Enchanted Air

Pigtails first bonded me to writer Margarita Engle when she posted her childhood picture on Facebook, though there was a small difference. She hated hers that tamed her unruly curly hair, while I loved mine that stopped Mama from trying to perm my board-straight hair. Reading her memoir, Enchanted Air, brought new connections – skipping a grade in school, attachment to a great-grandmother, experimenting with family cow-milking, and being too young, too shy, and too bookwormish for junior high.

She speaks for both of us:
    Now there is only one place where I can,
    truly belong, this endless stack
    of blank pages in my mind,
    an empty world
    where I scribble. (I might add “or full pages I might read.”)

While I found a mirror in the book, I also found a window into the world of her first fourteen years, quite different from the North Mississippi hills where I grew up. The first page “love at first sight” story of her American father and Cuban mother, communicating without words, is worth the price of the book. She follows with life in Los Angeles, punctuated with visits to relatives in her mother’s native Cuba. Her free verse follows emotions of joy and gladness to heartbreak as that border closes, removing the contact with half her family as she makes the last childhood visit in 1960.
    How long will it be
    until the two countries I love
    forgive each other and move on . . .
In light of current news, the book is timely and puts a human face on national quarrels where politics run amok far too often.

Knowing from past readings of Margarita’s books that there would be special quotes I would want to share with my blog readers, I kept my notepad handy to jot down page numbers. You can see there are far too many for one blog!  

I think it’s not a spoiler to end with one from her last poem called “Hope.”
    An almost war
    Can’t last
    Forever.

    Someday, surely I’ll be free
    To return to the island of my childhood
    Dreams.

I hope to hear soon that Margarita has done just that.

It's Here!

September, my favorite month, has arrived! The first reason for this preference no longer fits, but I hold to it anyway. In my childhood, September signaled the beginning of school. I loved the smell of yellow pencils although I did not associate them, as Eudora Welty did, with the whiff of yellow daffodils – yet another proof that her imagination stretched farther than mine. I treasured the brand new Blue Horse tablet for the promise of math story problems to be solved and properly labelled and even more for the words to be written on its pages.

Even as we crept farther and farther back into August with school beginnings after I became the teacher, I held onto my September excitement. We’d taken care of rules, regulations, and my expectations for behavior and work ethic in the August segment and the fun of teaching and learning could begin in earnest by early September.

A former student, now a college professor, wrote on Facebook this week about his excitement at the beginning of a new school year. As yellow buses roll past my house, I think of him and other teachers who continue to bring September excitement into their classrooms and vicariously share their joy.

Other reasons for being partial to September have no basis except pleasure.
•    The cooler morning air means I can begin my first readings for the day in the porch swing and gives me hope that I can work outside at the patio table all day by the end of the month.
•    The butterflies and hummingbirds and the lantana from which they drink have reached their peak and put on a show outside my office window.
•    There’s my birthday this month that has lost the thrill of adding another year, but still brings a load of firewood, my birthday present from Al, in anticipation of the coming winter blaze in the fireplace.
•    And certainly not least, this week marks the beginning of all day Saturday college football! Neither set of my bears (Baylor and Ole Miss) has lost a game. The month will be even better if I’m still able to say that when it is over.

So let the games begin and join me in “The Sweet Song of September.”

Jade Dragon Mountain

Debut novelist Elsa Hart begins Jade Dragon Mountain with Li Du, an exiled librarian; Hamza, a traveling storyteller; and Brother Pieter, Jesuit astronomy scholar. She puts them in the Yunnan province of China, considered to be dangerous and uncivilized, in the eighteenth century. Her descriptions of the setting vividly portray the time and place. In a move reminiscent of A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, she adds the coming event of the Emperor’s arrival when he will prove his divinity by bringing on an eclipse of the sun.

The murder mystery begins when Brother Pieter is found dead after a formal dinner. Li Du’s cousin Tulishen, the magistrate, wants to pass it off as an accident so it will not interfere with the coming celebration. Li Du, foregoes his option of continuing his travels out of China and does what he must to stay and solve the mystery. His cousin requires that it must be finished before the celebration. Suspects abound from Tibetan bandits, the Dominicans who would like to discredit the Jesuits who have provided the Emperor with information he’s using to “bring” the eclipse, members of the magistrate’s household, and even the magistrate himself. With a feel of Arthur Conan Doyle mixed with Agatha Christie, Li Du uses his library skills, overheard conversations, and observations of people to find the solution.  

