Awards Season

Awards season is upon us, and no, I’m not talking about the Golden Globe or Oscars though I have noticed a seeming parallel. The observation has been made that the Golden Globes are often precursors to the Oscars. As I listened to the award winner announcements at the midwinter American Library Association meeting, I notice another precursor since a number of award recipients had previously received winner or honor recognition from the Ezra Jack Keats (EJK) New Writer and New Illustrator Awards. 

Bryan Collier, who won the EJK New Illustrator Award for Uptown in 2001, won the Coretta Scott King Illustrator Award and a Caldecott Honor Award for Trombone Shanty. Fittingly, I have heard him say that, when he was a child, his Head Start teacher mother brought home Keats’s The Snowy Day where for the first time he saw someone who looked like him in a book.

Sophie Blackall won the EJK New Illustrator Award in 2003 for Ruby's Wish and this year’s Caldecott Medal for Finding Winnie: The True Story of the World’s Most Famous Bear. As a lover of Winnie the Pooh, I can’t wait to get my hands on that one!

Meg Medina, who won the EJK New Writer Awardin 2012 for Tia Isa Wants a Car, was an writer honor recipient along with the illustrator of the Pura Belpre Award for Mango, Abuela, and Me. Her portrayals of her Latino heritage are delightful for all children.

Young Christian Robinson, whose 2014 EJK Award winning book Rain became a favorite for my grandsons, illustrated Last Stop on Market Street which won him a Caldecott Honor Award and the author a Newbery. I’m sure we will hear a lot more from him.

While Jerry Pinkney, whose two lifetime ALA awards were listed in my “Nice Guy Finishing First” blog last week, was too experienced to win an EJK award for himself, he was the illustrator for the very first New Author winner when Valerie Flournoy won for The Patchwork Quilt.

Seeing how one of these leads to another increases my anticipation for this year’s EJK Awards, which will be presented at the Fay B. Kaigler Children’s Book Festival along with a celebration of the 100th anniversary of the birth of Ezra Jack Keats.

If this or anything else about the world of children’s book intrigues you, check out the rest of the program at WWW.USM.EDU/CHILDRENS-BOOK-FESTIVAL .

Procrastination

My Merriam Webster’s Collegiate Thesaurus doesn’t list an antonym for “procrastination,” but according to Roget’s Super Thesaurus, the opposite is “get cracking.” I like it – not procrastination – but Roget’s choice of opposites.

It would not be news to anyone who was ever my student that I don’t like procrastination. I might give a short assignment for the next class period, but most assignments got a generous notice. I even had one student who told me the reason she was not able to complete her project was because I assigned it too far ahead of time. I’m still trying to figure that one out.

Their claims for a computer breakdown the night before, just as they had started an assignment that they’d had for three weeks, brought my question, “And you waited to start this assignment last night because. . .?” Sympathy on my part was sorely lacking.

Lest you think I held this standard only for my students, papers were graded and returned promptly. Grading old papers was about as appealing as eating a cold hamburger covered with congealed grease. I hate procrastination not just in others, but for myself.  

This has carried over into my writing life. As the experienced writer among some novices, I once helped lead the conference for the coming year. One of the items I emphasized was how to plan so there was no panic at the deadline. I must have approached this rather seriously since one of them asked, “Have you ever missed a deadline?”

I answered, “Well, I had a manuscript due the week that Hurricane Katrina –” Laughter drowned out the rest of my response. That remains my only late manuscript, and it was emailed from the public library before our electrical power was returned.

This week I’ve come to an additional reason to be glad that procrastination is not in my nature. I have a nearly finished project due by the end of January that has required me to dig in the Ezra Jack Keats Archives in the de Grummond Children's Literature Collection. Fortunately, I've had more than a week left in the month. If I’ve run into a rabbit I’d like to chase, I’ve gone right down its hole and enjoyed myself. When I’ve looked for a particular spread in a box of paintings for one of his books, as long as I was there, I’ve enjoy the art for the other pages as well.

The old true saying is that procrastination is the thief of time. Conversely, if one “gets cracking,” there’s time to relish the research.

The End of Your Life Book Club

My reading list reminds me of the old fairy tale where the woodsman tried to chop down a mighty tree. Every time he hacked out a chunk, two more grew in its place. I have a tree of books waiting. At a recent meeting of our De Grummond Book Group that reads children’s books, a friend recommended a couple of books. I had read the book for the meeting (one chunk), now she added two more (two chunks).

