In time for Tax Day…

The first writing assignment my eighth grade English teacher gave us was a prompt from one of her favorite songs: Barenaked Ladies’ “If I had a million dollars…” My eighth grade self was neither financially savvy, far-sighted, nor inspired. I wrote that I’d finally get a pet dog, as if enough money could convince my parents I’d magically become responsible enough to take care of one. It didn’t occur to me I could have also added that I’d just hire a dog sitter to cover the less glamorous aspects of having a pet. After listing all the cool tricks I’d teach my dog and all the long walks we’d take, I had trouble deciding what to do with the remaining $980,000 (assuming the old girl lived ten-odd years.)

In Millions, Frank Cottrell Boyce poses the same question my English teacher did, but his take is far more interesting than mine. Less than three weeks before Euro Day, when the old pound becomes obsolete, a big bag of cash–229,370 pounds in bank notes, to be exact–falls out of the sky and into Damian’s lap (or to be literal, at his feet.) Damian idolizes patron saints the way most boys follow footballers. He also tries to emulate their ways (for example, mortification of the flesh by holly) and receives regular visitations from them (he is anxious to know if they’ve met a St. Maureen yet), so naturally, he assumes the money is a gift from God meant to be used for good works.

Damian’s older brother Anthony, a Wall Street financial guru in the making, believes a house would be a better investment. He’s also a lot shrewder than Damian, whether it’s at telling credible lies or leveraging the fact their mum’s dead to their advantage. At first it’s great to feel so rich, but it turns out it’s difficult for two minors to spend so much money, whether it’s on real estate or charity, without arousing suspicion and unwanted attention. Especially since that money didn’t just fall from the sky, but was pitched off the side of a train…

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Review: A Greyhound of a Girl

A Greyhound of a Girl, by Roddy Doyle, is a deceptively simple tale that spans and links four generations of women. The telling is not always linear, but in present day Dublin, twelve-year-old Mary’s beloved grandmother, Emer, is dying. She and her mother, Scarlett, go every day to visit her granny in the hospital. One day, Mary meets an unfamiliar young woman with an old-fashioned name, Tansey. Somehow, Tansey knows Emer isn’t well and she has a strange request: Tell your granny it’ll all be grand.

Just like that, Tansey’s message and a kiss on the chin evoke memories of the past–in particular, the pivotal day when Emer, age three, dropped an egg, played on her mammy’s lap, and lost her mammy to the flu. Emer’s mammy was–is–also called Tansey, and would it be stereotyping if I said the Irish have a knack for telling ghost stories?

“It was only an hegg.”

To echo what Mary says to her mom: “So what, like? Your granny is a ghost and mine is dying. And that’s the only thing that isn’t stupid.”

So what is that Emer is afraid of dying, and even if she doesn’t know it yet, she needs her mammy to reassure her in a way no one else can. What follows is a quirky family reunion and a remarkable impromptu road trip that cements the ties between mothers and daughters, and makes Emer’s final journey more bearable for all of them.

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Scott O’Dell Challenge Part 7: Jip, His Story

The best part of Katherine Paterson’s Jip, His Story (set in 1855; and winner of the 1997 O’Dell Award) is the unexpected appearance of Lyddie Worthen, the mill girl from Lyddie. That book can’t be beat in terms of its depressing-ness (I found it sadder than Bridge to Terabithia, and that’s saying something), so when Lyddie appeared in Jip’s story, college-educated and a teacher, I couldn’t have been happier that she’d achieved her dreams at last.

But long before Lyddie shows up, we’re introduced to Jip, so-named because he fell off the back of a wagon as a baby and was taken to the poor farm (think London workhouses, but in rural Vermont) when no one claimed him. Jip knows nothing about his past, and life at the farm is tolerable, if not enjoyable. Because Jip has a way with animals, he practically runs the place, and his work is the only thing keeping the residents from starvation.

Jip, though a far cry from the feisty Lyddie, is strong precisely because he’s kind in the face of  poverty and brutality. He’s kind to the farm animals, kind to Sheldon, the simple-minded boy others treat as dumb manual labor, and he’s kind even to Put, the lunatic locked in a cage, who was shipped to the poor farm because the county didn’t want to pay for his stay at the asylum. Jip’s so busy being kind that he barely notices life hasn’t been kind to him–until others start to return the favor.

Under Teacher’s (Lyddie’s) encouragement, Jip learns to read and believes he deserves more in life. Put, in his saner moments, helps out on the farm and becomes a true friend to Jip. Around the same time, a stranger shows up in town, someone who takes an unusual interest in Jip, but alternately repulses and fascinates him with his stories about a man searching for his long-lost son. It’s the kind of slick, oily kindness Jip could do without, yet he can’t help feeling hopeful.

