Tis' the Season

I do love the holidays beginning with the goblins of Halloween; building through the gratefulness of Thanksgiving; borrowing the nightly candle-lighting from a Jewish friend’s Facebook Hanukkah posts; cooking, decorating, and singing Christmas; money cabbage and good luck black-eyed peas for New Year’s; and continuing right on through the King Cake of Mardi Gras in Louisiana and South Mississippi.

In the current segment, you will not be surprised that books are part of my Christmas décor – several versions of A Christmas Carol; Patricia and Frederick McKissak’s Christmas in the Big House: Christmas in the Quarters; Katherine Paterson’s A Midnight Clear: Stories for the Christmas Season; and Jimmy Carter’s Christmas in Plains – to name a few. To be sure I don’t miss anything, there’s the Encyclopedia of Christmas. Contain your shock when I tell you I got distracted from decorating as I thumbed through this final book finding colleagues of Santa Claus – Black Peter in the Netherlands, Babushka and Grandfather Frost in Russia, and La Befana in Italy.

Then I stumbled on the story of England’s Boxing Day which brought a memory of the Church of England’s assistant to the chaplain during the days when Al worked at SHAPE Headquarters. In her tradition, Christmas Day was for family and Boxing Day on the 26th for friends. She and her husband hosted her officemates who were assistants to the American Protestant (Al) and Catholic chaplains on this extra day of celebration. She included their wives in the dinner invitation, and I did not object. Like I said, I love celebrations.

So is there a point here? Maybe. This brings me to my own weird take on a current discussion. If you wish me a “Merry Christmas,” I will appreciate it and probably wish you one in return, assuming you hope I have a joy-filled December 25th. On the other hand, if you wish me “Happy Holidays,” I will assume you hope I will enjoy every day from Halloween through Mardi Gras, maybe even all the way to Easter, including the ones I’ve borrowed from someone else.

With that understanding in mind, I wish all of you happy holidays, not to lessen the “merry” in your Christmas, but in the hope that your joy in all the holidays you celebrate will last a very long time.

Paris Christmas

When I think of years that Christmas was really special, the last year we were in France always comes to mind. This year that memory is more cherished than ever as the news that has placed the city in the spotlight.

Al, at the beginning of his Army career, brought home a paycheck barely big enough to stretch from one end of the month to the other. I stayed home caring for a two-year-old. While these years hold some of our most cherished memories, there was little money to spare for Christmas extravagance. Murray got a rocking horse that brought riding pleasure and became a companion to a kid with a lively imagination. The horse heard many toddler conversations and was sometimes offered a turn with the pacifier.

Al and I decided to forgo our presents and spend our Christmas money on tickets to hear The Messiah at the Paris Opera. The night was properly crisp as we took the Metro downtown with two other couples. Stepping into the streets as we exited, our eyes were bedazzled with tiny white lights strung everywhere in decoration for Christmas. I always call up that vision when I hear Paris described as the “city of lights.”  I probably don’t need to say that the rendition of the oratorio was the best we’ve ever heard.

Our Christmas card for that year showed what remains my favorite snapshot that I ever took. I’m not going to tell you that Murray was actually reading the Paris guidebook in the picture, recently enhanced to its original clarity by a friend. He wasn’t quite that precocious, but he’d seen me poring over the book enough to know it had treasures inside, and he was looking for them.

That Christmas past is far behind this Christmas present, but my wish for that city and for each of you remains the same – that this year will hold peace on earth and goodwill among all people.

Egg and Spoon

Perhaps a worse mistake than judging a book by its cover is judging a book by its title. The leader of our de Grummond Book Group suggested Egg and Spoon for this month’s read. Aware of how knowledgeable she is about children’s literature, I had the good sense to keep my first thought of “How boring can that be?” to myself.

After my local library notified me that my requested copy was in, my attitude took a quick upward turn. The cover showed neither egg nor spoon, but an outline of tsarist Russia, forests and waving water, a firebird, nesting dolls, and a train that spouted information in its smoke that the book was written by Gregory Maguire, best-selling author of Wicked. Three interesting quotes were in the front matter, but the last really intrigued me.

       Was there ever a time when all of us had enough to eat?

       Well, honeybucket, that depends on what you mean by “us.”

