Caddie Woodlawn

I continue my book purge. Caddie Woodlawn was my most recent read-in-a-day-to-decide-whether-to-keep-it Newbery and she didn't make the cut. Caddie is a fun heroine in some ways, but she's got nothing on Anne (of GG) or Ella (Enchanted) or Elizabeth Bennett. I mean, it is cool that she's based on an actual person (the author's grandma) and that she single-handedly resolves an imminent conflict between the settlers and the Native Americans (was that story true?), but I wasn't very inspired overall.

Bridge to Terabithia

I have a very distinct memory from the first time I read Bridge to Terabithia. The day was February 9, 1995 and I was 10. My mom was out running some kind of errand when I finished the book. I remember being wracked with uncontrollable, body-heaving sobs. And for some reason, I really wanted my mom to see me crying. Maybe I needed comfort, maybe I wanted her to be impressed by how emotionally affected I was by the novel, maybe I thought it would connect us in some way? But I searched the house for her only to discover the van wasn't in the garage. So then I sat on the steps in the garage and waited for her, sobbing. After a while, the urge to cry and mourn for Leslie and Jess started to wane, which worried me because I really wanted my mom to see me crying. When my mom finally did come home, I still had tears on my face, but I wasn't crying nearly as much as before. I had to explain to my mom how much I had been crying earlier which didn't have the effect I wanted and disappointed me more than I could understand why. But I think Bridge to Terabithia was instrumental in helping me discover that I loved it when books made me cry and since then I have realized that having good long cries over books (and movies) served some purpose for me emotionally that I really needed throughout my adolescence.

Anyway, I think I cried two tears this time around, which was sufficient. I'm not sure Leslie's death has to happen, either, does it? Does it serve some purpose in Jess's development? Or is it just a tragedy to evoke strong emotion in the reader? I just couldn't help but feel like it was a gratuitous death. Wouldn't it have been better for Jess if he could have continued being friends with Leslie throughout their lives? She's so cool! And he's so cool! Gah. In my version of this story, Leslie and Jess grow old together. They thrill everyone they meet and fill the world with creativity and depth and kindness and they fight injustice together and Jess continues to be in awe of Leslie and everything she says and does for as long as he knows her, which is forever. THAT is how the story really ends.

The Summer of the Swans

I re-read The Summer of the Swans this week for the same reason I read The Midwife's Apprentice: to decide whether to keep it. There wasn't anything in the book that I found very interesting, but I think the story I'm about to tell is. I looked through my old book lists to find out when I read The Summer of the Swans the first (and only other) time. The date was August 24, 1996, exactly 5 days before I read The Midwife's Apprentice for the first and only time until this week. And this would not be a coincidence if they had won the John Newbery medal the same year or even in consecutive years, but Swans was the 1971 medal winner and Apprentice was the 1996 medalist. So they won the award 25 years apart and I read them both the same week in 1996 and haven't opened either of them again until I re-read them both this week in 2017, 21 years later.

If you did not find that coincidence story to be interesting I totally understand, but I would also definitely advise you not to read The Summer of the Swans which I can assure is a lot less interesting.

The Midwife's Apprentice

 I recently read a book that has taken over my life. I think about it all the time, I made my husband read it and it comes up in our conversations at least five times a day. In fact, the only reason I read this book - The Midwife's Apprentice - was because of that book. The book is called The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up by Japanese organizing-guru Marie Kondo. She calls her tidying process the KonMari method and it has quickly become a verb in my house. "Are we KonMari-ing tonight?" "I thought if we KonMari-ed our clothes, all our problems would be solved!" "Look at this amazing KonMari-ed drawer!" I'll spare the details, but the jist of her method is that you have to hold every thing you own in your hands (in a specific order: clothes, books, papers, etc.) and ask yourself if it sparks joy. If it doesn't, it's gone. We completed clothes last week and this week we're going to tackle books. One of Marie's rules about books is that you can't open the book while you're holding it in your hands because reading clouds your judgment. You have to make your decision based solely on how you feel when you hold it. I anticipated this being a problem because I have gathered Newberys at garage sales, thrift stores and flea markets for a few years now, but many of them I don't remember at all since I read them 20 years ago. This had me worried because they certainly wouldn't spark joy when I held them if I had no idea what was inside, but I collect them for my children to enjoy someday. So I thought I'd just read them all really quick and see what I thought. This may actually be cheating the KonMari method, but I don't care.