One of the books was The End of Your Life Book Club by Will Schwalbe, a memoir of the author’s walk with his mother Mary Ann Schwalbe through her diagnosis and treatment for pancreatic cancer. She always looks at the end of a book before she begins reading to know the end. In an similar manner, Mary Anne and her family know this disease will be fatal, and the reader knows up front how this book will end.

As Will accompanies his mother to appointments and lengthy treatments, they form a two-person book club, selecting books they want to read and discuss. He knows from habits begun in childhood, when she read aloud to him and they allowed Ferdinand to have more than one reason to be a different kind of bull, that the discussions will be lively.

I’d read many of the books they chose and found myself joining in their discussions as if they could hear me. Other books seemed interesting, and I started making a list to add to my tree of “books to read.” I abandoned that idea quickly, realizing that keeping notes was becoming burdensome and taking away from my interest in the book.

Mary Anne herself keeps the atmosphere upbeat, living at least a year longer than first projected, maintaining an active role in establishing a library in Afghanistan, and giving opinionated evaluation of the books they read. The book isn’t a downer even in the very honest picture of her slowly losing ground against the cancer. Will weaves the progress of the illness, his mother’s continued interest in people and projects, and the book club discussions together like a craftsman with a loom.

About the time adolescence set in, I gave up reading the end of a book first like Mary Anne does because it lowered my level of enjoyment. In this case, the knowledge that death will be the end makes everything fit.

As for my tree, I enjoyed hacking off this chunk. When I got to the back matter, I found the author’s list of the books he read with his mother. I refrained from counting how many new chunks it added to the list.

Nice Guy Finishing First

No matter what they say, nice guys don’t always finish last. I love it when the nice guy wins – or wins twice! (Or a nice girl, but this time, the winner is male.) I’ll tell my story before I get to the two wins.

A number of years ago, Jerry Pinkney came to the Fay B. Kaigler Children’s Book Festival as the recipient of the USM medallion for outstanding contribution to children’s literature. The second sentence in his acceptance speech was, “I am dyslexic.” I heard the rest of his fascinating story with that sentence echoing in my head. We were in the throes of seeking help for a grandson who, like Jerry, was intelligent, artistic, and dyslexic.

When the speech was over, the line of librarians wanting to speak to him trailed around the room.  I thought my chance to talk to him would be better after they had been attracted to a different speaker who had set their hearts on fire. Spotting a friend talking to Jerry’s wife Gloria, I joined their conversation and said to her, “Jerry’s sentence about being dyslexic will be in an email to my son’s family as soon as I get home.”

After I told her my grandson’s similarities to Jerry, she asked where he lived. I said, “In the DC area.” She grabbed my hand and said, “Come with me.”

Skirting the line of librarians, she took me right to Jerry and made me next in line. I didn’t check for baleful glances from the waiting librarians, but they generally let the wife of the speaker do whatever she wants.

“What’s the name of that school in DC where you spoke that focuses on children with dyslexia?” she asked. Jerry turned from the line and engaged me in conversation, asking questions about my grandson, and giving information on how to contact the school. He added that we could use his name as we made contact with them.

Several years later, I met Jerry again at the opening of the Ezra Jack Keats exhibit at the Jewish Museum in New York City. I reminded him of that conversation, thanked him for pointing us in the right direction, and gave an update on my grandson who had conquered his reading problems but remained focused on art. Jerry, genuinely pleased to hear the results and concerned for my grandson offered to give any help he might need in the future.

You can imagine my delight listening to the ALA Awards this week when the Coretta Scott King Committee gave the Virginia Hamilton Award for Lifetime Achievement to Jerry Pinkney only to be joined by the Laura Ingalls Wilder Award Committee giving him the award for a substantial and lasting contribution to literature for children. The well-earned awards are for his body of work such as that in his Caldecott-winning The Lion and the Mouse, but take my word, this time the nice guy finished first – twice!

Chloe in India

My first impression as I began the advance reading copy of Chloe in India by Kate Darnton, provided by Net Galley, could best be described as irony. Chloe, a middle class American girl finds herself a minority in Class Five at the Premium Academy in New Delhi, India. Blonde American girls aren’t usually on the fringe. Homesickness for her best friend and the life she knew in Boston intensifies her struggle to fit into this world so different from the one she knows. 

Her first attempt to adapt as the book opens has her coloring her blond hair with a black magic marker. After all, every single one of the ninety-eight other kids in Class Five has black hair. Only one other student in the entire school is blonde. Her journalist mother, with her father’s concurrence, has brought their family that includes an older sister to India because that is where the stories are.

