’ve tried several things but there’s no quick or cute way to pronounce it. “Sqwibbie” doesn’t quite work, so we mostly just call out the five letters. It certainly beats saying “Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators.”

The organization has been around since 1971 and now has more than 22,000 members in seventy international regional chapters. Its stated mission is “to support the creation and availability of quality children’s books around the world.” The network shares advice from the practical to the creative side of children's writing through a book with current publishing information called, oddly enough, The Book, and a quarterly bulletin; distributes thousands of dollars in awards and grant money; holds frequent conferences scattered throughout the US and internationally; and has a wealth of online resources.

Now for the invitation! In recent reorganization to serve its members better, Mississippi and Louisiana are aligned in one region. Regional leaders have continued this effort by holding meetings in various parts of this area. On July 17, a meeting open to the public will be held at the Library of Hattiesburg, Petal, and Forrest County. Prospective writers and illustrators are invited to come and observe along with those who are already members.

Getting a book or magazine article published and in the hands of readers is a challenge since publishers receive an overwhelming number of submissions daily. Often, I’ve heard editors and agents give a figure that expertise gained from SCBWI moves a writer into the top 10 – 20% of that pile. If you have a book or magazine article running through your head, come and join us – or find a meeting near you at www.scbwi.org under the regional meetings section.

The Flying Circus

I would say Susan Crandall is on the road again with The Flying Circus, but in the air might be more truthful. Her title gives a clue. The book begins in 1923 in the era of stunt pilots who came to communities to draw a crowd and show off dangerous stunts with those newfangled flying machines.

Gil, Henry, and Cora with their own hidden agendas come together as they attempt to escape their secret demons. A line well into the book encapsulates their circumstances. “. . . were bound by our exclusion” along with Henry’s reply, “Bound by exclusion. Many people like us are always drawn together like that.”

Like a fisherman letting out a line bit by bit, Susan reveals the hidden secrets even as she weaves an exciting story of the three companions’ attempt to support themselves with daredevil tricks on the small plane and a motorcycle and the background tension of whether Cora has romantic feelings for either Henry or Gil.

If you are a lover of epilogues, as I am, you will find hers set in 1970 quite satisfying.

In the first Susan Crandall book that I read, Whistling Past the Graveyard, a journey begins in Mississippi in 1963 and travels on foot to its destination in Nashville. This one begins in the Midwest and travels across several areas of the country – including the Mississippi Delta. While I must admit locations in Mississippi are an added attraction to me, a reader who lives somewhere else will enjoy both books, and I was glad to set out on another journey with Susan wherever she chooses to travel.

If you would like to take a trip with The Flying Circus, it’s available on July 7 wherever interesting books are sold.

About Those Biscuits

Al found himself in charge of the family country store when his father died during his senior year in high school and became the recipient of considerable advice from the old men who whittled on the front porch. A new opportunity arose for their wisdom when they heard we were getting married.

Well aware of my youth, they quizzed him, “Does she even know how to make biscuits?”

Al was incensed. How dumb did they think he was that he would marry a girl who couldn’t make biscuits! He assured them that he had sampled, and I could indeed make very fine biscuits. I don’t think he had much idea that he was caring for his future grandchildren when he checked out my bread-making skills.

Biscuits have become my badge of honor with grandchildren. As a toddler, Sam would down three or four for breakfast, hardly touch lunch, and forgo supper altogether. A few years later, his cousin Jack was overheard telling a friend that his grandma made the best biscuits. As teenagers, Sam and his older brother Hayden had a biscuit-eating contest that about made them both sick. If we arrive for an extended visit in the afternoon, breakfast for supper is often on the menu since nobody wants to wait until morning for biscuits. Now, I’m sure there are more important claims to fame than good biscuits, but I’ll take it since this has made me famous with the right people in my life.

And if you should decide to check out the grandchildren's judgment, just give me about thirty minutes notice. I’ll stick some biscuits in the oven and put on a pot of coffee. 

The Case for Creative Nonfiction

Steve Sheinkin began his presentation at the Fay B. Kaigler book festival by apologizing for having once written textbooks. Now he says he’s writing the stuff those editors wouldn’t let him put into textbooks – not dry enough, I suppose. Personally, I forgave him instantly. You see, I had read Bomb. The book is listed for middle grade, but let’s not let them have all the fun.

