Soldier Sister, Fly Home

The prologue for Soldier Sister, Fly Home by Nancy Bo Flood starts with a poem

Feathers fly,

Carrying a heartbeat.

Fly home.

Blue horse. Lii’ Dootl’izhii.

and ends with a vow from Tess that she will never shoot a rifle again. I’m fond of prologues like this that tantalize one into a book.

Tess, half-Navaho and half-white, searches for where she fits in the two worlds she travels between. Early in the book, she points out a common mistake of lumping all Native Americans together in one group, “They (schoolmates) never saw me. They never saw Navaho or white – they only saw an Indian.”

Central to the story is her six-year-older sister’s enlistment in the military after she failed to get a scholarship that would help her go to school. Gaby returns home on leave in splotchy army fatigues with her beautiful dark hair that had hung below her waist sheared short. Gaby had sworn never to cut it, but this is an accommodation to that other world.

Gaby’s deployment threatens the sister tie that includes younger Tess teaching her older sister to read at night before she enters junior high using Archie comic books. Now Gaby asks her to bond with her feisty horse Blue while she is away. A summer at sheep camp with Blue and Shima Sani, her grandmother, in traditional Navaho dress (except for her Day-Glo tennis shoes) helps her begin to answer some of the questions about who she is and where she belongs. Tess and I found wisdom in Grandpa’s philosophy, “Yes, we sing when life comes into this world. We sing when life travels out.”

The author lived and taught in the Navaho community for fifteen years and brings a sense of authenticity to this story that includes practices specific to that culture along with issues common to any coming-of-age story. Back matter includes information about the Navaho language, definitions and pronunciations of Navaho words, and a brief tribute to Lori Piestewa, a member of the Hopi tribe and the first Native American military woman to die in combat on foreign soil. Lori’s contribution is mentioned briefly in the beginning of the book.

I read the book which goes on sale August 23 in an ARC furnished by Net Galley. It is a good read for middle grade and up.

Something to Miss

The boys have lived the three and four years of their lives in the same community with a mother who believes in “adventures.” Before they moved from Maryland to Mississippi, their mama took them back for final visits and sent me pictures of places they will miss. The nostalgia may be more hers than theirs since they aren’t old enough yet to understand about “lasts” or that their favorite haunts will be too far away for a quick run any more.

They visited Brookside Gardens that took a couple of hours to circle when they were in strollers and diapers. Now Mama tried to keep up as they looped around in about forty-five minutes. As if the animals knew this was good-bye, fifteen turtles showed up in the turtle pond where the boys usually saw one or two. Another day they went to the nearby creek and enjoyed strolling through the woods and hopping across the stones in the water.

The “things to miss” pictures made me recall a favorite quote from Sarah, Plain and Tall that has often come to my mind when I have left things I will miss to move to a new place. Prospective stepdaughter Anna worries that Sarah will miss the sea and her family too much to leave her home in Maine to become Papa’s bride. She is relieved when she overhears Sarah tell her new friend Maggie, “There is always something to miss, no matter where you are.”

There are things to miss in Maryland, but things to look forward to in Mississippi. In Hattiesburg, there’s a chocolate birthday cake for Ben’s fourth birthday, baked by Grandpa and decorated by Grandma. A tub of toys waits in the grandparents’ back yard, butterflies hatch on the maypop vines, and hummingbirds fight over the feeders. Hattiesburg will have its own exploits. Since Grandma likes adventures, too, I’m hoping the excursion group will have a new member. Maybe, if I promise to bring cookies . . .

Applesauce Weather

I first became acquainted with Helen Frost’s writing while reading books with a friend who was on the Newbery Committee. I loved Diamond Willow and had it on my short list for the award – not that my list counted with anybody. Consequently, I anticipated a good read in Applesauce Weather when I received the ARC from Net Galley.

Ripening apples would usually signal time for Aunt Lucy and Uncle Arthur to be on their way for a visit. As this year’s first apple falls, Faith and Peter question whether Uncle Arthur will come now that Aunt Lucy has died. Of course he does, beginning the story-poem that is told in the voices of Faith, Peter, and Uncle Arthur with “Lucy’s Song” giving introductions for each section as she tells her version of life with Uncle Arthur, a love story that began at ten and lasted into old age.

