Miller's Valley

All it took was seeing Anna Quindlen’s name on the offer from Net Galley for me to click the “request” button for Miller’s Valley. Coincidentally, I read the Feb/March issue of AARP Magazine as I neared the end of the book. It published a short blurb where Anna describes her fascination with Charles Dickens’s David Copperfield. She admires his span of coverage from child to adult, his details that built a world, and his social consciousness – exactly what I had found in her book.

From the first line of the prologue, “It was a put-up job, and we all knew it by then,” the reader senses the inevitable as people from the government’s Valley Federal Recreation Area seeks views from the public before doing what they intended to do in the first place. There will be no surprise by the time late in the story when she says, “They’d gone from talking about taking people’s homes to giving people jobs, from eminent domain to tourism.”

Against that predictable backdrop, Mimi Miller’s story unwinds from the child eavesdropping on her parents through her adulthood. The theme of loss – one brother to a richer life and another to prison, a best friend to California, the cattle to pasture loss, her father to a stroke, and the land to the water – threads its way to a new normal.

Predictable government operations contrast with the vagaries of people rubbing their own goals against each other in unexpected twists and turns. The ending like a jigsaw puzzle, complete except for that one small missing piece, satisfies with Mimi’s philosophy, “Maybe everyone stays the same inside, even when their life looks nothing like what they had, or even imagined.”

If you, like me, are already an Anna Quindlen fan, Miller’s Valley will not disappoint. If you haven’t read her yet (the only reason I can imagine that you are not a fan), this book is a good place to start.

April Fool's Favorite

With the exception of my annual piece for the date closest to Christmas, I don’t repeat a blog often, but since today is April Fool’s Day, I couldn’t resist repeating my all-time favorite prank. 

My favorite April Fool's Day joke came, not as a child or teenager, but when I was full grown and teaching school. The previous year the Army had sent us to Kaiserslautern, West Germany too late for me to be hired by the school system so I spent the year serving as a substitute teacher. Fifth grade teacher Mr. Jackson was not out often, but I loved being called to sub for him. He was a teacher who knew how to manage a classroom and teach creatively all at the same time. I knew I would have a good day when I had his classes. Evidently, the admiration was mutual since he requested me when he knew he would be out.

Since I was hired full time the next year, those days of substitution were over, but Mr. Jackson and I remained friends and exchanged good ideas in the teacher’s lounge. As April Fool's Day approached, we cooked up a plot. He would take my second grade class for the morning and insist that he was Mrs. Butler, and I would take his fifth grade class claiming to be Mr. Jackson. The contrast could hardly have been greater between a young African-American male and a 40-year-old female who had inherited her auburn-haired grandmother’s fair complexion without her beautiful hair. 

Students filing in to fifth grade that morning either remembered that I had subbed the year before in one of their classes and assumed Mr. Jackson was out, or they had seen me with second graders and wondered what was going on. They began to catch on to the April Fool's joke when I insisted on being called “Mr. Jackson.”

Mr. Jackson reported second graders had the giggles when he had them call him “Mrs. Butler.” That year I had a behaviorally challenged student we’ll call Henry who had gained a reputation known throughout the school when he was a first grader. I had not alerted Mr. Jackson to problem students, knowing he was quite capable of handling whatever happened. With Henry’s schoolwide reputation, I knew he would be aware of the potential. I’d just given Mr. Jackson a list of my routines and my lesson plans. He planned to pick out Henry on his own, making sure he did not look up to find him as he called the roll.

Once they got the joke, students in both classes expected us to go back to our own classrooms after roll call. The fifth graders adapted with a bit of wonder as their lessons went on as usual and smirked as they said to me, “Mr. Jackson, I don’t understand this problem.” Mr. Jackson and I exchanged back to our own classes after lunch. Our students seemed to enjoy the prank as much as we did. My favorite part came when Mr. Jackson told me that Henry was so well behaved that he could not pick him out!

Here’s hoping you have a happy April Fool’s Day – maybe with a fun prank or two!