The book is part of a rising genre in both adult and children’s books called creative nonfiction. The genre follows the tricky road of having to be as authentic as those textbooks (or maybe more so) while reading like a good novel or short story. Bomb is part suspense, part history, part intrigue, and all fascinating. Steve tells the story of the making of the atomic bomb with much conspiracy and suspense as he pits the Americans and Germans in a race to develop the bomb with the Russian spies out to steal their secrets.

I had also read The Notorious Benedict Arnold: A True Story of Adventure, Heroism, and Treachery before the festival. He told us that everybody is scared of Benedict Arnold. Perhaps the complexity of his character portrayed in Steve’s book is more threatening than the traitor of the textbooks, but the hero gone bad makes for a fascinating book.

I’ve waited since April to write and post this blog because there are two of his books that I purchased for a birthday present for my rising senior grandson – Lincoln’s Grave Robbers and The Port Chicago 50. I didn’t want Sam to know in case he read my blog. Sam has had writing tendencies since his elementary days when he used to make me proud saying, “I’m a writer like Grandma.” He writes now for his award-winning high school newspaper and may or may not continue this into a career.

No career pressure from his grandmother, but all the same, I included a note in Sam’s present about reading like a writer. Writers read for pleasure like the rest of the world. They also read to improve their craft, examining how good writers engage their readers. I hope he sees Steve’s ability to stay completely true to the facts while writing a story that keeps readers up at night turning pages. Who knows? Maybe one day Sam will write his own past midnight page-turners or collect a few of those award stickers that pepper the front of Steve’s books.

And my loyal readers can find the rest of Steve’s books at www.stevesheinkin.com to pick out which one they’d like to read next. 

Gateway to the West

What are friends for? You might ask Martha Ginn. For about fourteen years in an easy friendship, we’ve shared the ups and downs of our separate passions. She’s a fiber artist extraordinaire who sometimes writes about quilting and other aspects of her craft. Writing is my obsession with a bit of needlework on the side for relaxation. Each of us understands the other enough to provide congratulations or commiseration as needed, picking up conversations when we meet where we left off the last time.

On this particular day, she and I were bus seatmates on a field trip to the World War II Museum in New Orleans. I pulled out my counted cross stitch to finish a complicated piece that had been in the works off and on for several years. I’d bought the pattern to the Gateway Arch in St. Louis on a trip with my husband, intending to complete it to go in his area where he works and plays on his computer. There was no rush, but now I was nearly through.

Martha jumped on what I was doing with questions. “Did you see the call for art about bridges for the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship General Assembly? Why don’t you send this in to be juried for the exhibit?”

I could think of any number of ways this was all wrong. (1) I hadn’t seen the call for bridges. (2) Even if I had seen anything with the word “art” in the call, I would have skipped right past it. I have long contended that I could take all my ability and all my knowledge about art, put it in a thimble, and still have room for my finger. (3) Then this arch is called the “Gateway to the West.” Would that qualify as a bridge?

At this point, Martha demonstrated that friends are for shoving you out of your comfort zone (AKA fence). She claimed the piece was too pretty not to be seen. She followed up when she got home by sending more insistence and the link to the call for bridges art. I could hardly refuse to try.

When I got word that my cross stitch had been accepted for the exhibit, I held her responsibility over her head and told her she had to help. She knew far more that I about prepping art for a show. She came through, spending an afternoon helping me mount it to their specifications.

What a surreal experience to find my cross stitch at the assembly art exhibit, the only fabric art among the paintings and photographs. The official label read, “Gateway to the West; Virginia McGee Butler; Counted Cross Stitch 2015.”

So, if you have a friend shoving you outside your comfort zone, let me recommend that you yield without resistance. The panorama is actually quite nice outside the fence.

Fun Fathers

Sam, the teapotTeenaged Sam had a solution when his toddler brother got cranky at the dinner table. “Dad,” he said, “do the teapot.” I wondered then, but never asked, if he was speaking from having seen “the teapot” change his little brother’s attitude or if he remembered the days when he was the teapot for his Ben, the teapotfather’s song.