Intertwined in the mystery is the puzzle of the splendid tellurion. Family secrets and tensions add other posers to the solution and yet another mystery that must be solved even after the murderer is caught.

If you need car chases and bedroom scenes, this is not the murder you are looking for. If you’d like to get away to ancient China for a mystery wrapped inside a historical novel, it’s just the ticket.

Remembering Katrina

Ten years ago today, we fielded phone calls and emails from children and their spouses in three states urging us to go to our daughter’s home in Texas out of the path of the oncoming hurricane. In desperation, they finally put the oldest grandson on the phone to urge his grandfather to head out of the path of the storm. Al was not to be moved. (Did he think he could hold the roof on while better than 100 mph winds blew across?)
    We spent the 29th hunkered down without electricity. The youngest son pleaded a sprained ankle or some such to stay home and make periodic phone calls. Our phone was the only thing that never went out. He reported to his siblings via email all day and back to us with instructions from the daughter to remain in the inside hall because “curiosity killed the cat.”
    We were fortunate that Al had no need to do the roof bit. We were the only people on our street that didn’t sport a blue tarp somewhere on top of their house the next week. Compared to others, our damage was small. But my grief was real, both for my own loss and for the greater devastation I saw around me. I coped, as usual, by writing. This piece was published in the “Getting Back to Normal” issue of Thema literary magazine (Autumn 2008).

KATRINA’S AFTERMATH

Four years ago –
Mississippi woods out back
clinched the sale
of a home to grow old in.

The woods turned me
into a child again –
ambling down Papaw’s lane;
watching squirrels play tag through the treetops;
seeing cardinals and Eastern bluebirds
swoop from tree to tree;
listening to woodpeckers rat-a-tatting;
surrounded by majestic oaks, swaying pines, “hicker-nut” trees,
beautyberry bushes.

The morning after Katrina’s
opaque white rain and roaring wind,
in my woods,
pines stand popped off like
little boys’ pencil fights,
roots and trunks of stately oaks
fallen crosswise
like too many grandchildren
sleeping in the same bed.


Pieces of my heart shatter into

grief with searchers
for family and friends;

mourning for lost
jobs and homes;

anger at those who
loot, shoot, and gouge;

relief that Katrina is gone and
we are safe;

gratitude for
our intact home;

and one sizeable shard of
lament for woods
that will not renew in my lifetime.

We had our pictures in the paper that fall, not for our loss, but for having a woodcutter salvage the neighborhood hardwood trees for our fireplace – two winters’ worth.
     Ten years later, the back woods has returned with scrub brush and fast-growing trees. It doesn’t look bad at all, but it will be a while before the oaks and sweet gums rise to their height.
     And if another major hurricane bears down upon us, and Al refuses to budge – I’ll pray for his safety as I head to Texas. 

Beforeglow to Afterglow - Mississippi Book Festival

Beforeglow, not a word because my computer quickly drew its bright red line, should be one. Some things begin before they start like our trip to the inaugural Mississippi Book Festival.

The beforeglow began with the arrival of three bookworm cronies from the New Orleans area for Friday lunch. Words were cast around the table between bites until our plates were empty. We left table cleanup to the resident Butler (Al) and headed to Jackson with words spilling back and forth all the way and arrived just in time to meet our longtime friend and festival presenter, Kimberly Willis Holt, for coffee and more word flow. Words continued through dinner and past normal bedtimes.

Saturday morning, we stood in place ready for the event as the band played a rousing welcome. Crowd favorites included patriotic renditions of “America” and “Stars and Stripes Forever.” Attendees were stunned with the announcement that this talented group had been together at Jackson State University band camp for only two weeks!