Once Was a Time

Time travel with a twist adds to the incredibility of Leila Sales book, Once Was a Time. Lottie, the protagonist narrator, admits right from the start that few people believe in time travel. Then the author makes it more unbelievable by having her protagonist travel forward in time rather than to an unknown world like the classic Wrinkle in Time or backwards like the book I recently reviewed, Into the Dim.

Lottie’s father, a scientist in the 1940 wartime London, is on the verge of discovering the mysteries of time travel that may save the world from the Nazis. This makes him a person of interest to both British and German governments which leads to the kidnapping of Lottie and her friend Kitty. They are locked in a cellar to coerce the father to reveal his secrets where Lottie spots the brief portal for time travel and escapes, without her friend, to a small Wisconsin town in 2013.

The rest of the book is driven by Lottie’s guilt for not holding onto Kitty’s hand long enough to assure that she would also came through and her search for a way to reconnect with Kitty while dealing with a world filled with fashions, technology, and ideas that are strange to her.

Middle grade time travel fans will likely not be concerned that Lottie is more worried about locating Kitty than about finding her parents or her two siblings, nor will they worry about the coincidences that lead her search. They will enjoy the humor, suspense, and endless anagrams. Loving nothing more than additional incredibility, they will enjoy the twist of traveling forward in time.

Lessons from Lady Bears

One might think the hours I’ve spent in the last few weeks watching the Lady Baylor Bears would be a waste of time. This waste would have been much bigger if the networks had shown all their games or had not switched over one time to another game that they found more “interesting” shortly after the half. [Never mind that the Lady Bears had the game sewed up by halftime. It was the game promised in the TV guide and was more interesting to me.] 

One can actually learn quite a few lessons that I’d like to pass along – just to justify my addiction to the team. Like Aesop, I will draw a moral for each of these. 
1. The players take as much satisfaction in passing the ball to the teammate with the best shot as in scoring. Moral: In most accomplishments in life, others have passed the ball, run interference, or cheered the goalmaker on. The glory belongs to all. 

2. A dependable starter who makes a bad play is given a turn on the bench with Coach Mulkey. Moral: Life has consequences when we live it wrong. We have to expect to take our lumps when we mess up.

3. This benched player was sent back into the game soon and got a another chance. She returned with renewed energy to make up for her mistake. Moral: Once the price for a bad choice is paid, let it go, and get out there to play twice as hard.  

4. In a previous coaching life, Kalani Brown’s mother left Coach Mulkey’s team to get married before she finished her college basketball career. The coach called on the mother to repay her debt with her daughter. Her coach and parents have enjoyed watching Kalini’s expertise played out on the court. Moral: Paying debts brings satisfaction.

5. Nina Davis at 5’11” comes in short for a basketball player. Her court play is scrappy and her shooting style unorthodox. She says she taught the shooting style to herself. I find her free throw shooting adds interest to the game since conventional wisdom says she can’t get the ball though the basket from that position, but she does. She may be my favorite player. Moral: Approaching challenges in our own individual manner may work better than doing things the way everybody else does, and certainly will be more interesting.
 
So there you have it. My entire reason for watching the Lady Bears is that it makes me a better person. I need all the help as I can get in that department so I’m pulling for them to go all the way to Indianapolis on April 3. Sic ‘em, Bears!

The Summer Before the War

Show me a historical novel set in England in 1914 and my resistance lasts about as long as if you turned your back and left me in a room with an opened box of chocolates. The ARC of The Summer Before the War by Helen Simonson, furnished by Net Galley, took me back to that time and place.

The writer’s voice, setting, and characters have that English novel feel. Beatrice Nash arrives in East Sussex after her father’s death to find her way in the world. His encouragement and influence has left her a strong young woman pursuing an unlikely female career as a freethinking Latin teacher with the unladylike desire to write. Conversely, he has left her inheritance tied up with grasping relatives to the point that she is virtually penniless.