I also can’t tell who gets the most pleasure from the games that have continued with adjustments for the age and stage of life – the father or the sons. Now, Sam and his dad enjoy one-on-one basketball on a pleasant Saturday afternoon. The newest little brother, toddles the yard yelling, “Hit! Hit! Hit!” as he swings a plastic bat at a plastic ball. With a little fatherly help, he sometimes makes contact. As they say, “A good time is had by all.” I’m thinking the sole purpose of father and sons is having fun. I’m hesitant about taking away from the Owen, the hitterjoy by mentioning the long term results of fathers who play with their kids.

However, in the May/June issue of The Saturday Evening Post, an article called “The Daddy Factor” by Paul Raeborn addresses the importance of dads who have fun with their kids. They quote studies that credit the fun factor for many positives including language development, warm relationships, ability to read reactions in social situations, and increased intelligence. That article may give permission and acclaim to dads who would like to justify that they are not wasting time as they amuse themselves along with their kids.

I picked up on that lesson many years ago not long after I entered teenage. My three sisters and I had friends with finer, more expensive recreational paraphernalia at home, yet the group always congregated at our house. I noticed and tried to figure out why. The only difference I saw was that Daddy was out with us, tossing a cheap undersized basketball through a makeshift hoop. We knew where he drew lines in the sand for our behavior, but having already established that, he got out and have a good time with us. I doubt that he was considering any of the benefits noted by the magazine article. He just had fun along with us.  

So as we approach Father’s Day, let me salute dads who have fun playing with their kids. They don’t even have to know how much good it is doing them.

Seeds of Freedom

Author Hester Bass and illustrator E. B. Lewis, team up again for a nonfiction picture book after considerable acclaim for The Secret World of Walter Anderson. Seeds of Freedom portrays the peaceful integration of Huntsville, Alabama.

It begins in January 1962 with a clear empathetic depiction of segregation for young children who thankfully know about it only from hearsay if at all. Hester juxtaposes “just the way it is” with her “seeds of freedom.” Showing peaceful methods of change encouraged by both the white and black leaders, Hester does not sugarcoat the difficulties nor imply a happily ever after ending, and she does not omit the politicians who add to the unrest rather than help when they come to Huntsville. She is clear that the economics of a community dependent on the federal space program and the “Blue Jean Sunday” bring financial pressure to find a better way for blacks and whites to live together.  She includes a “reverse integration” of white students into a black private school in Huntsville the same week the public school is integrated.

Seeds of Freedom rings true, especially for those who had similar experiences during this era. Integration was difficult without being brutal in many Southern communities. The author’s note at the end gives much that can be used by a parent or teacher in discussion with the child reader both from the aspect of how things were and hope for how things can be better in the future. A careful wordsmith paired with an insightful illustrator, the Bass and Lewis team brings the era and its people to life. I highly recommend the book for its ability to make history live for young children by seeing those who experienced it.

As Hester signed in the book I bought for my grandsons – “To Peace and Freedom.”

Home Vase

Where are you from? – Someone grasps for an item to start a conversation. My answer gets tricky.

Home was wherever Mama installed what we called her “wedding present vase.” With a country preacher for a father, home turned up in many places.

The vase wasn’t that pretty and had no monetary value. Mama remembered who gave it to her but in case she forgot, the vase held the cards and notes from her wedding presents all squished in together. From time to time, Mama took them out, read the notes and names, and told stories of the people behind them. We didn’t pay much attention. The people were before our time.

I’m not sure when I began associating the placement of the vase with being home. It graced a variety of houses in rural Northeast Mississippi. When our youthful Daddy was pastor of “the mill church,” properly known as West End Baptist Church in West Point, it stood on the mantle in our half of a rambling house with tall ceilings.

In Hardy Station, it sat in an old six room house the congregation had moved behind the church, both on top of the hill that had been cut right through the middle for the railroad track. The house was close to the church for the convenience of the pastor. It was even more handy for the children who rode the school bus to church and bought candy in the little store at the foot of the hill with their Sunday school money. They brought the candy to our house to share with three preschool preacher’s daughters already dressed for church. Mama often emerged from finishing her own preparations to find three sweetly sticky girls in need of redressing, but that is a digression.