The welcome ceremony led by John Grisham preceded the only festival glitch. We arrived at our first session to find the room already filled to fire marshal capacity – and we had not lollygagged to get there. Thinking it was “Harper Lee Considered” popularity, we tried a second group only to find it full as well. Not to be daunted, we stood in line for our second hour choice to be sure we had a place! Rumors floating around during the day said these were not the only sessions leaving people frustrated by fire marshal regulations! Who would have anticipated that the very first Mississippi Book Festival would have been attended by more than 3,000 people? Truly an embarrassment of riches!

We filled the rest of the day – in crowded rooms – hearing sessions on “Children’s Books,” “Young Readers,” “What Reading Means for Our Culture,” greeting our other bookworm friends old and new, and buying a few books to get signatures.  

The John Grisham session illustrated the event’s camaraderie. As he tried to get his tale straight of driving up highway 55 during his first writing venture, he stalled, saying, “Winona Stuckey’s, maybe.” Several voices in the crowd yelled, “Vaiden Stuckey’s.” Having righted his location, he continued his story. An audience favorite was his “hard teacher” story, interrupted with the revelation that she was sitting a couple of rows back. She stood to acknowledge the great crowd applause.

Afterglow began as words of remembrance flew in the car as we headed home and were shared around the table with the resident Butler who had grilled hamburgers for our first real sustenance of the day – no time during the event to eat more than the cookies we had squirreled away. It continues as I mark my calendar for next year on August 20, 2016. I’m confident the planners will anticipate spectacular attendance and figure out a way to keep both the attendees and the fire marshal happy.

Balancing the Budget

I recently read in another writer’s blog about the mindful need to support writers without having to sell the car or take out a second mortgage. If one is an avid reader (AKA bookworm), this could happen. I confess there’ve been months when the largest item on my credit card bill was the local book store. I’ve come up with some solutions, most of them readily available to any reader.

As a blogger, I qualify as a member of Net Galley which offers a multitude of advance reading copies before the books hit the market. The publisher’s goal, naturally, is advance publicity for their books. This “reading for free” should not scare my blog followers. I only give blog reviews, with very few exceptions, for those that I would give at least four of five stars. I give feedback to the publisher on the others, but Net Galley does not require that I blog about the books they send. Since they have a huge selection, I try to choose those I assume would get a high ranking from me. I still only have twenty-four hours in my day and don’t need to waste a single one reading something that does not bring either enlightenment or pleasure.

The second choice awaits any dedicated reader. An obsession with putting words on paper is not necessary. This one involves becoming friendly with a librarian or two (a pleasure in itself). I’ve become friendly with our local public librarians and our church librarian. I recommend books to each with a request for a hold so I can read first. Selfish of me? Sure, but they gain an appraiser who reads reviews and looks for the best and the ones most appropriate for their library patrons in that long list of books that comes out each month. Their readers get the books quickly since I put those books on the top of my pile and read fast. Win – win – win.

My third way involves ten grandchildren and various friends and relatives who need gifts from time to time. What could be better than a good book that fits the personality and interest of the recipient? The books are not harmed at all if I pre-read them before I wrap them up.

Of course one can always borrow and loan books with friends which may ultimately be one of the best ways to help a writer. More often than not it’s the word of mouth sharing of “You’ve got to read this book,” that makes a book a hit, especially for authors whose names have not yet become a brand.

Then when push comes to shove, there are books I want on my shelf because I want to read them again or just because it makes me happy to see them there. USPS just brought a package of those. I’m doing my part to support my fellow writers. So far, I haven’t had to sell the car.

What's for Supper?

Sometimes choosing a book resembles a trip to the grocery store without a clear idea of what’s for supper. Passing along the meat counter, suddenly you become hungry for pork chops. With a few minutes to kill before my meeting in USM’s Cook Library, I cruised the curriculum materials stacks where they keep children’s books without a planned selection. Passing down the shelves, I had a sudden craving for a Pam Munoz Ryan story.

Remembered flavor of Esperanza Rising made my mouth water, and I pulled out Becoming Naomi Leon, another book arising from her combined Mexican and Oklahoma heritages. Chapter headings of “a lamentation of swans,” “an unkindness of ravens,” and “a schizophrenia of hawks” promised good reading. Checking my favorite place for flavor, I read the first line. “I always thought the biggest problem in my life was my name, Naomi Soledad Leon Outlaw, but little did I know that it was the least of my troubles, or that someday I would live up to it.” The book enticed and satisfied as Naomi’s world in Avocado Acres Trailer Rancho in Lemon Tree, CA with Gram and her little brother is upset by the appearance of her mother after a seven year absence. I won’t spoil the book by telling you how she lived up to her name.