Humor tempers the emotions of nostalgia and grief as the family remembers Aunt Lucy. Uncle Arthur tells tales with a twinkle in his eye, especially the ones about how he lost his finger. In her song, Lucy says, “Oh, the stories I heard him weave – I never knew quite what to believe.” Neither do Faith and Peter. Every kid needs an uncle like Arthur just as he needs them. The telling and listening bring needed solace to the whole family.  

Amy June Bates’s illustrations fit the mood of the story and personality of the characters and add the perfect finish.

So, how well did Applesauce Weather meet my expectations? When I finished the book, I turned back to the beginning and read it again. It won’t be my last time.

Nature's Law

I had some second thoughts about the book for the 2016 Ezra Jack Keats New Illustrator Award. In the story line of Sonya’s Chickens, written and illustrated by Phoebe Wahl, Sonya adopts three chicks and cares for them like a mother until they grow into fluffy hens. One night she hears squawking in the henhouse. When she goes to check, she discovers feathers all over the floor, but only two of her three chickens. My first reaction was protective against Phoebe’s very realistic telling small children about what happens when a fox finds a way into the henhouse.

Then I thought about my own experience last summer when I had become enamored of the Gulf Fritillary butterflies hatching on my maypop vines. I found an anole in the act of eating one of my butterflies. As if he knew he had been caught, he took his protective coloration right into the vines. It took me a bit to consider the law of nature that allows for the food chain and know the anole was hungry, too.

Fortunately, Sonya’s father helps her come to the same conclusion and repair her damaged coop so it will be safe for the remaining hens. Her family joins her in honoring and mourning her lost hen while remaining glad that little foxes were fed.

So should we protect children from the nature’s law of the food chain? I think not. I’d rather believe that even very small children can understand Sonya’s mixed feelings (and mine) when we mourn a hen (or butterfly) but are glad that the little foxes and anoles have a good meal. One doesn’t have to live very long to have experiences that bring simultaneous joy and sorrow. Nor does one need a long life to know that “happily ever after” is only a fairy tale.

Besides, I wouldn’t want the small children in my life to miss this lesson in science and life, disguised inside a beautifully written story. 

Big Jim Eastland

Senator James O. Eastland wrote me a letter congratulating me on my high school graduation. It was not mentioned in biographer J. Lee Annis’s book Big Jim Eastland: The Godfather of Mississippi. The letter fit with the picture painted by the author of a complicated politician.  My familiarity of the time and the man made me eager to read the book in a Net Galley ARC from University Press of Mississippi. My letter, one of a multitude sent to graduates Senator Eastland did not know, but hoped to add to his voter base, was typical of his outreach to the common people of Mississippi. I was about as common as they came.

Democratic Governor Paul B. Johnson, Sr. appointed James Eastland, a member of Mississippi’s Delta planter class, to the Senate in 1941. He ran and won the seat outright in 1942 and served until his retirement in 1978. For most of his career, he was a staunch segregationist even as he began to realize he was fighting a losing battle. Paradoxically, he was friends with the Kennedys and worked with them on some legislation that both of them thought important and became friends in the latter part of his life with some of the leaders of the Civil Rights Movement. Because of his senior committee positions and his personality, he wielded much influence in the Senate which he often used to improve the lives of those common people back home.

When I read nonfiction, especially biography, I look first for accurate information.  The portrayal of the senator was consistent with my memories. I sensed the depth of scholarly and personal research as I read, verified when my Kindle had 26% of the book left at the beginning of the bibliography.

I also want a good story with a protagonist who grows and changes. The senator had great loyalty to those who had helped him achieve his place in life and to those whom he mentored. He worked on legislation with those with whom he had fundamental differences. He moved a long way from his strict segregation construction even though he never became free of bias. For readers who love well-documented biography couched in a crucial historical time, Big Jim Eastland meets the criteria.

Where's Durell?