The next stop, where we gained a fourth and final sister, was a white dog trot house at Black Zion in Pontotoc County, a temporary dwelling before the church built a six room parsonage complete with indoor plumbing! The vase signaled home in both houses.

Calhoun County gave the greatest challenge to the home vase when we lived in half of a duplex, the other half inhabited by two elderly spinsters. They probably were no happier with the antics of four active girls than we were with their restrictions. The vase found its place on the dresser in a cavernous room shared by the sisters. And so it went.

My best answer to where I’m from is “Put your finger down on a map anywhere in northeast Mississippi, and I have lived somewhere near there.”

When Mama broke up housekeeping, my sisters and I recalled memories and divided up things of no value except sentimental. I was glad no one else had a hankering for Mama’s wedding present vase.

Now, it anchors the spot on the corner of my mantle, the squished up notes replaced with dried grasses. When I sit in my favorite chair to read, write, sew, or watch TV, I look up and know that I am home.

The Truth According to Us

Having enjoyed reading The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society as much as I loved the title, I lost no time responding to the offer from Net Galley for an advance reading copy of Annie Barrows’s new book The Truth According to Us. This is the first solo adult book for Annie who co-wrote the first book with her aunt. Children’s book lovers will recognize her name from her books in the Ivy and Bean series.
The first line from the voice of twelve-year-old Willa promised a read much like The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society in a different historical setting. “In 1938, the year I was twelve, my hometown of Macedonia, West Virginia, celebrated its sesquicentennial, a word I thought had to do with fruit for the longest time.”

As the community gets ready for that celebration, a newcomer with a New Deal job as part of the Federal Writers’ Project comes to town. Layla’s senator father has cut off her allowance, and she has come to earn her living by writing the town’s history for the celebration. With this setup, Layla gets a room with the Romeyn family, once prominent and now fallen from grace. She pieces together their versions of the truth bit by bit and interviews locals who give different versions of times gone by.

Wondering what really happened when the factory burned down, why Willa’s father Felix keeps floating in and out of her life, and the secrets that her aunt Jottie hides beneath her stoic exterior keep the reader turning pages and wanting to warn Layla of the mistake her rose-colored glasses have made about Felix’s true character. Well portrayed minor characters entertain as they move the story along.  
The only forewarning I would give is to be aware that the narrator switches often, sometimes in the middle of a chapter. I found this distracting, particularly until I knew to watch for changes in the speaker, but the engaging story is worth this minor flaw. This book goes on sale June 9, and if you haven’t read The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society, you might want to purchase them together.

Getting What You Ask For

You would think as many times as I’ve heard, “Be careful what you wish/ask for,” that I’d be cautious. When we began house hunting in Hattiesburg, we sent lists to the real estate agent who would eventually become our good friend. High on Al’s list was “close to a hardware store.” My priority said, “a feel of living in the country.”

“Ha!” we thought, “Let’s see a real estate agent pull that one off.” Well, she did. Al may travel five minutes to Lowe’s several times a day, needing another piece of lumber, special sized nails, or a different color paint. He has what he wanted, and all is well.

So have I – most of the time. Between our backyard and the next street is a mass of Mississippi woods in a gully that would seem to prevent it from ever being developed for houses. However, my feel of living in the country means sharing strawberries, figs, blueberries, and other edibles with birds, squirrels, and rabbits. A new twist turned up recently. Ice cream cone shaped holes began to crop up in the pine straw mulch around my flower beds.

“Squirrels,” Al said.

“Squirrel holes aren’t that shape,” I argued.

Every time I mentioned the holes, Al’s response was the same. “Squirrels.”

I rolled my eyes and let it go, until this week when I heard him yell, “Virginia Ann, bring the camera!”

There you have it. Four armadillos with cone-shaped noses digging merrily in my pine straw mulch with not a care in the world that I was documenting their invasion.  This also puts a lie to the rumor that they are deterred by pine straw.

He said, “You may be able to get a blog out of this.” Which I have done, but I’m thinking more in terms of a picture book.

