Into the Dim

“Everyone knew the coffin was empty.” Just so, the middle grade novel Into the Dim by Janet B. Taylor begins with Hope Walton’s description of her mother’s funeral. It hooks my attention and draws me in with the first sentence. While I’m normally very resistant to time travel stories, almost to the point of daring the writer to make me suspend my disbelief, I soon found myself in sync with Hope. I don’t have her photographic memory, but I can relate to being a misfit in a southern town.

 

In a seemingly strange turn of events, Hope is summonsed to spend the summer with her aunt whom she’s never met in Scotland where things become eerie. She discovers that her homeschooling mother was not only overprotective but was a member of a secret society of time travelers. Hope must follow her into the Dim to the mysterious twelfth century in the age of Eleanor of Aquitaine to rescue her. (Remember, she told us the coffin was empty.) 

 

Even in time travel there are rules. Hope has seventy-two hours to rescue her mother and return to their own time. One solution of just returning to last summer and telling her mother not to go won’t work because the rules say the Dim only opens for changes to things that happened more than ninety years ago. Then there is the rule about not interfering with the locals, but that would spoil part of the story.

 

Interesting companions, the historical setting, clock-watching suspense, and a touch of romance kept me engaged. And for the moment, though my mind knows that Eleanor of Aquitaine’s bones have long since turned to dust, I lost myself in the twelfth century and enjoyed watching the lady amidst the intrigues and beauty of the courts.

 

I read the book that goes on sale March 1 in an ARC furnished by Net Galley. The ending left an opening that hints at a sequel. If I’ve guessed right, I’ll be willing to suspend my belief again.

Skeptic

Don’t believe every meme you see or every soundbite you hear. The topic of our OLLI class (retiree learning opportunity at the University of Southern Mississippi) was “Popular Music,” but the leader threw in some homespun wisdom now and then. He attacked the saying, “If you can dream it, you can have it.” He cited outstanding artists and pointed out that the saying omits the need for a musical gift.  I agreed with him, mentally expanded this to other endeavors, and added the other need for hard work. Then I made it personal.

Take art. I could dream day and night, add lessons from a great artist, and practice until my fingers were nubs. I would still turn out the kind of work that brought Daddy to suggest that I write beneath my drawing, “This is a cow” – or whatever it was. Like I said, take art. I’ll stick to appreciative viewing.

Or instrumental music. Dreams have scarcely served me better there. With a few music lessons and a lot of practice, I learned to play anything a second grader needs to sing, including a mean version of “Froggie Went a Courtin’.” More lessons and more practice might have made me better but never accorded me a place as a concert pianist.

Vocal music has brought pleasure for many years. On moves to new churches in new communities, my first question has been, “When and where is choir practice?” For all that work under some excellent choir directors, I remain a garden variety second soprano. No amount of dreaming will make me the chosen Sunday morning soloist.

Then we come to the great American novel. I haven’t written it. I’ve written for church publications, children’s magazines, adult anthologies and literary magazines, and of course – this blog. I’ve written a couple of books and dreamed of publicity tours and school visits, but so far rejection letters have come for those – often with words that encourage me to keep the dream alive.

So, am I opposed to dreaming? Not at all, even if I’ve only reached the place where I can see mine from where I stand, the view is not bad, and I love those who have reached theirs and share. I’m only opposed to the supposition that enough determination and work brings automatic assurance that you will land you at the top of your chosen passion. The meme I would choose instead comes from the musical South Pacific and hints at the joy of the endeavor itself. “If you don’t have a dream, how’re you gonna make a dream come true?”

Try Not to Breathe

I have a hard time choosing not to finish a book once I’ve started. My first impulse, since Try Not to Breathe by Holly Seddon opens with a description of an assault on Amy who remains in a fifteen-year coma, was to put the book down and not finish. I figured it would become more and more explicit and horrifying as the book wore on. But since I have this fixation of needing to know the end, I kept going.