Long before “Where’s Waldo?” became popular, the Hannah family was looking for Durrell. A couple of recent references to the Civilian Conservation Corps on morning TV and The Saturday Evening Post reminded me of a family story I heard during my eavesdropping days sitting on the edge of Papaw’s front porch. The short-lived CCC got accolades from both sources for its salvation of and improvements to American forests. The CCC’s usefulness to Uncle Durrell had little to do with altruism

As I remember the story, valedictorian or salutatorian was the graduation standard set by the first three Hannah children from Sturgis High School in classes of about a dozen, beginning with my mother shown here with her class.  Uncle Durrell’s ambition never reached that level. Could his nonchalance have been one of those middle child things since he was fourth of six? Could it have been that his mother died in his early high school days? Even though he had become a responsible adult by the time the story was told, I remember Uncle Durrell as the uncle who was the most fun.  My guess is that he had more enjoyable things to do than hitting the books.

At long last, his high school days were finished and graduation night came. The family dressed in their finest for the occasion with no delusions of high honors, just glad it was over and looking forward to seeing him receive his diploma. They found their places and waited expectantly in the auditorium. As his class filed in, they looked at one another asking, “Where’s Durrell?” Uncle Durrell did not appear, nor was his name called.

After the fact, they learned that he had failed algebra which meant he did not graduate. Instead, he ran off and joined the CCC. The poster, reproduced in the July/August Saturday Evening Post, touts, “A Young Man’s Opportunity for Work Play Study and Health.” Uncle Durrell might have added “and to keep from facing your family after you flunk algebra.”

Hundred Percent

Who would ever choose to be twelve or in sixth grade? Wouldn’t it even be nice if parents could give their children and themselves a bye to just skip that year? Karen Romano Young in her middle grade novel Hundred Percent describes a common sixth grade perception well in the voice of Tink. “When it was just her, she sometimes felt beautiful. She liked herself. Alone, she was a sugar cube, settled, with firm edges and strong corners. But when other people were around she thought some of them were better – smarter, funnier, cuter, thinner, hotter, cooler – and she felt herself come apart a little, like sugar on the kitchen table, spilled from a spoon.”

Is she really Tink for Tinker Bell as she has been called since she was a small child? Or is she Chris, short for Christine Bernadette Gouda, a more grownup nickname bestowed by her best friend Jackie for their last year in elementary school? Or maybe Hundred Percent, given by Bushwhack, the boy whose sarcasm keeps the class laughing. 

Does she need to keep up a relationship with her childhood best friend Jackie who stays on the edges of the “in” crowd, sometimes bringing Tink or Chris along with her? Tink questions her friend’s loyalty. “How many more times would she try those people on, like fancy clothes, and come back to Tink, who must have felt to her like cozy pajamas?”

The novel captures middle school stress as we get to know Tink aka Chris aka Hundred Percent. There are all those relationships to maneuver – friends, frenemies, parents, teachers. Her questions belong to the age. Am I part of the “in” group and do I even want to be? Is my physical development too fast or too slow? And the big question, in the midst of all this, who am I?

I read this book that goes on sale August 2 in an advance reading copy furnished by Net Galley. While the audience is limited to middle school girls, they will find a character and a story the validates this stage of their lives and even hints that better things may be ahead.

What Mama Didn't Know

What Mama didn’t know, didn’t hurt me. Let me explain.  She had it on good authority from somewhere that all children needed ten hours of sleep. Since the McGee household got up at 6 AM, that meant an 8 PM bedtime.

Now, I’m in favor of a good night’s sleep and enjoy one almost every night, but even when I was a child, it didn’t take me ten hours to get it. To play on the old saying, you can put a kid to bed, but you can’t make her go to sleep. I never bothered to share with Mama what I heard after I went to bed, knowing she would find some way to put my entertainment to a stop. My fun started habits that continue to this day.

The radio was on the other side of the thin wall. The first treat was hearing the whodunits that Daddy loved. He refrained from listening to them while we were up in deference to Mama’s theory that they would terrify us and we would be unable to sleep. I was intrigued rather than fearful and began a habit that continues with NCIS  and its spinoffs, Criminal Minds, and Blue Bloods.