I read only a few pages before I put the book aside. My second thought included the assurance that if I got any further, my obligations and to-do list would come up lacking. I could see Egg and Spoon leading me directly into that “just one more chapter” trap. I looked ahead for a window of time.

The book’s imprisoned narrator, in Jane Eyre fashion, introduces himself with intimations that he has a story of his own and hints that it will turn up in this one that he’s telling. Almost immediately, I saw a similarity in the main characters, Cat and Elena, to The Prince and the Pauper. As I began to notice references to other literary and musical standards, I wished I had started a list. It would have included the witch with her gingerbread house, “sunrise, sunset, unwise, upset,” Mary Poppinskaya, and many more. All this is done with the author’s tongue implanted in his cheek since many of them had not been written when the tsar was conscripting young men for his army. Engaged as I became in the story, I could have forgotten the poor narrator except that he popped in for comment and occasional reminders that he is coming nearer to entering the tale.

The story is part adventure, part fairy tale, part satire, and all fun. The cover wound up being a better indicator of the pleasure in the book than its title. In my third thought, I suggest that you treat yourself. Plan for a good read, but not on a day when you have obligations scheduled, and if you’re in the neighborhood, join us at USM’s Cook Library at 11:30 on the third Thursday of any month for a lively discussion.

In my final thought, it occurs to me that I never read the popular Wicked. Maybe the holidays will give me another window of time.

Treasures for the Season

I’m borrowing and expanding on a helpful suggestion for the season for the very young and the very young at heart from the Ezra Jack Keats Foundation. Their newly designed website at www.ezra-jack-keats.org has games, animated read-alouds and activities for kids, materials and opportunities for educators, and information for interested Keats enthusiasts. There’s also a place to sign up for their newsletter. This month’s edition has a great suggestion of three of his titles for the holiday season.

The first, The Snowy Day, reigns as a children’s favorite whether or not the kids will actually see snow. In San Antonio where I taught kindergarten or here in South Mississippi, children are more likely to be wearing short sleeves on Christmas Day than playing in the snow. Nevertheless, they celebrate the white stuff. My kindergarteners loved my imitation Keats snow banks on my bulletin board and the snow pictures they made with chalk on blue construction paper after we read his story. I feel sure children who live in snowy climates go out and reconstruct Peter’s activities in their own yards, although most of them know better than to try to save a snowball in their pockets.

The second suggestion, The Little Drummer Boy, is Keats’s illustration of the beloved story song of the little boy who had only his “pa-rum-pum-pum-pum” to play before the king. My copy was a Christmas present from my daughter. I took the gift to mean that I fit the very young at heart category.

The last book in the list, God Is in the Mountain, reflects a bit of his philosophy that is also on the website, ““If we could see each other exactly as the other is, this would be a different world.” He selected wise quotations from many cultures and religions and illustrated them in three colors. The title quote “God is in the mountain,” comes from Sikhism, but the sense of finding God in the mountain can be found in a number of religions. Moses and Mt. Sinai come readily to my mind.

It’s easy to see the inclusion, rather than exclusion, that was his way of life reflected in different ways in each of the books. Growing up as a Jewish child in a multicultural neighborhood, Keats appreciated those around him. I think my favorite example is the picture on the penultimate text page of The Little Drummer Boy. It reminds me of a story he told about peeking into a church with colored glass windows when he was a child and seeing a statue of a lady with a shawl over her head looking at her baby tenderly. I can’t help but wonder if that experience was in his head when he painted the picture. A culture not his own fed his art.

Children, young and not-so-young, have much to gain from seeing each other as they really are - perhaps a different and more peaceful world.  

Ashley Bell

Setting the stage for his thriller, Dean Koontz begins his novel, Ashley Bell, with “The year before Bibi Blair turned ten, which was twelve years before Death came calling on her, the sky was a grim vault of sorrow . . .” He attributes these words to Bibi, who at the tender age of ten already writes short stories and keeps a diary of poetic prose.

Descriptions of thrillers as opposed to mystery novels include words like suspense, intrigue, anxiety, adventure, and surprise. Ashley Bell contains all of these. Bibi faces a diagnosis of terminal cancer, a troubling memory she can’t quite call to mind, a military fiancé on a secret mission, and hovering parents. The trouble really starts when she’s told that her life has been saved so that she can save someone else. For the reader, part of the problem lies in the unreliability of Bibi’s perspective. Actually, that is part of the problem for Bibi herself.