Chloe will soon see that worse things than blond hair can keep one out of the “in” crowd. Two of the girls in her class, Lakshmi and Meher, are ignored as if they were not there. These girls are tokens from the lower social stratus admitted to the school in a patronizing fashion. Away from school, she becomes friends with Lakshmi which leads to the another inevitable attempt to fit in when Chloe will have to make a decision between an invitation that will include her in the group but test her loyalty to Lakshmi. 

The plot line of girls setting themselves up in status groups with an added layer of the adult social classes with its setting in India rings true. This authenticity comes because the author and her family lived in New Delhi for five years and is real enough to make the reader wonder how much is personal experience.

My last impression as I finished was of an engaging authentic novel for middle grade girls that would be an excellent book for an adult to read alongside or for a class to read aloud. Good discussion should follow. 

Ambivert?

So the computer runs a red line under my title. Not so with introvert or extrovert. Giving credit where it is due, I first heard this concept from Kimberly Willis Holt, and if you haven’t read her books, where have you been?

In a small group of writing friends at various stages in our publication journeys, including Kimberly, we were discussing our compelling needs to have time with people but also to have time alone. The irony was not lost on me since this group that seldom got to the same place at the same time was relishing our time together. Kimberly had recently heard someone give a name to people who shared this phenomena – ambiverts.

I had almost forgotten the discussion until I was reading Dimestore by Lee Smith. (The book will get its own blog later.) She tells of an elderly lady who has spent years writing for herself rather than for publication. The lady says, “I think the best writing time is the night time. And it is a wonderful time between twelve o’clock and maybe four . . . It is a strange feeling when all the world is asleep except you. You feel like you’re in touch with something special.”

I know the lady’s feeling except my choice isn’t night. I would make it five AM. At night, I’m tired. At five AM, the day is fresh and new. Two hours every morning before Al gets up or the world seems to move, I’m all alone, in touch with my thoughts and words – no phone interruptions and few noises except those of nature. Birds may provide a bit of music, but they don’t intrude. I have a real need for this time alone.

Am I an introvert? I can go to an event by myself in perfect comfort, but I will soon be chatting with another attendee. That’s the crux of my ambivalence and translates right onto my calendar. A much too busy fall with events and people I loved had me looking with longing for the two weeks of Christmas and New Year’s that held a lot of dead time.

Two weeks of a free calendar, nicely broken for a family Christmas celebration, gave me alone time to put together a 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle and watch a lot of football games. With my spirits refreshed, there’s been enough of that. It’s time to find my people and places again. Come to think of it, ambiverts may have the best of both worlds. 

The Borden Murders

Rarely can one find a jump rope lover who does not know the rhyme,

Lizzie Borden took an axe,

Gave her mother forty whacks,

When she saw what she had done,

She gave her father forty-one.

Cheerfully children repeat the rhyme and continue the count to outdo their friends or best their own highest number.

The truth behind the old rhyme has become lost in speculation, beginning with sensational news stories and followed by legend. Sarah Miller begins her nonfiction book, The Borden Murders: Lizzie Borden and the Trial of the Century, with a view of Miss Lizbeth Borden (Lizzie) listening to children chant the rhyme as they skip rope on the sidewalk outside her house. Sarah ends her first chapter by saying nearly everything in those four lines is wrong.

In a well-researched book that reads like a murder mystery, she recounts what was known of the slaughter with witnesses whose reliability mirrors that on TV cop shows. She uses newspaper accounts that range from yellow journalism to more reliable sources and gives a day by day account of the murder, arrest, and trial. Careful attention to what was believed or reported contrasted with known and provable fact keeps the reader in the scene, following the procedures and drawing conclusions.

Both front and back matter add authentication to the book with notes in the front on spelling and apparent inconsistencies from sources used in her writing. Back matter includes extensive footnotes and bibliography. I read an advance reading copy provided by Net Galley of the book that goes on sale on January 12.

My only quandary is why they have labeled this for middle grade and up when an adult audience that remembers the legend would enjoy the story just as much and appreciate the intense research even more than a young audience. If you are wondering why everything in those four lines is wrong, which I feel sure was Sarah’s intent as it is mine, get the book and enjoy a good read. I won’t report that you’re old enough to have a driver’s license – or even an AARP card. 