The other habit has come to mind in the last few weeks. The first political campaign that I remember following – after the eight o’clock bedtime – was the race between Truman and Dewey. I heard the politicians’ campaigns along with my parents’ conversations as the election approached. They voted on election day and, with hopes for a win for Truman, listened to returns well into the night before they gave it up and went to bed.

Counts were much slower in those days. So slow in fact, that the Chicago paper went with their supposition that Dewey had won and ran their erroneous, and now famous, headline “Dewey Defeats Truman.” Nobody loved the mistake more than Daddy. That election started me on the road to being a political junkie. Since I came of age, I’ve voted in local and national elections, going now with my husband in his red truck where we often patriotically cancel each other’s vote. If I am honest, there are a few votes I’d love to take back and do better, and none that have helped elect perfect officials.  

Once again this last two weeks, I’ve watched the pageantry and machinations of two conventions. I could wish that we could disagree without being disagreeable, but I remain grateful to live in a country where we can participate in the process.

Mama might not be thrilled with my partiality to cop shows, but I think she would approve of my taking advantage of my rights and responsibilities as a citizen. And I must admit, what Mama didn’t know may have started a habit that has hurt me a trifle. I have once again lost a bit of sleep a few nights staying up to watch past my bedtime.

Where Are You Going, Baby Lincoln?

Should somebody tell Kate DiCamillo that the protagonist of a children’s book should be a child? Where Are You Going, Baby Lincoln? is the third book of her tales from Deckawoo Drive, available from Candlewick on August 2. Illustrator Chris Van Dusen alerts us with his art, even before we begin, that it has been a long, long time since Baby Lincoln was actually an infant.

Baby Lincoln enjoys a very good dream where she is traveling on a speedy train through a night filled with shooting stars on a necessary journey. Rudely awakened by her older sister who still calls her by the childhood nickname, the day begins with Eugenia giving Baby instructions on goals for the day that she has to write down. For the first time in their gray-headed lives, Baby rebels against her older sister. Her dream has given her this necessary journey that she must take.

Aided and abetted by her next door neighbor Stella, who does happen to be a child, she purchases a ticket to Fluxom since she doesn’t have enough money to go to Calaband Darsh. Her travel gives Baby and the reader a delightful trip with some interesting travel companions, once she learns to answer to her real name of Lucille. Make that Lucille Abigail Eleanor Lincoln – but she doesn’t really need to use all of that.

Back to my original question of telling Kate about using children to star in children’s books – she’s not going to hear it from me. This tale will delight a kid reader or an adult who is reading it aloud. One word of caution. Have a bowl of jellybeans ready to munch as you read. You’ll be glad you did.

Moon Landing!

July 20, 1969 is one of those dates that bring memories of where one was and what was happening when the event appeared on the small screen TV. Exactly 47 years later, the Smithsonian has begun a year-long display of artifacts from Neil Armstrong’s “one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” A trip to see it might make a good bucket list item.

While I shared the excitement of this great achievement, I must confess the first occasion that comes to my mind when someone mentions 1969 is not the moon landing but an event that occurred one month and one day before – the birth of our only daughter. (I apologize, Anna, for giving away your age.) We had been hoping for such an event for at least three years, so I hope you’ll excuse us if a Red Cross message to her father in Korea informing him that he had a baby girl has slightly more significance in the Butler family than the moon landing. This was back in the day when the obstetrician’s announcement at delivery settled the blue or pink question.

Our first big event of 1969 does color where I was and what I was doing as I watched the news of the second. My memories include sharing the excitement of the moon landing with an inquisitive five-year-old son while I juggled care of the new baby with making tapes and writing letters to an APO address in Korea. 1969 was a very significant year.

Bears at the Kaigler Book Festival

Normally, I don’t think about wild animals when I anticipate the annual Fay B. Kaigler Children’s Book Festival. Two bears showed up at the one held this past April. In fact, bears almost looked like a theme for the Ezra Jack Keats New Writer and New Illustrator Honor Awards.

In Julia Sarcone-Roach’s The Bear Ate Your Sandwich, one hungry bear follows a scent from his forest, across a long bridge, and into the city to find your sandwich, which he ate. Of course, he needed to travel back to home and safety and he did. Think that’s the end of the story? Guess again. I won’t spoil the ending which will give a major set of giggles to you and the preschooler listening on your lap.