In her search for what has happened to her and what may happen to Ashley Bell, whoever that is, she comes to the conclusion that home is more a place in the heart than a physical house, and even if a physical house is destroyed, she believes it survives as long as someone who loved it still lives. She concludes, “Home was the story of what happened there, not the story of where it happened.”

While I may be influenced to like a book because it quotes Charles Dickens – “phantoms caused by a disorder of the stomach, by an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese” – the real reason I liked the book was the constant apprehension as I tried to decipher with Bibi what was real and what was not.

I read the novel, that goes on sale December 8, in an advance copy from Net Galley. If you are looking to lose yourself in a chilling novel or to find out who Ashley Bell was, you can’t go wrong with marking out a day or so to read this book.

Fall Colors - Really?

Our usual saying about fall color in South Mississippi is that leaves turn brown and then turn loose. Summer holds on too long, and leaves don’t get long enough between seasons for the green color-hiding chlorophyll to dissipate and reveal the yellows, reds, and oranges.

This year has been a bit different. There aren’t the huge splashes of color like those in the hills of North Mississippi, but here and there fall foliage lovers can find a bit of satisfaction. In fact, that satisfaction can intrude on tasks listed on the to-do list.

This past Monday on a day that the weatherman hinted might be the last of pleasant warm days with a light breeze, the view from my porch swing included a colorful sweet gum tree silhouetted against a dark green pine with a background of a blue, white-clouded sky. Yellow, red, and orange leaves twisted and turned in the breeze. Without moving my head, I could see the yellow of an unknown tree farther down the ditch with an orange crepe myrtle waving in front.

My conscience reminded me of my “to-do” list that was inside on my computer. Arguing with myself, I knew this kind of day and this view would likely not come again this year. I moved from critic and lawyer to become the arbitrator. Some of those things on the “to-do” list, the reading and writing, could be done just as easily outside either on the swing or the wrought iron picnic table. I could combine work and pleasure.

Having made peace with me, myself, and I, the day became pleasant with the breeze and the view, and productive with reading and writing. And I have a memory stored in my head to call up when the days of winter are wet and dreary.  

Not If I See You First

Eric Lindstrom’s debut novel, Not If I See You First, begins with a set of rules – rules that at first glance seem useful for building a relationship with a blind person.

• Number 4 – Don’t help me unless I ask. Otherwise, you’re getting in my way or bothering me.

• Number 3 – Don’t touch my cane or any of my stuff. I need everything exactly where I left it.

• Number 2 – Don’t touch me without asking or warning me.

• Number 1 – Don’t deceive me. Ever. Especially about my blindness. Especially in public.

It’s this last rule that sets Parker Grant up to lose a relationship with Scott Kilpatrick, a friendship she needs after being orphaned.

Parker, fiercely independent, makes a life for herself that includes all the joy and angst of being a teenager with her blindness making potholes in her road, but not barriers that bring her journey to a standstill. She awards herself a gold star for every day she doesn’t cry after her father’s death, gives blunt advice to lovelorn classmates, and runs on legs that work much better than her eyes. At times, she finds it an advantage not to see how people react to what she says.

Relationships with her aunt’s family that move in with her, friends and classmates, and teachers aren’t that different from sighted people. Both Parker and her friends discover blind spots that have nothing to do with eyes.

What about the rules? I thought as I read that these rules would be helpful to anyone who wanted to have a genuine friendship with a person who happened to be blind. All the same, I was glad when Parker came to see that even the best of rules sometimes need to be bent. While this contemporary novel that I read in an advance reading copy from Net Galley is listed for young adults, it’s a good read for older adults, too. It goes on sale December 1.

My Turn! My Turn!

My second favorite part of Thanksgiving dinner is cooking it – my first favorite being the people gathered to eat. For many years in our Army designated homes in three countries outside the USA and five states outside our home state of Mississippi where our extended families still lived, our hosting of the family feast has been impractical, if not impossible. Usually, we held our own wherever we were and invited guests who were also far from their homes of origin.

Occasionally, we made the trek to Mississippi and partook of both a Butler and McGee Thanksgiving meal. My mother-in-law, whose lifelong passion was feeding her four boys and ultimately their offspring, was queen of her kitchen. Beyond stirring a pot or setting the table, she allowed no help.