The last time I read The Midwife's Apprentice, I was 11 (August 29, 1996 to be exact). I have no memories of reading it and the only thing I could remember about the book is that it was not one of my childhood favorites. I imagine I will not have many memories of reading it this time around either. It just isn't very memorable, though I did find it slightly more interesting this time (I think) because I am now familiar with midwives and I know what a difference a good midwife can make! My son was delivered by an exceptional one, in my opinion, who provided patient, positive (and, importantly, only intermittent) support during the most painful 33 hours of my life. The midwife in this book is NOT that kind of midwife. So I was a little bummed when Alyce went back to work for her at the end, though it did seem like her best option for her future.

This book's fate: donation pile.

Freedom Over Me

I have spent several hours in the last two weeks researching my family history - looking through census records, cemetery files and genealogical indices for my ancestors. Why did great-grandma have three different daughters named Josephina? Did great-great-uncle Albert really never have any kids? Why does Theodore appear in the 1900 census record with his family but disappear in the 1910 census? You may not believe this when I say it, but those of you who have searched out your family will understand: Family history work is addicting. Just one more record . . . just one more son . . . three hours later . . .

So I was particularly interested in the author's origin story for this 50-page picture book: an original document appraising an estate in 1828. An image of that document appears in the first three pages and I was mesmerized, trying to read the handwriting and decipher the words. What makes this estate appraisal story-worthy (50 pages on an appraisement?!) is that it included people. Slaves. Eleven of them. And the author (Ashley Bryan, who happens to be 93 years old and male) creates and tells their stories - what they do for the Fairchild family, but also where they came from, who they love, what they miss and what they long for. The idea of this book was much more interesting to me than the actual book. I had a hard time connecting with the individuals' stories with only two pages of character development. The prose was nicely written, I guess, but not particularly engaging to me. The artwork was lovely, yes. And the author is 93. I might recommend this book based solely on that fact.

This is the page that had me hooked. Look at that document!

A Letter to the Author of The Girl Who Drank the Moon

Dear Kelly Barnhill,

Before this book becomes pervasive in all third grade classrooms and part of reading bowls and book battles across the nation (I'm too late, aren't I?), I would like to clarify here that I came up with the name Xan FIRST! Or maybe my friend Xan's mom and dad came up with it first and then I decided SECOND that it would be my daughter's name, but let it be known that Xan was my daughter's future name long before you made it the witch's name in The Girl Who Drank the Moon. My friend Xan actually came over last week for our annual pi day party and I showed her the book. She was fascinated! She flipped open to a page and, with mouth agape, exclaimed, "I've never seen my name in print so many times." Or ever? Anyway, I digress.

As cool as Xan, the benevolent witch, and Luna, the enmagicked (cool new word, Kel) young future-witch, and Glerk, the swamp monster/poet/god of the bog, are, my favorite character for the first 2/3 of the book was Antain. Dear, compassionate, intelligent, responsible, humble Antain. You foreshadowed from the very beginning that he would play a pivotal role in someday overthrowing the Elders' government and their terrifying baby-sacrifice tradition, but I was actually really disappointed by his function during the ultimate face-off. He was a strong character with incredible integrity until that final important scene on the knoll. Then suddenly he is this weak, pathetic,  vengeful person. It was so disappointing to me.

I thought the sorrow-eater was a very real-feeling villain. I've had some difficulty of late believing the evil of fictional villains. I have attributed that difficulty to my generally optimistic world view, but after reading this book, I'm convinced that authors are just not developing their bad guys well enough to be believable! The sorrow-eater's back story totally sold her as a real person who had allowed her real problems to slowly change her into a despicable sorrow-eater. Just the idea of sorrow eating was so fresh and new and interesting!

So, Kelly, even though you emasculated (not in the male role sense but in the strength of character sense) my favorite person in your novel, I was impressed with your creation of a credible malefactor with a unique criminal ability and I will still feel comfortable recommending your book to all my pre-teen friends (I have many). But just remember who came up with Xan first.

-Me

The Inquisitor's Tale

It was clear from the text, author's note, annotated bibliography, author's bio, and multiple reviews that the author (and also, or, more accurately, because of, the author's wife) spent A LOT of time researching the Middle Ages. He and his wife could probably be described as obsessed with the Middle Ages, even. It's clear that one of his objectives in writing the book is to convince the reader that the Middle Ages are a fascinating time in the history of the world, worthy of much study. I must admit that the Middle Ages are no more fascinating to me nor am I any more likely to study them now than I was before reading The Inquisitor's Tale. But he wrote a good story with interesting characters, and that is all I really need.