The second bear in Mother Goose Bruce by Ryan H. Higgins, is grumpy and also hungry. He finds a gourmet recipe for eggs on the internet, collects all the ingredients, and prepares to cook them. Instead, they hatch and imprint on Bruce as their mother. He hilariously spends the rest of the book trying to rid himself of his “children.” This ending will also bring on the giggles.

Of course this led to a dilemma since I have two preschool grandchildren. Which bear do I buy? You probably have already guessed the answer. Both. Birthdays are coming up in August and November. Books are signed and ready.

I thought I was finished, but today I noticed that Ryan’s bear shows up again in Hotel Bruce, coming out in October.

Shameless Self-promotion

Little did I know fifteen years ago where my discovery would lead when I walked into the de Grummond Children’s Literature Collection display room and found an exhibition of the life and works of Ezra Jack Keats. For those who are not from here (and some who are but are unaware), Dr. Lena Y. de Grummond began a letter writing campaign in 1966 to writers and illustrators for memorabilia that showed the process of producing children’s books to share with her graduate students in the library school at the University of Southern Mississippi. Her small collection has grown to papers from more than 1,300 authors and illustrators and a book collection of more than 180,000 volumes. Some of those authors, including Keats, chose the collection to house their extensive archives.

Beginning with inspiration I found that day for an article “Celebrate Variety” that was published in Highlights for Children, one door has opened to another. When time came for the fiftieth anniversary edition of The Snowy Day, I was invited to be the researcher through 180 or so boxes of correspondence, memorabilia, and original writings and paintings. My meticulous notes have allowed me to share with other researchers as they have visited the collection. Keats own words and those of his friends and colleagues have opened a door for my presentation called “From Katz to Keats” that I have given for groups from kindergarten to grandparents.

My latest open door has given me a way to share the story with my blog readers. Invited into the collection again early this year, I was asked to write his story and find items to illustrate a video for the 100^th anniversary celebration of Keats’s birth at the Ezra Jack Keats New Writers and New Illustrators Awards luncheon. The following link will take you to the video produced by the library school at the university, posted on the de Grummond website, for your viewing pleasure when you have about fifteen minutes. Enjoy!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bFvs7Bp-KSU

Moving the Magnet

What can I say that hasn’t been said? What can I do that hasn’t been done? These are two questions that have run through my mind as I’ve realized a lighthearted blog just wasn’t going to cut it after the bombardment of news from this past week.

As I begin to write, another question arises. How can I write without creating misunderstanding that only adds to the problem? Wrestling with this one, I know that silence is the coward’s way out, and I can’t trip merrily along with so much pain in the atmosphere.  

Maybe the biggest question is, since I’m just one, what possible difference can I make?

I’ve started by moving a magnet on my refrigerator, given to me several years ago by a friend who values all people. The people on the magnet have hairstyles, skin colors, and dress that are different from mine. Their culture and traditions are, too.

Since the refrigerator is one of my most frequent ports of call, if I put it at eyelevel with a space around it, I’m likely to notice. Maybe seeing it frequently will remind me to pay attention to the unique human beings that make our world interesting, people I often see without seeing.

Just maybe, the magnet will raise my consciousness that every person I meet feels joy and pain, jubilance and sorrow, companionship and loneliness, success and discouragement, that every person is a fellow traveler through life and may need a hand over a speed bump.

Back to the big question. I’m just one, what possible difference can I make? Maybe not a whole lot. But I can pay attention to the marvelous variety of people I meet, knowing that each of them has value. I can look them in the eye. I can smile, maybe even ask, “How are you?” and really listen to their answer. It’s not much, but it’s a start.

How the Post Office Created America

Connections with the Post Office prompted me to wish for an advance reading copy of How the Post Office Created America by Winifred Gallagher from Penguin Press on my Net Galley account. Early memories of the train dropping off mail to be sorted and posted by our local village grocer in a corner of his store, the later importance of letters to our military family far from home through the APO, and Al’s second career as a rural mail carrier after his Army retirement, formed just a few of the reasons I wanted to read the book. Penguin kindly granted my wish.