My mother, who was not fond of kitchen duties, gladly turned over any meal I wanted to do. She might or might not have the seasonings I thought I needed. She might or might not have the size pan I wanted to use. She remained sure I could cope and took herself out to visit with the guests in another room. If the eaters noticed my perceived preparation deficiencies, they were not mentioned.

Memorable Thanksgivings occurred in both houses, including the one when Beth brought her prospective husband Don, an only child, into the craziness of four sisters. It is a testament to his courage that he did not flee.

My own Thanksgiving philosophy lies somewhere between these two who set the example, much like my dressing combines elements of both of theirs. And times have changed. For several reasons, including our move to South Mississippi, my house has been convenient in recent years for the sisters to gather for the celebration. We missed one sister this year because of an unexpected family illness, but two sisters and the unflappable brother-in-law joined Al and me for the feast. Since it’s my house and I get to call the shots, we included a picture book in our offering of thanks – Breaking the Bread by Pat Zeitlow Miller.

I claimed “My turn! My turn!” as I pulled out my favorite pans and seasonings. And I contend that with all the years I’ve missed the privilege of cooking the family Thanksgiving meal at my house, it can be “my turn” for a very long time. I add to that contention my hope that everyone will be well enough in coming years for all four sisters and other family members to be present.

(For the record, the dog returned to the floor after the photo op.)

What Pet Should I Get?

From the stash of manuscripts left after the death of Dr. Seuss, has come a new book – What Pet Should I Get? Since he is not here to ask, even the experts can only guess when it was written, why it wasn’t published, or whether it is an early part of another published book. The boy and girl are the same ones who show up in One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. Maybe this is an early version of that book that took a different turn after he started writing.

What is known is that Dr. Seuss was a perfectionist. It took him nine months to write the 236 words in The Cat in the Hat. Sometimes a book took as long as a year. His advice is still good for any writer, “Each sentence, each word is important. Don’t rush. Keep molding your writing until it’s just right.” Perhaps that is why so many editors discourage writing in rhyme. Few people put the required time into perfecting the few words that make a rhyming picture book sing, and those who try to imitate Seuss usually wind up with a poor simulated sing-song. (This includes me.)

His first book, And to Think That I Saw It on Mulberry Street, went out at least twenty times to rejections. I’ve seen as high as twenty-seven. Whatever the number, he had reached the discouraging point of deciding he would take it home and burn it when he happened to run into the person who eventually helped him get it published. And the rest, they say , , ,

The new book, called to my attention and loaned by my friendly church librarian, has that Seuss feel and fun. A kid (or former kid) will certainly relate to the problem of choosing the exact right pet when there can be only one. I’m guessing he wasn’t through with the manuscript because the fine-tuning is not quite to the level of the well-worn copy of One Fish, Two Fish that I got out for comparison, but is still far ahead of his imitators. The back matter with its insight into how Seuss worked is a reward for the former kid who reads it aloud to a present kid.

So I enjoyed the new book and took to heart two lessons from the good doctor – perfectionism and persistence.

Stumbling into Thankful

I didn’t start the “one-a-day things to be thankful for” in November like some of my friends on Facebook although I have enjoyed theirs and often thought, “Me, too.” I certainly could have found that many, but I wasn’t sure I would keep up with the task. It seemed worse to let it drift off than not to start.

But in the mood of the season, I experienced one this week that I would be remiss not to mention. You may have noticed that I’ve become quite fond of my adopted hometown of Hattiesburg, MS. One of its jewels nestled right downtown is the Oddfellows Gallery, and I am thankful.

Frequently, their displays feature local artists who work in a variety of mediums. Currently, in conjunction with the de Grummond Children’s Literature Collection, the gallery is showcasing the works of Tasha Tudor. Children’s books, advent calendars, and greeting card art line the walls with showcases displaying her intricate doll house fittings, doll books, and floral boxes. Since Tasha was such a lover of fabrics and things that could be made from them, the gallery has intermingled quilt art from the local award-winning Pine Belt Quilter’s Guild.

As I completed the second event yesterday that the gallery has hosted in connection with the exhibit, it seemed imperative that I add it to the list of things for which I am grateful. The exhibit runs through December with normal hours from 11AM – 5PM Thursday through Saturday. But if you are like me and have a sister in town who will leave before the proper hours, they are gracious with appointments (601-544-5777) for a different personal time.