Other times choosing a book takes you back to the grocery store idea facing a trip and a need of a big bag of chips to last to your destination. Heading to Texas, I needed a long book. (Yes, I can read in the car. I give deepest sympathy for those who would lose six hours of reading time for motion sickness.) How fortunate that Pam Munoz Ryan has a new almost six hundred page book out called Echo with another good beginning. “Fifty years before the war to end all wars, a boy played hide-and-seek with his friends in a pear orchard bordered by a dark forest.”

The first segment took me back to being a child enthralled in a fairy tale that dropped off before the finish with a special mouth harp – a harmonica in the hands of the messenger. Three stories follow with a unique harmonica. Could it be the same?
•    October 1933 – Trossingen, Baden-Wurttemberg, Germany – Friedrich finds a harmonica in a drawer with a tiny red letter M that will be with him as his family deals with the Nazis.
•    June 1935 – Philadelphia County, Pennsylvania, USA – Mike, trying to stay together with his brother Frankie as the leave the homeless boys’ shelter, chooses a box that looks different when their benefactor offers to buy them harmonicas – and opens it to find one with a small hand-painted red M.
•    December 1942 – Southern California, USA – Ivy, in La Colonia’s music class with Miss Delgado, chooses her harmonica from a box and traces the tiny red M painted on one edge.

These stories weave together beautifully in April 1951 – New York City, New York, U.S.A. – but that’s not all. A second ending is for the fairy tale.

A book with three good stories inside a fairy tale – if this one doesn’t get discussed by the Newbery Committee, somebody isn’t paying attention!

My appetitie, appeased for the moment, tells me to head back to that grocery to be ready when hunger returns.

About Those Editors

Seeing Harper Lee’s need for an editor, as I noted in my last blog, started me thinking of how many editors I’ve worked with. I turned up quite a few with a fair range of hands-off and hands-on styles. Some made minor changes without bothering me, which is okay. I follow Chicago Manual of Style for “Sunday school,” but if you want to do “Sunday School” for your publication, fine by me.

I’ll go ahead and get out of the way that I was once frustrated to see one small piece published with my byline that didn’t look either like what I sent, or like anything I would have written. I wasn’t consulted about the changes. I’d worked happily with that editor several times on two different publications. I have no idea what got into him. If you leave out the inevitable rejection letters, it’s the only bad editor experience I remember.

My first regular dip into professional writing came in different church curriculum and devotional assignments that ranged from children through adults. Once an editor emailed me about something that wasn’t working and asked if I’d like to fix it or have her make changes. As you might guess, I fixed it. During those days of writing to word counts, another editor taught me to save precious words by turning prepositional phrases into one extraordinary adjective or a precise noun.

My submission to Highlights of an Ezra Jack Keats story came back with eight or nine questions or recommendations. It ended with an apology for the long list but an invitation to resubmit if I cared to take the trouble. Of course, I did! The biggest change I made was reflected as my original title “Stamp Our Sameness” became “Celebrate Variety.” The negative tone toward uniformity in the article flipped to the positive one of diversity. I saw the remarkable improvement myself before I resubmitted the piece and enjoyed working with Kim Griswell over the next few months as we polished for publication.

Sometimes the editing has been for style of that particular magazine as Lonnie Plecha replaced my KFC with Tastee Chicken in a story I wrote for Cricket magazine. (They don’t use real brands.) I answered his authenticity questions about whether metal detectors go “beep” and “click” at our Gander Mountain store and whether crinum lilies (aka milk-and-wine lilies to gardeners or Papaw’s lilies to our family) go on for generations with Mississippi garden expert Felder Rushing. They do and they do.

My experience with editors overwhelmingly has been satisfaction as they have pulled out my best and given the kind of encouragement that keeps a faded note from an early editor on my bulletin board for discouraging days. The editor, moving on to new horizons, ended her note, “You are an editor’s dream, and I hope many have the joy of discovering you!”