The well-researched book recounts the ups and downs of the history of the post office with a couple of themes running throughout – cost and politics. While one might correctly think a historian would enjoy the book, it had other appeals as well. An excerpt from an 1857 love letter reads, “My dearest Ella . . . Every day have I been to the office, expect to find a letter from you, but every day I was doomed to be disappointed. . . I am very fond of sleigh riding, but I can not find any one to accompany me whose company is half so pleasant as yours. . .” This would have come after postage became affordable for the average citizen – and after the sender became the one to pay the postage rather than the recipient.

The country stores that I remembered got their turn along with the military mail and rural delivery. So did women who were hired as postmasters as early as the nineteenth century, particularly in rural areas. It would be a while before women were on equal footing with the men and before “he” and “postmaster” were seen as inaccurate terms for the one running the post office.

In the book that goes on sale July 12, the author finds a way to make the history both informative and entertaining. She closes with her assessment of where the post office should go in the future with a telling quote, as efforts to scale back have received an outcry from the public. “Legislators are well aware of the venerable maxim that one of the few things your congressman can do for you is to save your post office.”    

The Fourth and a 70s Ranch House

For us, the Fourth of July brings a double celebration. Fifteen years ago in the late afternoon on July 3, we reached the city limits on our drive into Hattiesburg and saw a phenomenon that I’ve seen only once in my lifetime. With the sun behind us as we headed into a rain shower, a triple rainbow appeared against the blackness of a thundercloud.

For the first time, we were moving to a place that we had chosen. After parent home choices ruled the first part of our lives, the Army had determined our location. We’d bought into the cliché, “Home is where the Army sends you.” Except for the two years that Allen was on assignment in Korea and Viet Nam with me left to keep the home fires burning, the Army had made excellent choices. Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio, one of the nation’s most historic and beautiful cities was home for our children’s younger years. We followed with a wonderful three-year tour in Germany when they were in the middle grades and high school, and ended in Fort Polk/Leesville, LA – in reach for the oldest to return for visits from Baylor and a small town community for the junior high/high school years of the younger two. Each seemed right for the age our children were at the time.

An ultimate return to our home state of Mississippi had been in Al’s mind since he was drafted. The Army had placed a square peg in a square hole, and he’d had a good career, but coming back had never left his mind. He chose the state. I chose the city. With two universities providing ongoing activities, the de Grummond Children’s Literature Collection, the Faye B. Kaigler Children’s Book Festival, and the Frances Karnes Center for Gifted Education – I thought I could live in Hattiesburg!

We found a 70s ranch house with a woods out back that reminded me of the homes I knew growing up. For several weeks, we camped out to remodel and paint. Now after a day of watching the movers pack and load our stuff, doing a last sweep out of the old house, and traveling almost 300 miles, we were nearing our chosen home.

I looked at the sight ahead of me and wondered if this was an omen. Did the black cloud forebode a bad selection or was the wonder of three rainbows a sign that we had nailed the finest choice? With my cup perpetually half-full, I quickly – and correctly – chose the latter.

On our first full day in our new home, we celebrated the fourth with friendly next door neighbors who invited us to join them. Al has found an appreciative audience here for his woodworking and baking, and I have spent a lot of time hanging out with book people. And every Fourth of July, we celebrate a three rainbow home selection as well as our country’s independence.

Technology - Trauma or Thanksgiving?

In my recent cleaning jag, I ran across a complaint I had made to the two Marks (son and son-in-law) that I was having to replace my first computer only three years later – after they had assured me that it would do all I ever needed when I bought it. That was a bunch of years and a number of computers ago.

As if it is not enough that they become obsolete before you can get them out of the store, my current new one has a mind of its own. When it gets tired, it shuts down. Sometimes it reboots, sometimes not. It hasn’t lost anything yet, but I have had to go through the tedious mess of deciding which copy of whatever I had open that I want to save. It is particularly annoying when it decides it’s tired while I am on a roll putting words into the machine.

Then we get to the cell phone which does a lot of things, if I only knew where they were and how to do them, and goes over the data allotment which costs me more money for stuff I’m only vaguely aware of doing.