One more special event remains – a St. Nicholas Tea at 4 PM on December 12, advertised for parents and children dressed in their finest. I’m planning to attend, claiming that I have been both parent and child, and am pulling out my nicest duds. Like the other best things in life for which I am grateful, all this is free. Just let them know you’re coming to tea by logging in to www.lib.usm.edu/tashatudor.  If you are too far away, I am so sorry. Maybe on your next visit to the area, you can add the gallery to your list and see whatever they are currently showcasing.

Last in a Long Line of Rebels

Bits of a Civil War diary by Louise Duncan Mayhew in the 1860s, introduce each chapter of Lisa Lewis Tyre’s middle grade novel, Last in a Long Line of Rebels. That story informs the primary one of present day urgency for the writer’s namesake Lou Mayhew as she tries to save her home from being demolished in a case of eminent domain.

In her debut novel, Lisa Tyre sets her story in rural Tennessee where the characters ring true and the family doorbell plays “Rocky Top,” the University of Tennessee theme song.

Lou has several issues beside saving her house that are skillfully woven into the mix. There’s the richer classmate gloating over her upcoming trip while insinuating that Lou will have nothing interesting to tell at the end of the summer, the embarrassment of discovering that her ancestors were slave owners, the black high school friend shafted by a racially biased coach who recommends a less skilled white player for an athletic scholarship at UT, and the impending birth of a new sibling. She gets her adventure underway with a rash promise to attend church in a last resort prayer and a hope that she and her cronies can find some rumored gold hidden during the Civil War. Her hip grandmother Bertie, who is bound to be up to something, adds additional color.

Near the halfway mark in the novel, Lou discovers the diary. The note at its beginning gives her a connection with its author:

            If you find this, my dear friend

            The heartfelt musings I have penned

            Know they belong to me alone

            Until I lie beneath cold stone.

                                    Louise Duncan 

Humor abounds in comments like, “Just my luck. The one time I wanted to hear the preacher ramble on, he couldn’t” or “Pastor Brown said . . . that money doesn’t buy happiness. I could tell him that being poor ain’t no big whoop either.” Other lines touch the heart, “It struck me that mothers spend a lot of time saying bye.”

If you have a middle schooler who loves a good book, buy a copy for a gift. Treat yourself and pre-read it before you give it away. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. 

Oddly Superstitious Day

Full disclosure – I didn’t notice this myself. Charles Osgood pointed it out on last week’s CBS Sunday Morning. Writing today’s date numerically gets you a sequential odd set of numbers – 11/13/15. To top it off, it’s Friday the thirteenth! I’ve been thinking all week about how to celebrate this odd day by doing something different, even if it doesn’t qualify as weird. They say (and you know what authorities “they” are) that changing from routine to novelty exercises the brain, and mine definitely could use a workout. I scrutinized several choices and discarded them.

We could do our morning walk at the mall clockwise instead of counterclockwise. Not a choice. Al is a creature of habit and not into novelty. He also believes that counterclockwise is The Right Way to walk.

I could try writing with my left hand – one of the chosen exercises “they” recommend. Not a choice. I sometimes have trouble deciphering my writing with my dominant hand once it’s gotten cold. I’m sure I couldn’t read anything I wrote with my left.

So for now, I’ll keep it minor. We always have hamburgers on Saturday night. We’ll be away for supper tomorrow night so I think we’ll have them tonight instead, and I’ll try to remember not to go to church tomorrow though it will feel like Sunday.

I could leave the bed unmade. Also not a choice. I can live with dust and clutter and would win no prizes for housekeeping, but there is something about an unmade bed that seriously disturbs my psyche.

As for the superstitions, if I run into a black cat and break a mirror while crossing under a ladder with my umbrella up inside on this Friday the thirteenth, I’ll just snap the wishbone on last night’s chicken, pick up any penny I find, cross my fingers, knock on wood, and hope for some beginner’s luck. 