Alex Dale, a reporter, becomes possessed with finding the person who committed this crime. Her own demon of alcoholism has cost her a job and a marriage, and the reader is left wondering if she can keep her addiction at bay long enough to solve the crime.

Characters are well drawn, including Amy who gets a lot of time as she begins to make sense in her own mind of what is happening in real time and the slowly returning memories from the past even though she cannot communicate from within the coma. Alex, with her weaknesses of dependence on alcohol and on her former policeman husband who has remarried and is awaiting the birth of his first child, remains a character to root for and to caution about who she should trust and which information is leading her down a garden path. Picturesque secondary characters keep the reader guessing which is the villain.

I found the time when Alex visits Amy in the hospital touching and realistic as Alex talks to Amy with only a vague sense that she is hearing.

After an exciting read of this psychological thriller in an advance reading copy furnished by Net Galley, I was glad I hadn’t quit before I finished the novel that goes on sale February 23. The ending, while not tying all the strands in a nice bow, satisfied, and I wouldn’t mind meeting Alex again on another case.

Unexpected

Happenings that I didn’t see coming on normal days in normal places make me smile. On a Monday morning, we waited our turn in line at the grocery store idly watching the pair in front of us unload their cart onto the checking line. He was a scruffy looking middle-aged guy with a nondescript beard and a ponytail, wearing camouflage that had seen better days. I took the young adult woman with him, dressed in leggings and a long t-shirt, to be his daughter. Who knows whether I got that relationship right!

In the same aisle, across from us at the other checker, a woman pulled up in a wheelchair cart, loaded with what must have been at least a week’s worth of groceries. The young women glanced back and immediately left the man to fend for himself and began putting the woman’s groceries on the counter for her. I was too far back to hear, but their body language spoke clearly. Talk and smiles abounded. The young woman, nodding her head in attention and agreement, paid close attention to this stranger who nattered on the entire time. The pair and the woman paid for their groceries and went their separate ways, unaware that anyone had taken note.

Acts of kindness sometimes get lost in all the negative news and often take us by surprise when we happen upon one. This Monday morning incident gave me new determination to pay attention – to people who need help and to the good deeds that people do as a matter of course expecting nothing in return.

Unlikely Companions

My answer to the question about my college major sometimes took people aback. When I said, “I had a double major in English and science,” they often looked askance. [I’ve always wanted an excuse to use that word.] Science and English apparently don’t seem to be a matched set.

I carefully followed the requirements for the English major to be sure I graduated. For the science major, I took a little bit of this, a little bit of that – whatever I was curious about. I studied chemistry, both inorganic and organic; biology, both botany and zoology; and a really interesting class in genetics. I was not curious about physics.

As this year’s Fay B. Kaigler Children’s Book Festival approaches, I’ve discovered a kindred spirit. Joyce Sidman has written a series of picture books that combine poetry with science. As a sample, in Dark Emperor and Other Poems of the Night, she has “New Spider’s Advice” on the left page. It begins:

Build a frame
And stick to it,
I always say.
Life is a circle
Just keep going around.

It continues in a jocular ode to the night spider. The opposite page gives scientific information about that spider that will entertain the child as well as the adult who is reading it aloud.

She follows a similar pattern for Song of the Water Boatman and Other Pond Poems and Butterfly Eyes and Other Secrets of the Meadow. All of her books that I found in our local library have one foot in poetry of numerous kinds and one foot in science.

My discovery of this kindred spirit arose as I prepared for our discussion of her books this week at the de Grummond Book Group. Feel free to join us in the display room on the second floor of Cook Library on Thursday, February 18 at 11:30 AM if you are in the neighborhood. And it’s not too late to sign up for the book festival so you can hear her speak. (WWW.USM.EDU/CHILDRENS-BOOK-FESTIVAL)  

You’ve got to love a poetic scientist – or would that be a scientific poet?

Jury Duty

The summons letter sounded like it meant business. “You are hereby commanded to appear . . . then and there to serve as Juror . . . and that you in nowise fail to so appear . . .” It didn’t say what the “or else” entailed, but I was sure I didn’t want to find out.