Reflection and Anticipation

2015 Reflection

The old calendar, marked and scratched
created by a daughter-in-law
showcasing premarked birthdays and family pictures
that brought smiles as new months were turned
- the old year gone, left behind except in reflection:
• A few troubles in friends and family deaths and serious illnesses
• Significant milestone church celebrations
• Minor surgeries and preventive medical actions
• Travel to Texas, Arkansas, Alabama, Maine, and Arizona
• Rewarding tasks and relationships
• Voluminous volunteering
• Reading, writing, with only necessary arithmetic
• Too much busyness – too little stillness
• An abundance of joy
Thanks, 2015 – Overall, it was a very good year for a small town girl.

2016 Anticipation

The new calendar, pristine and unmarked
created by OLLI members, retired friends,
displaying their creativity in art and poetry
for which they had little time
when they had wage-earning jobs
assuring pleasure in their stories and pictures as months are turned
- the new year stretching ahead,
a clean slate, unknown except in anticipation and speculation:
• Exciting possibilities I scarcely dare hope for
• A rewarding new project to start the year
• Surely some travel to places yet unknown
• Rewarding tasks and relationships
• Voluminous volunteering
• Reading, writing, with only necessary arithmetic
• Too much busyness – too little stillness (I know myself)
• An abundance of joy

I’m wishing that when it’s over, we can all say that 2016 was a very good year.  Happy New Year!

Winning and Losing

I know a few things about winning and losing. (1) If you don’t enter, you won’t win. (2) If you do enter, the odds are against you. (3) Your chances are nil if you do not follow the directions. (4) A purple participant’s ribbon does not lessen the pain of losing, but that is another blog for another day.

With all this in mind, I submitted my manuscript for the Karen Cushman Award sponsored by the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI). I qualified as a children’s author over fifty years of age without a traditionally published children’s book. The fact that I had read Karen’s two books that were Newbery and Newbery Honor winners added to the appeal for me to give the contest a try. I meticulously followed the guidelines and sent my manuscript sample well before the deadline. I have my character flaws, but procrastination is not one of them.

I’ll spare you the suspense. When SCBWI announced the winner a few months later, it was not me. I marked the results on my submissions records, threw myself my allotted two-hour pity party, and went back to work.

A few weeks later, Al came in with the mail and asked if I was expecting a package. I was not, and certainly not one with Karen Cushman’s return address! Inside the package was an autographed copy of The Ballad of Lucy Whipple, one of her books that I had not read.

Karen writes superbly in my favorite genre – middle grade historical fiction. In this case, Lucy Whipple copes with life in the California gold rush while mourning her father’s death and longing for the niceties back in Massachusetts. Even the method of starting her chapters reflects the time and place. (Chapter One – Summer 1849 – In which I come to California, fall down a hill, and vow to be miserable here)

I saved the book for my recreational holiday reading and became a twelve-year-old lost in the world of Lucy Whipple who loved books and longed for roots – just like me.

Let me assure you that a great read in a book signed by a Newbery-winning author as a consolation prize beats a purple ribbon by a country mile!

The Flawed Manger Scene

Joseph has lost his staff. The moss on the manger roof is splotchy. The donkey has no ears and the cow only one of her horns. Since the nativity scene came from Sears and was inexpensive in the first place, why don’t we just replace it?

The answer is, “Too many memories.” Our children were small when we got it. They stood and gazed at the Baby Jesus, often rearranging the animals or the Magi. As they grew older, they found a prominent place to display it each Christmas. They loved setting it up and remembering in Texas, Germany, Louisiana – wherever the Army designated as home.

One memorable Christmas we lived in Germany atop a hill overlooking a snow-covered village centered by the church steeple. Right after Thanksgiving, we decorated our Christmas tree. The children chose the wide ledge in front of the picture window for the nativity. Since our German neighbors waited to trim their trees until Christmas Eve, we invited the community kindergarten children to come up to see our tree and have cookies and punch.

Their faces lit as they “Oohed” and “Aahed,” in wonder at the Christmas tree. They examined each ornament, but soon they moved to the window and our Sears manger scene – a poor match in my mind for the beautifully hand-carved nativity scenes found in their Christkindlmarkts. They drew us into their awe as they sat quietly on the floor around the crèche watching as though they waited for the baby to cry.

We have new crèches, nicer and in better shape including one from Bethlehem. Still, this defective one always takes the place of honor. Maybe it is appropriate after all. For didn’t the Christ Child come into humble surroundings for that which was imperfect - to heal the brokenhearted, to bind the wounds of the injured, to bring sight to the blind, and to set at liberty those who are captive?    

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.