In the Footsteps of Crazy Horse

One of the real difficulties with diverse literature comes from assessing the credibility of the writer. Joseph Marshall III, an enrolled member of the Sicangu Lakota (Rosebud Sioux) tribe, raised in a traditional Lakota household, brings a sense of authenticity to In the Footsteps of Crazy Horse. I read an advance reading copy furnished by Net Galley of this middle grade novel to be released on November 10. The element of his book with the grandfather telling young Jimmy McClean stories of Tasunke Witko (Crazy Horse) reflects the author’s own rearing by maternal grandparents skilled in oral storytelling, but is easily relatable to a child of any culture where a grandfather and grandson share a strong bond and a love of story.

The basis of the narrative begins when Jimmy McClean is teased and bullied by one white and one Lakota classmate who can only agree with each other when they torture him about his blue eyes and light brown hair. Jimmy’s mother sums up his situation, “The problem is your three Lakota parts are all hidden inside. Your one white part is on the outside.”

Grandfather Nyles, in a unique way, helps Jimmy come to terms with his own feelings about his three quarters Lakota and one quarter white heritage. A camping trip over the surrounding territory serves as a vehicle for Grandpa Nyles to tell the story of Crazy Horse from the Lakota viewpoint. The nonfiction part of the novel shows Jimmy his heritage in a new light.

While I found Grandpa Nyles’s account of Crazy Horse slightly didactic, the book gives a perspective of that era of history through the eyes of the Lakota, a view not often seen in history books. It’s a good read and would be an excellent addition to a classroom studying this era of American history.

Can You Go Home Again?

The question has been argued for many years, but it became mine when I got the invitation issued to former pastors and their families to return for the 175th anniversary of the Hardy Baptist Church. Except for a brief drive through the village with my youngest son when he was a teenager, I had not been back since I was seven and a half. (Halves were important back then.)

A lifetime between with children and now grandchildren had me speculating on the drive up about whether there would be people who actually remembered my family. Al, who’d probably heard enough about this trip already, commented, “Maybe if you find the old people.” I reminded him that we had become the “old people.”

Given the passage of time, I didn’t expect to recognize anyone, but much to my surprise, I knew the first person I saw at the registration table. Elizabeth, the best friend of my foster sister, had been a pretty teenager the last time I’d seen her. Now she was a beautiful woman with lifelines that had fallen in pleasant places.

The packed house included people who’d returned from California to South Carolina. The main part of the program was a historical Power Point presentation that began in 1840 with a Choctaw woman. The theme of “The Light on the Hill” took its inspiration from the location of the church atop a steep hill straight up from the village and the railroad track. The inspirational account of successes and struggles down through the years had the audience enthralled when an unexpected question popped up on the screen right in the middle of the presentation. “By the way . . . do any of you remember what used to happen on Sunday mornings at Hardy Baptist Church at 11:35 a.m.?” A chorus of “The train” broke the spellbound silence. We all remembered stopping in the middle of the prayer, song, or sermon until the train had passed. The presentation included a blowing train whistle, right on time, with a return to finish the history. It seemed perfectly normal. 

On this drizzly day, dinner on the grounds was served in the fellowship hall with all the Southern dishes that traditionally go with such an occasion and a few new ones to boot. As always, enough was left over to have fed another crowd of the same size.

Time after dinner allowed me to find old acquaintances and peruse the hall filled with pictures of days gone by. Elizabeth was the only person I knew without checking a name tag, but that was okay. Everybody from my generation mingled the crowd looking at shoulders for hints they couldn’t find in faces.

I enjoyed the status of a special guest with a corsage and nametag that said, “Virginia Butler; Bro. McGee’s Daughter,” but even more I enjoyed the trip back to this little village that played a strong part in my father’s beginnings as a minister and in some happy days of my childhood.

My conclusion was that you can go home again with some stipulations. Your childhood friends will have gray hair, if they have any at all, and they may be packing pictures of grandchildren.

How Rude!

I seldom use the words “science” and “scamp” in the same sentence, nor do I normally look for science books for scamps*. However, I paused at the bookstore at a recent SCBWI conference and there it was – How Rude: 10 Real Bugs Who Won’t Mind Their Manners by Heather Montgomery.

Heather’s teaser on the first page says, “Some bugs litter. Some pass gas. Others throw poop.” The next page pictures her ten bugs posing on their platforms in “The Battle for the Grossest.” A double spread for each follows, touting their claims for the position. Every spread begins with a disgusting tidbit to intrigue young scamps and finishes with a scientific explanation of their rudeness in the same kid-friendly manner.