The author’s research lends authenticity to the mores of the community and time. In an interview reprinted from Library Journal, which I read after I finished the book, she discusses her portrayal of the Gypsies (Roma) in Rye at the time. As the editor for Amoun Sleem’s memoir, A Gypsy Dreaming in Jerusalem, I was struck with how accurately she portrayed and individualized the Gypsy people in that community, the importance of the role they play in her story, and the honesty of the prejudice against them by most of the locals. Her quote in the interview rang true, “I hoped to highlight that the English Romanies have been part of local history as long as anyone else and that Romany men served their country in the war alongside their fellow British men.”

The Summer Before the War, on sale March 22, is a good read for a day at the beach, an afternoon on the porch swing with rain on the roof, or any day when you’d like to be whisked back into early twentieth century England. Do be aware that the title is a bit of a misnomer since the book goes on past summer – as it should.

Revisiting the Dimestore

I said in my Monday blog that I knew dimestores like the one Lee Smith wrote about in her book. I remembered going in with my small change and trolling thorough the treasures to see if I wanted a bottle of bubbles, a set of jacks, or a Hershey bar. I smelled the tempting cashews roasting as they turned in the big container next to the checkout. Of course that leads to a story, (not a lie, like the ones she mentioned).

Al, in his first overseas assignment with the Army, sent a letter that he had found us an apartment in Paris. Murray and I had been waiting, and now he would have his first birthday the week we arrived. I made plans for our first plane trip. This entailed a trip to the dimestore for several items, but one of great importance.

I asked the owner, “Mrs. Page, do you carry a child harness?”

Mrs. Page had known my husband all of his life and had known me for at least half of mine. Feeling free to pass judgment and give advice, she said, “Yes, but I don’t believe in using them.”

I knew an explanation was necessary before she would tell me where to find one. “I’m going to be flying through New York and will be spending a good bit of layover time in that big airport. Murray will talk to anybody and will go off with them if they appear to be going somewhere that’s fun. I need to have him on a harness so he can run around but I don’t lose him.” I added, “I’m never going to use it again.”

Relief covered her face and Mrs. Page admitted it was probably a good idea to have the harness for the trip. She didn’t want me losing Murray either. She told me where to find it and sold it to me.

A few weeks later she would see his picture in the county paper, taken by a TWA photographer in that airport, and feel the pride that she had facilitated his not getting lost. I kept my promise and never used it again.

Dimestores have all but disappeared to be replaced by Dollar Stores where owners and clerks check your purchases without judgment or parenting advice. Sometimes I miss Mrs. Page.

Dimestore

There’s something about Appalachia that brings out tales. Lee Smith grew up in a mining town in the Appalachian Mountains in southwest Virginia where she says a lie was called a “story” with little distinction between them. That idea traveled south along the ridges of those mountains right down to where I grew up in its foothills in north Mississippi. I, too, heard when the possibility arose that I might be in trouble, “Now, don’t you be telling me a story.”

Dimestore, Lee’s book recommended by a friend with the advance reading copy furnished by Net Galley, begins, “I was born in a rugged ring of mountains in southwest Virginia – mountains so high, so straight up and down, that the sun didn’t hit our yard until about eleven o’clock.” The language of the first chapter had me tripping merrily with her back in time with rural places and people. I settled in for a cheerful return to the stories told on porches on long summer afternoons. My first impression lasted through her eavesdropping on adult conversations sprinkled with, “never been quite right,” “bless her heart,” or “kindly nervous” – a euphemism for mental illness. I’d heard them all in my own eavesdropping years. I knew the dimestores like her father’s where these conversations might take place.

The cheer never quite leaves but becomes mingled with other emotions as she describes her father’s bouts with depression, her mother’s “kindly nervous” episodes, and being taken in and cared for by other relatives when both parents’ problems occurred simultaneously.

I’ll not spoil your reading with the rest of the story, but the emotional journey told in the style of the porch stories includes laughter, heartbreak, hope, disappointment, and love. If I had to choose a theme, I would cite this quote from the book, “Writing cannot bring our loved ones back, but it can sometimes fix them in our fleeting memories as they were in life, and it can always help us make it through the night.”

My best advice? Don’t delay. Rush right out to reserve a copy at your local independent book store or click your account to have it delivered to your reading device when it goes on sale March 22.