The mystery of Jip’s past, the mysterious stranger, and the friendship of Lyddie and her fiance Luke Stevens all wind up in a wrenching, satisfying ending. The solution was so obvious, but it eluded me until 3/4 of the way through, and it was like that moment in Keeper when everything suddenly makes sense–except I should have figured it out sooner.

And the history angle? Even though Jip’s particular struggles are period-specific (poor farms have gone out of fashion, thank goodness), I couldn’t help but think about the news every time the book mentions education, public funding or mental health care. We’re still wrestling with the same problems, and that makes Jip’s story timeless.

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Review: Return to the Willows

Whenever an iconic and beloved series is jump-started, revamped, or revisited, there is always anxiety among devoted fans. Whoever’s heading the project has a demanding task ahead of them: make it relevant to the modern day, please the existing fanbase, connect with new audience, be true to the original material, don’t repaint Daleks in technicolor!

Now I didn’t read Kenneth Grahame’s classic, The Wind in the Willows, until I was an adult, so Willows doesn’t have the nostalgic aura surrounding it that it does for many readers. However, I think author Jacqueline Kelly does a cracking job ensuring that the Willows we return to is quintessentially the same Willows we left at the end of Grahame’s tale. For starters, the narrator’s voice is spot on: avuncularly British (though why I associate the two words, I don’t know. None of my uncles are British), charmingly old-school, languidly pastoral, and slightly superior, especially in matters of taste and culture. Familiar friends Ratty, Mole, Toad, and Badger haven’t changed a whit, either, although Toad’s taste in vehicles has grown more extravagant.

Okay, I complained about the love interest, but they’re cute together, so I had to draw them.

But Return to the Willows isn’t just a rehash of its predecessor. It’s no easy task to write funny, much less the kind of funny that spans a century, but as a contemporary reader, I enjoyed the lovely mix of slapstick, situational humor, and witty characterization–especially when certain characters fail to realize the joke’s on them. Kelly also introduces several new characters to shake up Ratty, Mole, Toad, and Badger’s idyllic life: the nephew, the urchin, and the love-interest. Humphrey, Toad’s nephew, a shy young inventor befriends Sammy, a good-hearted weasel from the wrong side of the woods, and their friendship sets into motion one of the more climactic plotlines. And then there’s Matilda. At first, I was wary that the only female character Kelly introduces is Ratty’s potential love interest, but thankfully, Matilda turns out to be brave and clever, able to hold her own in Ratty, Badger, and Mole’s long-standing old boy’s club. (Still, why could she not have a name like Squirrel, or Hedgehog, or Vole–if you want her to be the same species as Ratty–and be the definite animal of her kind, the way Ratty, Mole, and Toad are?)

In short, I had a great time revisiting Willows (and Clint Young’s illustrations won me over completely), although I wonder what hardcore fans of the original think. Were you as charmed with this sequel as I was?

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In Honor of Pi Day…

Review: Navigating Early by Clare Vanderpool

Before I say anything else about this book:

• does Navigating’s cover not remind you of its predecessor, Moon Over Manifest?
• did anyone else make Life of Pi comparisons while reading it?
• or Keeper, by Kathi Appelt?
• or the film Moonrise Kingdom, for that matter?

That said, Navigating Early, by 2011 Newbery Award winner Clare Vanderpool, is a strange strange story. It’s a story-within-a-story of tall tales, self-discovery, friendship, and old school adventure.

Vanderpool captured my attention right away with the character of Jack, a self-described “fish out of water,” only inversed. Not only has he been transplanted from Kansas to Morton Hill Academy, a maritime-obsessed boarding school on the coast of Maine, Jack is also struggling with the recent loss of his mother. This adds another level of estrangement between him and everyone else in his life, particularly his father, a naval officer who has just returned from four years of fighting in WWII. Through a series of embarrassing events, Jack gets acquainted with Early, “that strangest of boys” who believes that Pi is more than a number, that Pi tells a story, and that contrary to the “theories” of a university math professor, Pi isn’t finite. Early is also no stranger to loss, but unlike Jack, he isn’t lost. He’s actively looking for something. Perhaps that’s the reason why Jack decides to join Early on his crazy quest down the Kennebec River to find Pi.

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Review: Seraphina by Rachel Hartman

Seraphina, by Rachel Hartman, has been available since July of 2012, is widely reviewed, and won this year’s Morris Award, so I will do my best not to restate what’s already been said.

I read Seraphina for School Library Journal’s Battle of the Kid’s Books. It’s up against Moonbird, which I thoroughly enjoyed. While I was skeptical about the premise (semi-spoiler: Seraphina conceals a dangerous secret of her own—her half-human, half-dragon heritage), Hartman quickly assuages my doubts about chromosomal incompatibility. Seraphina exists because dragons can take on human form, although not necessarily human emotions. As Liz Burns so wonderfully puts it, they’re like the Vulcans. But instead of “live long and prosper,” their tagline is “all in ard.” Ard being order.