NPR reported a comparison of children’s and adults’ preferences in fact versus fiction in a paper published earlier this year by psychologists Jennifer Barnes, Emily Bernstein, and Paul Bloom showing that children had a preference for fact. Certainly that will be true for a book like this.

In the end, Heather doesn’t tell who wins the contest by being crowned the grossest. Instead, she gives the young scamps who read the book – or have it read to them – a place where they can vote on her website. 

I couldn’t pass this up. I bought the book and got Heather to sign it. You see I have a great nephew who qualifies as a scamp coming for Thanksgiving dinner.

*Scamp – a loveable kid with just enough mischief to be fun

PB & J

The November 2015 issue of Good Housekeeping has a running notation of significant dates at the bottom of its pages, a little bonus of fun history. Page 22 listed the 1900 purchase of the magazine by the Phelps Publishing Company and the establishment of the GH Experiment Station, the 1901 invention of the Gillette “safety razor,” and the 1901 suggestion by food writer Julia Davis Chandler to pair peanut butter and jelly to make a sandwich.

The first two GH occasions are fine, but it’s that peanut butter and jelly sandwich that ranks way up there in importance. Its virtues include convenience – doesn’t everybody keep a container of peanut butter, a jar of jelly, and some kind of bread? It’s not shabby as nutrition goes – protein in the peanut butter; fiber, vitamins, and minerals in the bread; and fruit in the jelly. Okay, maybe not the best source of fruit, but it’s in there. Best of all, it’s tasty.

Back in the 1920s Gustav Papendick invented a way to slice and wrap bread. By the time Julia came up with the sandwich, children were able to make their own sandwiches without danger of slicing themselves along with their bread. The next decade brought the Depression where the low cost product provided needed nutrition which was followed by WWII where it became a staple for US soldiers. Jon Krampner’s book, Creamy and Crunchy: An Informal History of Peanut Butter, the All-American Food (reviewed in the early days of this blog) gives more interesting history on this topic.

A survey in 2002 said the average American would have eaten 1500 PB&J sandwiches before graduating from high school. Putting my daughter into this picture, somebody didn’t get their share. School days of 180 per year times thirteen years (including kindergarten) would come to 2,540 and that doesn’t include preschool years and holidays. I’m not saying she never ate anything but PB & J, but she was never one for variety in lunch, including sticking to one brand of smooth peanut butter and grape jelly. During her college years, churches provided a sandwich meal for a traveling student musical group that she accompanied on the keyboard or piano. She often lamented that the meals seldom included PB &J.

I know there are a few people allergic to peanuts and a few more who don’t care for peanut butter. I sympathize with the first and am astounded at the second. I’m betting most my readers  have their own favorite variety of the old standby.

As with many other important things, peanut butter and jelly, has an official day on April 2. You may wait to celebrate if you like, but writing this has made me hungry. I’m off to make my sandwich on home baked wheat bread with extra crunchy peanut butter and blackberry jam.

These Shallow Graves

I became a Jennifer Donnelly fan when I read her historical novel A Northern Light. Her latest young adult novel, These Shallow Graves, will be released on October 27. My advance reading copy, furnished by Net Galley, lived up to my expectations with an added layer of mystery that ranged from unsettling to terrifying. The stage is set in September 1890.

Born to a life of privilege, Jo Montfort could opt for a year of mourning after her father’s death, follow that year with a good marriage, and live a life of ease. Unwilling to accept the cover story of her father’s accidental death while cleaning his revolver or the subsequent suicide theory, she breaks tradition and mingles with a crowd she’s not supposed to even hear about in her upper class existence in order to find the truth.

As Jo becomes friends and receives help and friendship from these people considered to be riffraff by her peers, questions arise beginning with what constitutes true freedom. Is she actually any more free, penned in by society’s expectations, than the orphans who work for a New York version of Dicken’s Fagan?

Yet another question comes in how far she can trust her reporter companion and unacceptable love interest Eddie Gallagher.

An additional puzzle comes in the meaning of the uneasy warning, “If you’re going to bury the past, bury it deep, girl. Shallow graves always give up their dead.”

A good story, a fine romance, and a chilling mystery – what better place to find a few hours’ escape than in some shallow graves?

Oh, the Irony!