And so do I  . . . and so do I!

Go Set a Watchman

In case you need yet one more opinion about Go Set a Watchman, I’ll give you mine. I’ll skip the hoopla and mere speculation about whether Harper Lee made an informed consent for its publication.

In the opening, I could hear Harper Lee’s voice. “Since Atlanta, she had looked out the dining-car window with a delight almost physical. Over the breakfast coffee, she watched the last of Georgia’s hills recede and the red earth appear, and with it tin-roofed houses set in the middle of swept yards, and in the yards the inevitable verbena grew, surrounded by whitewashed tires.” From time to time, it came again, “On the thirtieth of September she sat through classes and learned nothing.”

Most of the book read like a draft. I’ve created enough drafts to recognize one when I see it. Listen to almost any author speak on the subject, and you’ll get the idea that reading their early drafts has the appeal of a neglected weed-infested back yard. John Green and Richard Peck, who’ve won all kinds of book awards, claim to do six entire drafts before allowing their manuscripts out.

Reading the book gave me great appreciation for Harper Lee’s editor, Tay Hohoff. Kerry Madden, in Up Close:Harper Lee, quotes Tay’s reaction to the original, “There were dangling threads of a plot, there was a lack of unity . . .” and her wisdom about beginning writers, “. . .many writers try for publication before they are ready . . .” I recognized this evaluation as I read. It took three years of working together for editor and writer to produce the masterpiece that is To Kill a Mockingbird.

I’m not sorry I read Go Set a Watchman. Comparison of the two books gave a vivid picture of the process and what can happen when a good writer meets a good editor.  

In the best of all possible worlds, I’d wish Tay Hohoff had come back with Harper Lee to address some things I found bothersome and written a true sequel.
•    Several unexpected and unexplained shifts from third to first person distract the reader.
•    Justification is needed of how Atticus and Calpurnia of To Kill a Mockingbird became Atticus and Calpurnia of Go Set a Watchman. There needs to be some triggering event or gradual circumstance to make that drastic change believable.
•    The painting of the black and white communities in Go Set a Watchman with two single brushes disturbed me, as it often does in books portraying this era. Those extremes certainly existed, but with plenty of attitude shades between. A whole community of men in the Citizens Council seemed highly unlikely. I knew many white Mississippians that saw the council as a fringe group. Alabama, surely, was no different.

Go Set a Watchman should be read for the historical document it is – of a writer beginning her way and an editor who did her job and helped her polish the jewel that became To Kill a Mockingbird.

On Friday, I will blog about some of my own experiences with editors.

Distractions

In what seemed like a good idea at the time, I put my working desk in front of my office window. It has mostly come off as planned – a happy writing place with a feel for being outside while enjoying the comfort of air-conditioning in this Mississippi-in-August oven. But there are distractions.

The butterflies and bumblebees have discovered the flowers I planted, my favorites right outside this window – as it turns out, their favorites, too. From tiny nondescript brown butterflies through several varieties and colors up to the magnificent Emperors, these Lepidoptera (my second major was science) flit from place to place bringing to mind the name given to them in Birds and Blooms Magazine of “flying flowers.”

And the bumblebees! I’d never thought they were fascinating until they discovered the flower in this picture. I forget its name, but I got three one spring a few years ago and now have a yard full thanks to reseeding. The bees evidently love the nectar on this willowy plant.  I become entranced as they latch onto the flower causing it to go up and down like a vertical pendulum. Absorbed in its meal, the bee seems not to notice his joyride.

Neither of these, however, causes as great an interruption as the hummingbird who drinks at the feeder and entertains in payment. Some days, she stops dead in front of my window in a holding flight pattern to stare at me. I think she’s saying, “Thanks for breakfast. It was delicious.” Other times, she brings a friend to play out an elaborate dance.

However, I think the hummingbird’s onto me. In this last view with her cocked head, I see a look I used to give students when they’d lollygagged long enough, a look that says better than words, “Play time is over. Now get back to work.”

I answer just like they did. “Yes, ma’am, I was just fixing* to.”

*(For those not from the South, there is no proper verb that means exactly the same thing as "fixing.")

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.