Once upon a time there were four little armadillos. (I know there are usually three, but Beatrix Potter gave Peter three siblings, and I have four in my picture. So there.) Their names were Alice, Allen, Alberta, and Aloysius. (Must have that alliteration and you may note that any can be shortened to “Al.” And yes, I know the science of four identical armadillos born from a single egg means we won’t have two boys and two girls, but this is my story and I’m sticking with it.) Their mother sent them out to forage for food.

Now I don’t have the entire plot worked out, but I’m sure Alberta is the gutsy problem maker who stands up to pose for her portrait. And I think by the time we get to happily ever after she will have spent time in my flower bed leaving behind a glass slipper, or has that already been done?

Wedding Weeds

Long before DIY became a popular acronym, my mother was a do-it-yourselfer, partly from economic necessity and partly from natural inclination. The weeds, ahem, wildflowers abloom in my flower garden bring a timely reminder of one of her best creations. My wedding was back in the day of pulling the wooden candle holders and tall wicker baskets from the church closet for decoration. Most people got a florist to do the flowers that went inside the baskets – not Mama.

Mama bought a few white lilies, carnations, and other standard flowers from the florist and then enlisted my childhood friend, soon to be my sister-in-law, to head out into the Mississippi fields on a scavenger hunt for Queen Anne’s lace. Her finished arrangement of purchased flowers into those delicate wildflower sprays they found would have held their own in any floral arrangement competition.

Mama was not alone in the DIY of my wedding. Daddy performed the ceremony which left Papaw, the only grandparent I ever knew, to give me away. My sister and Al’s brother served as maid of honor and best man. I, myself a DIY, made my wedding dress from lace that evoked the delicate pattern of the wildflower.

The wedding fifty seven years ago today – on a very hot June 1 Sunday afternoon – when we were very young, was the beginning of a DIY kind of family as Al has built or repaired much of what we’ve needed using wood and tools, and I’ve taken care of needle and thread requirements.

Outside as well as in, we divide the labor. He mows. I weed relentlessly and take care of the flowers. The time of year has come when Queen Anne’s Lace blooms randomly in my flower beds. I’m not saying it was the foundation for our marriage, but all the same, when this weed, er wildflower, pops up in my garden, I bid it  - and the memories it evokes - welcome.

El Deafo

For the first time, this year’s Newbery Committee of the American Library Association chose a graphic novel for one of its honor titles. El Deafo by Cece Bell, based on her own experience – her title from the nickname she gave herself as she was growing up. For those who are afraid that graphic novels water down literature, let me ease your anxiety with answers to some questions about this book.

•   Easy to read? Yes, took me about an hour for 233 pages and back matter
•    Comic book style? Yes, fun and appealing to middle schoolers and any adults who haven’t lost their sense of humor
•    Cartoons necessary? Definitely, pictures carry the story line as much as the narrative, similar to a good picture book
•    Cartoonish subject matter? No, a very realistic progression of the ambivalent feelings and coping mechanisms as Cece progresses through school, based on the author’s real story after she is left “severely to profoundly” deaf by meningitis when she was four years old
•    Light-hearted? Absolutely, sometimes in spite of and sometimes because of its subject matter, especially when Cece’s “Superpowers” enable her to hear what the teacher is saying and doing in any part of the school building
•    Empathy-inducing? From the minute the reader realizes that four-year-old Cece cannot hear, through the cruel tricks of some students, and the mistakes of others who sincerely try to help and only make things worse, all the way to her experiencing true friendship

The adults of the de Grummond Book Group enjoyed a lively discussion after choosing El Deafo for their last read. [Join them at the University of Southern Mississippi in Cook Library on the second floor in the exhibit room on the third Thursday of every month at 11:30 if you like to read and discuss children’s and young adult books.]

The book should be read by those who are hearing impaired and want to find a book character who understands them and reflects their world and by those who care or need to care about any person with hearing challenges because much of Cece’s story applies at any age to misguided attempts to be helpful.

In the back matter, Cece Bell addresses the range of hearing impairment and the different ways of coping without judging any of them right or wrong. She concludes the author’s note with, “Our differences are our superpowers,” – not a bad message whether you hear well or not.