Rejection can find a writer in any place at any time in this modern world. Four hours away from home at the Hampton Inn in Hoover, Alabama, I checked my email about 10:30 PM when I returned to my room. A nice polite letter, sent three hours earlier, let me know that my manuscript had not been accepted. I put the letter at number eight in my rankings system. Ten is an acceptance.

The letter included a helpful hint just in case, “If you are seeking to hone your craft of writing for young children, we recommend the resources at the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators –  http://www.scbwi.org.”

Therein lay the irony. My late time of checking email was a direct result of my being downstairs at the dessert party for the WIK 15 conference of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators! The Southern Breeze area of the national organization holds this “Writing and Illustrating for Kids” conference annually. I had chatted with a couple of editors, gotten advice from a couple of science writers, and compared notes with old and new writer friends. I’m quite sure this is the first time, and probably will be the last, that I have laughed at a rejection letter.

I not only found the sender’s comment funny, but exactly right. The rest of my SCBWI weekend was filled with information about what’s happening in the world of children’s books, ways to improve writing and enhance chances of acceptance, a personal critique pf a work-in-progress that will facilitate a rewrite, and a whole bunch of hanging out and comparing notes with my fellow scribblers.

So if you have a hankering to write for children, check out the website and look into becoming a member.

Playing with Fire

Given the opportunity from Net Galley for an advance reading copy of a novel by the creator of Rizzoli and Iles that will be released on October 27, I couldn’t resist. I was due a light fun mystery with quirky characters. Guess again!

In Playing with Fire, a stand-alone thriller that is not part of the Rizzoli and Iles series, Tess Gerritsen creates a darker world that begins with Julia’s last afternoon in Rome in the present day as she looks in an antique store for a souvenir of her visit. “From the doorway I can already smell the scent of old books, a perfume of crumbling pages and time-worn leather.”

Julia has already bought gifts for her husband and daughter. An Italian book with crumbing paper, the word Gypsy on its cover, and the image of a shaggy haired man makes the perfect keepsake for this violinist to carry home. But it will be the sheet of manuscript paper that drops from the book with a handwritten musical composition that will lead her into conflict at home and a threat on her life. The title of the piece, Incendio, sets the stage for Julia to tell her story.

A different narrative told by Lorenzo, a Jewish violinist, goes back in time and place to Venice leading up to and during the time of World War II. Both stories are compelling and left me resistant to her switch from one to the other character at crucial times and very curious about how the author was going to bring them together to a satisfying close. (She did.)

My preconceived notion missed the mark. There was nothing light or fun and no quirky people. Instead, there was an intriguing mystery shaped around an unusual piece of music with well-drawn characters that I cared about. The author’s note gives the source for the very real places and events that triggered her idea for the novel. Its authenticity includes the often overlooked discrimination given to Gypsy people in that era.

Rizzoli and Iles are fun people to be around, but I can let them go when their story is over. I’ve felt myself turning back to Julia and Lorenzo long after I switched my Kindle to the next book. Not what I expected. Not disappointed.

Perfectly Matched Gifts

My friend Nancy had arranged to come over to bring me a birthday present. I sensed some trepidation as she handed me the package. “You may have one of these, but I don’t think you do.” She hesitated. “If you do, now you'll have two.”

Her unease intrigued me so I quickly pulled off the ribbon and paper. There was Peter himself from The Snowy Day.  

Nancy had attended my seminar earlier in the month for the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute at the University of Southern Mississippi. As part of my, “From Katz to Keats” presentation, I included in my display a copy of every book that Ezra Jack Keats had both written and illustrated. (My local independent book store had helped me find and complete my collection at less than collector’s prices several years ago.)

I am a bit in awe of people like Nancy who know the present that perfectly matches the recipient. I’ve always wondered if that knack was a gift or something that comes from paying attention. Maybe it’s both.

Nancy paid attention, not only to my talk, but to what was missing in my exhibit. She saw my passion for Keats, heard my story of how I became the researcher for the fiftieth anniversary edition of The Snowy Day, and reasoned that if I had a stuffed Peter doll, I would have displayed it.

Peter now perches atop the basket of Keats books on my hearth, keeping an eye on me as I work. The next time I’m asked to do a “Katz to Keats” presentation, you can bet he will come along. In the meantime, I’m going to see if I can also learn to pay attention.