Trying to stay out of trouble, I left home in plenty of time for the 8:30 AM call, time that was eaten up with school buses, school zones, and parking problems. I arrived with five minutes to find my place and was greeted by a pleasant and efficient staff that got me to the courtroom with three minutes to spare. I could’ve been late, as several of the other called jurors were. They began calling the roll at 8:52. After roll call, we stood as a group of approximately eighty jury candidates, raised our right hands, and swore to answer all questions truthfully.

The judge told us what a privilege it was to serve on a jury before he listed the reasons he would accept to be excused. He ran through that list and gave his commentary on it:
• A serious illness on the part of the juror or a family member who required the presence of the juror – likely to be excused, just talk to him
• The juror’s attendance would cause a serious financial loss or had a need requiring personally presence at one’s business – would be considered, talk to him
• An elderly relative or dependent child who had no one else as caregiver – talk to him, and it would be excused
• A ticket to Hawaii during the time the jury sat that was bought six months ago – he’d excused those before, talk to him
• Citizens over sixty-five years of age – by law, he had to excuse but he didn’t believe in it – “You don’t lose your brain when you turn sixty-five.”
• Those who had served within the last two years – also bound by law to accept the excuse if it was offered, but serving was a privilege.

 

He then allowed the jurors who wanted to bring an excuse to stand in line to “talk to him.” About ten joined the line, but most were sent back to their seats to wait for the jury selection.  The judge announced that twenty-five would be called, and the rest could go home. The clerk apologized ahead of time for any names he mispronounced and began the seating call.

 

Twenty-five were chosen before my name was called, and the rest of us were dismissed. As we headed back to our cars, another prospective juror walking beside me observed that most of the ten who’d stood in line to offer an excuse had been called. Coincidence?

 

So far, I’ve had a similar jury experience three times. I’m willing to serve if needed and agree with the judge that passing sixty-five is a poor excuse if one still has good health and the mind she came with.

Reflecting on the Super Bowl

One of Daddy’s perks as pastor of a village church was being allowed to pace the sidelines with the coaches at the local high school football games. One night he came home from a contest between two small rural high schools and predicted to Mama that he had seen next year’s starting quarterback for Ole Miss playing for Drew High School. He proudly told of this prophecy through Archie Manning’s four-year career at Ole Miss and then as longtime quarterback for the New Orleans Saints.

I got my love of football sitting with him by the radio every Saturday afternoon listening to the Ole Miss games. Glad to have a companion, he explained the intricacies of the game to me and turned me into a football enthusiast. During close games, I wrung my hands with him but didn’t go so far as to follow his example of nail-biting.

I joined his Archie Manning fan club and have followed through with Peyton and Eli. The only time I cheer against a Manning is when they play each other. (Eli gets the preference here since he followed his father’s footsteps and played for Ole Miss.)

I’ve had a lot of listening and watching over the years to the Manning quarterbacks, sometimes still accompanied by hand-wringing. The prelude to yesterday’s game centered on whether “old man” Peyton could pull off another win. Where but in football does being thirty-nine make you old?

I thought about Daddy as I watched the Broncos win the Super Bowl. I drew myself a mental picture of him getting cable in heaven and watching a Manning, behind a mighty defense, lead his team to a win. The “old man” did well, and I’m thinking the margin was good enough that Daddy’s nails would still be intact.

Winter Days

Winter Day

Bright and clear with

Stark trees of filigree lace

Against cloud-scampering,

Blue-jeweled sky –

An inviting hoax –

Bitter cold sends me inside.

Winter Day

 Gloomy and gray with

Bare trees of ominous lace

Against rain-clouded

Shrouded heavens –

A clear warning –

Raw rain keeps me inside.

Winter Days

Made for roaring fires,

Hot chocolate, a good book,

Anticipating spring

As time draws near

For Punxsutawney Phil,

Forecasting the end of winter chill.