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Son by Lois Lowry: a Google Chat Review

Where Lisa and Jen agree on the strengths and weaknesses of the book, but arrive at different conclusions in terms of likability.

(Warning: here be spoilers).

Jen: ah, the long awaited SON.

Lisa: where the son is absent for half of the book, and an infant for another quarter. It should really be called MOM

Jen: agreed. So, Lisa, what did you think of SON?

Lisa: I liked the first third of the book the best. Seeing the Community from the birthmothers’ POV…so creepy. And their adult lives are so boring, it makes the kids’ regimented days look terribly interesting

Jen: I also enjoyed how Claire’s story paralleled the events of THE GIVER, but from a different angle. And I was so delighted to learn how Jonas and Kira named their kids!!!

Lisa: yes, Annabelle and Matty : ) And, it wasn’t weird at all to see Jonas and Kira as grownups, and married. Gabe as a stubborn teenager was ok too.

Jen: But pacing was an issue. That training sequence dragged forever. I mean, I appreciated the price that Claire had to pay to leave that place for the sake of her son, even before Trademaster got involved, but it was slow going…

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Review: Ronia, the Robber’s Daughter

We are pleased to welcome our friend Taylor as our first ever guest contributor. Taylor is a teacher in Cambridge, MA who loves children’s literature. 

Are you looking for a work of splendid writing about a simple friendship?  If so, then look no further than Swedish author Astrid Lindgren’s Ronia, the Robber’s Daughter.

As a child, I devoured Astrid Lindgren’s most popular works, her Pippi Longstocking series.  I loved reading about the carefree, nonsensical Pippi and the adventures she created for her and her friends.  However, while Pippi appealed to me, I always passed by Ronia, the Robber’s Daughter, thinking it would be a slow-paced, impossible-to-believe fantasy (I am not an avid fantasy reader) that would put me to sleep.

I was in for a delightful shock.

Ronia, the Robber’s Daughter follows the story of two rival robber gangs—Matt’s gang and Borka’s gang.  Ronia is the daughter of Matt, while Birk is the son of Borka.  While their fathers’ robber bands work tirelessly to prove they are the reigning band in the forest, Birk and Ronia sneak out to develop a new and satisfying friendship.  When their parents find out about their friendship, Ronia and Birk must decide what is more important to them—their families’ love or their love for each other.

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Scott O’Dell Challenge Part 6: The Game of Silence

After the disappointment of Streams to the River, River to the Sea, I was doubly grateful to read a Louise Erdrich book. Erdrich eased my mind right off the bat by taking responsibility for the historical content: She lists her sources and explains that the story is based on her own family history.

Silence begins where The Birchbark House ended: it’s springtime when 9-year-old Omakayas spies the dilapidated canoes struggling across the lake. The boats are filled with refugees–fellow Anishinabeg whose exile could spell doom for Omakayas’ own community. The entire book is shadowed by the threat of white settlers, but because this is from Omakayas’ point of view, we don’t dwell on the problem. In between the worrying there are mud fights and snowball fights; arguments with Ten Strike, her arrogant moose-killing cousin; and a clumsy attempt to understand her angsty, love-struck sister. It’s these daily details, of course, that make the final pages so heartbreaking.

I liked Silence better than Birchbark: maybe because I’ve had more time to get to know the characters, or because the book is unified by the looming threat of being forced off their land. In Birchbark, the main conflict didn’t start until halfway through.

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Review: The Birchbark House

The first Louise Erdrich book I read was Chickadee, just after it won the Scott O’Dell award. I’ll save that review until I get to the 1860s in the O’Dell Challenge, but the book quickly convinced me to read the rest of the series. Book 1, The Birchbark House, is sometimes described as a Native American counterpart to Little House on the Prairie. They do share a superficial resemblance. Both series:

• take place west of the Appalachians and east of the Rockies, in the mid-to-late 1800′s
• are told from a little girl’s point of view (until the girls grow up into young women)
• describe daily rituals in loving detail, whether it’s boiling maple sap or building a log cabin
• show the rarity of factory-produced goods: remember the nails Pa used to build that roof, and how Laura and Mary had to find every single lost nail in the grass? In Birchbark, the valued possession is a pair of scissors, nestled in a beaded hand-sewn case
• make winter really threatening. It’s not just the cold, but the boredom and possibility of starvation
• focus on slice-of-life rather than Big Historical Events (as Doug Swieteck would say, “Polly had this book about a house in a forest where Laura lives with Pa and Ma and her sisters. You’d be surprised how good this was, especially considering that nothing happens.”)

But the similarities end there, because Birchbark goes deeper and darker. The Little House books always felt safe. I never feared for anyone’s life, and the most traumatic events—Mary’s blindness and the loss of their baby brother—are glossed over (we simply skip two years in the timeline).

In Birchbark, Omakayas survives a tragedy, learns to let go and finds her life’s calling. That’s quite a feat for an eight-year old. I’m not sure Laura ever journeys that far.

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