I thought the organization of the book was a fun, unique approach - hearing the tale from a variety of people who had all experienced parts of it. But as is the case with most books written supposedly from multiple perspectives that I've read (The Help being a notable exception), I thought all the story-tellers sounded the same. The Jongleur does have a bit of a poorer vocabulary than the other narrators, but he still tells the story the exact same way. And all the story-tellers included parts of the story there is no way they could have known (the thoughts and feelings of other people) which made the coolness of different perspectives much less cool.

My favorite part of the book is a conversation between Michelangelo - a compassionate monk - and the three children (all with special abilities) he is shepherding. He is trying to explain the voice of God and how they can discern it in making decisions (a lifelong endeavor for me). I'll omit parts specifically related to the story (too complicated to explain) and just include his powerful advice:

"This is what I believe," Michelangelo agreed. "When I see you and William and Jacob laughing together - a peasant girl, an oblate, and a Jewish boy - I think, This is good. When I see petals fall from a pear tree at the end of spring, spinning like dancers to the ground, I think, This, too, is good. But what have they in common? And when a Jew is struck by a Lombard in the street, I think, This is very bad. And when a book is destroyed, I think the same thing. But what have those in common? What does a Jew have in common with a book? Children with petals spinning to the earth?"

A log cracked and fell into the fireplace. The smell of roasting wood wafted out into the room.

"I don't know, " Michelangelo said. "But I believe that it is the voice of God, telling me what to love and what to hate." 

 ...

But Jacob, suddenly, had doubts. "King Louis hates Jews," he said. "He probably feels that in his gut as well. And peasants, too. Is that God, telling him to hate me [a Jew] and Jeanne [a peasant]?"

Michelangelo sighed. "God is mysterious and works in mysterious ways. But Louis held Jeanne aloft and carried her around a room. He sat beside you both on our trip to Paris. I do not think he hates you. I think he has been taught to hate the idea of Jews and peasants. By his mother, by the church, by his lords - who benefit from exploiting their peasants and confiscating the Jews' money on the flimsiest pretenses. Distinguishing the voice of God and the voices of those around us is no easy task. What makes you special, children, beyond your miracles, is that you hear God's voice clearly, and when you hear it, you act upon it." He fixed Jeanne with his beady red-brown eyes. "So, will you act now?"

Well? Will you?

 

Wolf Hollow

I spent the first third of Wolf Hollow with a knot in my stomach because of the bully. I hate reading about bullies. This one made me uncomfortable and incredulous.  I kept silently yelling, 'Tell your parents, Annabelle!' And when she finally did, a weight lifted off my shoulders. I genuinely enjoyed the rest of the book.

Annabelle is my kind of heroine. I'm currently reading a best-selling YA series with a female protagonist who so many men are in love with (this series goes beyond the usual 2-suitor dilemma and gives her 3) and it's unrealistic to me since she doesn't seem all that cool. Contrasted with this somewhat empty heroine, Annabelle, who is wise and compassionate and courageous and clever, is inspiringly imitable. I love that she sneaks out to find and save Toby, that she asks him simple questions in the barn to help him feel at ease and trust her, that she has and implements the idea to hide him as a deer in plain sight, that she heeds the whispers to ultimately find Betty (the bully) in the well, and that she makes that risky but genius phone call to Andy.

The ending was sad and hopeful and it had a strange, powerful effect on me. But seriously, I actually felt a physical sensation in my chest last night while reading the last few paragraphs that went beyond an emotionally positive response to something somewhat spiritual? I read my scriptures just after I finished and the feeling stayed with me. Now, when I re-read these paragraphs by themselves in the daylight, they don't have the same effect on me. Clearly, my response was the result of the book in its entirety and the message, but I'll include the final passage here just to remember:

But Wolf Hollow was also where I learned to tell the truth in that year before I turned twelve: about things from which refuge was impossible. Wrong, even. No matter how tempting.

I told Toby as much, though I also said that I didn't blame him for fleeing the greater evils he'd known. And I thanked him for letting me try to right any number of wrongs, regardless of his own surrenders.

But the wind always swept my words away like cloud shadows, as if it mattered more that I said them, than who heard them.

And that was all right with me.