February 2

Squeezing a way into

Iowa caucuses,

Phil makes the news,

Seeing no shadow,

Predicting early spring.

Amid the cheers,

The anchor notes

His accuracy – 31%.

Winter Days

Good times –

Stoke the fire.

Drop a marshmallow in my cocoa.

Slide in finger at the bookmark.

Spring will come when it is ready.

Inventory - 2015

Time for a little “rithmatic,” which I have promised not to do much of in my blog title. I do like to follow the tradition of my father-in-law’s country store and do inventory at the end of January. I don’t make resolutions for the new year, but I do reflect on the past year and make needed adjustments that I notice.

       My job as a writer is to be a reader – one of the reasons I like this job – so I count the books I’ve read for the year. The number was 91 for 2015, the most since I’ve been keeping track starting in 2004 except for the year that I had a friend on the Newbery Committee. She fed me books right and left to evaluate – and then couldn’t tell me how my choices were doing with the committee!

       Of these 91 books, 32 were for adults, 42 for middle grade or young adult, and 17 were for young children. I’m quite sure the younger children count is short of my total since I spent a week with a couple of preschool grandsons and didn’t keep count of the books I read them. The books were 75% fiction and 25% nonfiction. A protagonist that fit in the category of diversity either by culture or some kind of physical challenge made up 27% of the books. Probably for the same number, the protagonist could have been from any culture since the book was generic or some kind of fantasy.

        In recent discussions on the need for diverse books, a caution has been raised that poorer quality should not be accepted just for the sake of diversity. Let me assure you, this was not the case. Some of my most enjoyable reads were Echo by Pam Munoz Ryan and Enchanted Air by Margarita Engle who are Latino writers, The Crossover set in the Black community by Kwame Alexander, and Not If I See You First by Eric Lindstorm that features a blind protagonist.

       As 2015 drew to a close and I began my book count, I received a quote from Word-a-Day (December 28, 2015). “In the case of good books, the point is not how many of them you can get through, but rather how many can get through to you.” – Mortimer J. Adler, philosopher, educator, and author. I’ll have to say 2015 was a very good year for books that got through to me.

The Challenger

Unless you’ve been underground somewhere, you’ve seen pictures in the last few days of the Challenger as it broke apart thirty years ago on January 28. I’m posting a picture mockup of how my TV might have looked at the time if I had done things differently.

I’ve heard a dozen times this week that it was one of those events when people remember where they were when it happened. I can vouch for that. I was teaching second grade at South Polk Elementary School at Ft. Polk, Louisiana. I worked for Mrs. Morgan, a principal who put a priority on “teachable moments” and seemed amused by how quickly I could shortcut administrative busywork filtered down through her from her superiors in favor of planning meaningful lessons for my young scholars.

In this instance, my students and I had followed the news and become enamored of teacher Christa McAuliffe who would be the first civilian in space. Mrs. Morgan gave permission for me to bring my black and white TV to set up for us to watch. My ever cooperative students (really) helped get through morning routines quickly, and we all settled in to follow the preparation and liftoff. The excitement in the room was palpable.

The second graders counted down with NASA and “oohed” at the liftoff. Seventy-three short seconds into the flight the rocket broke apart. Needless to say, the TV was switched off, and we spent a good part of the rest of the day sharing our shock and grief.

Mrs. Morgan and I talked at the end of the day about the wisdom of my bringing in the TV. Hindsight changes things. We both knew the kids would have heard about the tragedy before the day was over. Our question was whether it was worse for seven-year-olds to have seen it as it happened. We didn’t come up with a definitive answer at the time, but we knew we would not have wanted them to have missed seeing a successful launch in real time. We were both grateful that the children were going home to parents with a military perspective who would let them talk and sort through their feelings.

With thirty years of the hindsight, I think if I had it to do over, I would still bring in the TV. Children can’t be shielded from all the hard things in life, and I think there may be some grown second graders out there who answered this week’s question of “Where were you –?” with “I watched with my classmates and teacher when I was in second grade, and we cried together when it was over.”

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?