The urge has arisen to go back to the days of my grandfather when he only had to contend with taking a turn on the party line via his phone on the wall. But then we get to a week like this when a grandson has a tonsillectomy several states away.

I’ve gotten a blow by blow account from my daughter-in-law as it happened, complete with pictures, on that cell phone and now downloaded to the computer. They’ve included his practicing the gas mask with his bear, the new friend he met in the children’s waiting area, and the popsicles and ice cream he had when it was all over.

If I went back to my grandfather’s day, I would have had to wait until somebody dropped a letter in the mail, and there would have been no cute pictures.

So technology and I remain frienemies, with the friend part taking precedence for this week at least.

A Man Called Ove

One might say, “Like mother, like daughter” when it comes to what makes a good package. The card read, “Kathe selected this for our January Book Club. Mom, you can check off the ‘family member recommended’ box on the 2016 Reading Challenge and Dad, you’ll recognize yourself on page 140 especially (and other pages as well). You’ll both enjoy this.” In the package was A Man Called Ove.

I’ll briefly fill you in on finding Al on page 140. “When he was driving somewhere, he drew up schedules and plans and decided where they’d fill up and when they’d stop for coffee, all in the interest of making the trip as time efficient as possible. He studied maps and estimated exactly how long each leg of the journey would take . . .” You get the drift, and anybody who knows Al sees a kindred spirit in Ove. There were other similarities.

Gruffly, Ove avoids his neighbors only to help them out just this once with driving lessons, chauffeuring, or repair and building work. Then the curmudgeon lets his aggravation go, “He’d never understood the need to go around stewing on why things turned out the way they did. You are what you are and you do what you do, and that was good enough for Ove” – a philosophy Al shares.

When his neighbor’s wife opens the door, Ove sees and knows enough not to comment as she, “. . .wipes her eyes and blinks away the pain. As women of that generation do. As if they stood in the doorway every morning, determinedly driving sorrow out of the house with a broom.” Instead, he gives her something to do that gives momentary reprieve from her sorrow.

I’ll leave without comment my last similarity quote. “It is difficult to admit that one is wrong. Particularly when one has been wrong for a very long time. Sonja used to say that Ove had only admitted he was wrong on one occasion . . .”

Al gave up on the book and said, “I couldn’t get into it.” Whether he recognized himself in Ove, I don’t know. More likely, the problem was that the book does not begin at the beginning and travel straight to the end. While I loved the narrative that switched back and forth between past and present, I think Al and Ove would have admonished Fredrik Backman to start at the beginning and tell the story straight.

I loved every word. It’s hard to explain how a book with the main character making multiple attempts to commit suicide after his wife’s death (about the only way he is different from Al) could be so amusing – attempts always interrupted by a nuisance call from someone who needs him. I’ve passed the book along. At last count, five friends share my enthusiasm even if the mirror image of Al is not quite as clear as it was to Anna and me.

Why We Should (Not) . . .

“Well,” my daughter said, “I wrote a number of essays.” She and her husband were going through the process to be approved as adoptive parents, and the question was what kind of discipline they had experienced in their home of origin. I admit her answer was true. The general requirement usually included 200 words of explanation (no number of pages, I’m onto writing big) of what was wrong with the action and some attempt at repentance.

I’ve been on a cleaning jag and found one of those saved missives written when we lived in Germany which I publish here, without the permission of my oldest son. I consider it a “work-for-hire” which means it belongs to me. His photograph reflects the age and attitude of the culprit at the time. You will note on the picture of the essay that a careful tally of words runs on the left side. He didn’t want to run over, yet he did feel compelled to finish his last sentence.

Why We Should Not Play Ball in Mom’s Room

The reasons we should not play ball in Mom’s room are many and diversified. Not only is it dangerous, but noisy as well.

Dangerous is a very ambiguous word, so let me ponder a moment to discuss this in full detail. Playing ball in mom’s room is, yes, very dangerous. In fact, it’s quite lethal. One, while playing ball, may find himself falling over desks, chairs, rolls of tape and/or even little clouds of dirt, which could result in the connection of one’s head to the floor below, further resulting in irreversible brain damage. Falling over the aforementioned objects brings into the picture the subject of noise. Have you ever, just for the fun of it, pushed a chair off the top of a desk? If you have, then you know about the tremendous impact this can have on the noise pollution scale, not to mention the headaches it can bring about.