Happy 100th to Ezra!

One hundred years ago today, a baby was born with a number of strikes against him.
•    He was premature and spent his first days in an incubator.
•    His parents were immigrant Jews who had fled Poland in the time of the pogroms.
•    Poverty pervaded his neighborhood even before the Great Depression came as he began his teenage years.
•    Poor health began early and would dog his childhood.

Babies are hard to predict. This one came with a gift and was given a prophetic name. They named him Ezra which means helper. He began to draw on the linoleum floor with his crayons while he was still a toddler.

A blog is not nearly long enough to trace the struggles or the opportunities that came his way, but two were particularly significant. In junior high, he found a lifelong friend with the nickname of “Itz,” and he discovered the library with an abundance of art books that he could use to teach himself to paint.

Skipping much trouble and triumph, we come to the publication of his book The Snowy Day in 1962. This first full color picture book to feature a black child in a non-stereotypical fashion won the Caldecott Medal and the hearts of children. Ezra followed with many other books portraying the diversity he saw out his Brooklyn window.

His legacy has continued after his death in 1983 with the Ezra Jack Keats Foundation, administered by his old friend Itz, now known as Martin Pope, and the Pope family. One of its major activities continues to support diversity in children’s literature. The annual presentation of the Ezra Jack Keats New Writer and New Illustrator Awards at the Fay B. Kaigler Book Festival will be on April 7. The celebration will honor promising new writers and illustrators who share his vision of diversity, family, and childhood.

Ezra Jack Keats, a helper indeed, opened our own windows to a diverse world. Who would have dreamed in 1916 what a difference the life of that premature baby would make? Happy 100th birthday, Ezra!

Maybe a Fox

A different kind of book seems to call for a different kind of review. When I began to see posts about prolific authors Kathi Appelt and Alison McGhee writing a book together, I was curious. Since I can’t really imagine creating fiction with anybody else, I wondered how it would turn out. I requested the advance reading copy from Net Galley of Maybe a Fox, to be released on March 8.

Hoping my blog readers are also curious, I am doing this review as a Q and A.

Q: How did they divide up the work?

A: According to an interviews I’ve read in several places, each of them first wrote separate chapters for the fox and girl, emailing them back and forth, then worked together simultaneously using Google Doc. At one point they met in Texas for revision. Both revised the book solo. This very condensed version of the process took place over several years.

Q: Does the writing jerk back and forth between their two voices?

A: I had to think hard for the answer to this one and started to give myself a different question. Fortunately, I went to a Backdoor Coffeehouse concert and figured it out. I am fairly familiar with Alison’s work and very familiar with Kathi’s and could hear their distinctive voices as I read. Still the book was a unit. It was like a duet when a soprano and alto sing together. You can hear each voice, yet there is one song, made more beautiful as the voices blend.

Q: Were the two voices distracting?

A: Rather than distracting, I felt like I was listening to two friends give an account of an adventure that mingles real life sadness and struggle with a fantasy world as each interrupts the other to carry their part of the story.

Q: Who will enjoy the book?

A: I would recommend it to middle schoolers and to those who have not lost their ability to relate to a shadow world where foxes have emotions and thoughts, to those who like a book cloaked in the sadness of two sisters who have lost their mother, and to those who understand the need to disobey a father’s warning to stay away from the river when there is a dire need to throw in a wish rock.

Q: Since I’ve seen how this can work, am I going to try writing with a partner?

A: Not likely

Spring Song

Storms of lightning, rain, and thunder
Bring forth spring in all its wonder.
Snowflakes gone, except for these –
Flowers wafting in the breeze.
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Redbud and dogwood, if you please.
Twin squirrels chase each other’s tail.
Daffodils push up without fail.
Bluets pop up here and there,
Tiny blossoms with faces fair.
Weeds grow beside the door.
Those, I will just ignore.
Anole runs across the rail.
Wonder what happened to his tail?
No clock alarm, just spring bird’s song,
Calling the mate he’ll find ere long
I’m ready for spring, if you please,
Even the pollen that makes me sneeze.

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.”