Another point is about the walls. Germans may make their walls quite sound, but this does not, in any way, condone the bouncing of balls on them. Bouncing balls on walls (say, that rhymes) can leave ugly, nasty-looking marks that may cause negative reactions from (200^th word) children and thus stunt their learning process.

A few years later, his  little younger brother had to write one on why one did not sass his mother while she was teaching him to drive. His concluding reasons admitted that she might be right and she did own the car keys.

Truth to tell, I was never sure my discipline with any of the three was taken as seriously as I intended. Nor am I sure that it had anything at all to do with their becoming productive adults – just grateful that it happened.  

Vinegar Girl

One might ask why there is a need for yet another version of The Taming of the Shrew since Shakespeare did a fine job with the first one and multiple productions have followed in various forms with plays, opera, musicals, ballet, film, TV, and radio. My personal favorite was seeing Cole Porter’s Kiss Me, Kate on Broadway with a younger generation group who wondered how I knew all the songs.  Yet, all the convincing I needed for an updated version was to see that Anne Tyler had written this one. I read an advance reading copy of the book that goes on sale June 21 furnished by Net Galley .

Vinegar Girl, set in today’s world, begins with Kate Battista answering the phone. Her father, Dr. Battista, wants her to bring his lunch. So begins the strangeness since he distrusts telephones and forgets his lunch about twice a week without noticing it. Irritated at being interrupted, she follows his request. The left lunch and phone call finagle Kate into meeting the doctor’s assistant Pyotr Shcherbakov.  

As if Kate didn’t have enough trouble keeping up with some version of tact with the kindergarteners and their parents at work and running the house for her peculiar scientist father and spoiled, prettier, younger sister Bunny, now her father wants her to salvage his impending scientific breakthrough. Pyotr’s time in the country is almost up, and Dr. Battista needs his help to bring the project to completion. If only Pyotr and Kate can fall in love and get married – or just get married – all will be saved. Needless to say, Kate is furious at being manipulated by the two men.

If you are familiar with Shakespeare’s story in one of its many iterations or have read the synopsis, you can guess where this is going and enjoy making comparisons. If you have read Anne Tyler before, you will know she makes her characters unique and interesting. If you haven’t experienced either, it doesn’t matter. The novel will stand alone. Anne Tyler knows how to give the old tale a new humorous twist and create a nice diversion for her readers.

They're Back!

If you plant it, they will come. Truthfully, when I ordered three maypop or passion flower vines, I anticipated the purple filigree flowers and fall maypops. I didn’t know they would come.

For two years, the vines performed as expected covering the lattice, cooling the carport on the west side of the house as the sun went down, blooming profusely, and making poppers in case any grandchildren showed up.

A surprise occurred about this time last summer when I found an obese caterpillar munching around a maypop leaf. As quick as my mother used to head for the encyclopedia, I headed for a search engine and typed in, “identify caterpillars.”

There was my caterpillar – bright orange with black stripes and black spikes sticking up all over! It seems the Gulf Fritillary caterpillar is a picky eater and only feeds on passion flower vines. So began my summer distraction as I watched the entire cycle from egg to butterfly repeatedly until I was left with stripped vines and a yard full of butterflies.

I’ve spent the winter and spring wondering about two things. I’ve wondered why Monarchs seem to get all the press. The Gulf Fritillary also has a migration cycle, spending winters in Florida, and is beautiful both topside and underneath. The upper layer is soft orange with a delicate pattern around the wings while the underside is even more spectacular. Showing off as it sips nectar from my nearby lantana (adult butterflies aren’t so picky about their food), the wings fold up showing off a pattern that looks like stained glass.

My second puzzle has been how long I had to wait for their return. Lush vines and abundant passion flowers have been enticing. Last week I saw a Gulf Fritillary butterfly and spotted an egg. This morning there are a couple of baby caterpillars, just small spiky black things munching their way around a maypop leaf.

They’re back! And with them a new puzzle. How do I keep myself on task with such an intriguing distraction just out the side door?