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. 

Roller Girl

For the second year in a row, the committee has awarded a Newbery honor to a graphic novel! Not nearly as naive as I was way back in 2015, I saw GN on the spine of Roller Girl and immediately anticipated an entertaining and eye-catching read. I was not disappointed. There's just something so impressive about a good author who is also an incredible illustrator . . . and on top of being an incredible author-illustrator, Victoria Jamieson also skates on a roller derby team (Derby Name: Winnie the Pow). Can you get any cooler?

I'm inspired. Not to write a graphic novel (my lack of drawing ability would be too much of a handicap) . . . but to be a roller girl. Honestly, I think I could be pretty good. Then again, that's also what Astrid thought.

And then she attended her first day of roller derby camp.

Roller Girl Recipe:
1 cup G-rated Whip It
1 tsp El Deafo (yes, this has everything to do with the fact that it's the only other GN I've read)
3 Tbsp My 7th Grade Year (during which I did a lot of roller-blading, a lot of scoffing at girls who liked clothes and boys, and had lots of friend crises)

Recommendation: Read it! And then come join the Atlanta Rollergirls with me!

The War That Saved My Life

This story has all the elements of a book that I would love. The novel is set in London during World War II, the protagonist is a headstrong young girl and all the main characters make significant, positive changes by the end of the novel. And yet . . . I didn't love this book.
And I'm not entirely sure why.

Perhaps it's because I found the abusive mother entirely unrealistic. I have a hard time believing that anyone could be that cruel and it just seemed too fictional for the story to feel real (historical fiction still needs to be believable, you know?).

Or maybe because I felt like the beautiful triumph of the book - Susan's love toward Ada and Jamie that allowed both of them to overcome their PTSD and myriad other issues - was overshadowed by some weird story about Ada catching a spy near the end. It was totally unnecessary and made Ada's progress and emotional victories seem less important.

And then there was the underlying, never-explicitly-mentioned fact that Susan had been in a lesbian relationship with her partner Becky until she had passed away a few years before (which threw Susan into severe depression) and I anticipated the entire book that the author would talk about it openly which made me very nervous for some reason - maybe because I felt it was too mature a theme for a children's book? Or because I felt like the author had an agenda? Maybe both?

Don't get me wrong; I liked the book. I just re-read over several parts (since I read it months and months ago) and there are so many heart-warming, redeeming moments: Ada making Christmas presents, Susan marching into Jamie's school to tell off the teacher for tying his left hand down, Ada learning to read and write, Stephen White's altruism toward the old colonel, even the Christmas Eve meltdown when Susan holds Ada for hours during her attack. There really are some very lovely parts . . . and yet.

Rating:«««

Echo

Echo comprises three stories inside a story inside another story. Maybe I could best describe it with an already solved SAT analogy test question.

INCEPTION : DREAMS :: ECHO : STORY LINES

Each of the stories was riveting and endearing, but I liked Friedrich's the best (a story about fighting injustice in Nazi Germany is pretty much a trump card for me) and Ivy's the least (even though her story starts in my hometown of Fresno). All five stories follow the pattern of a music-loving main character who experiences some extreme hardship (war, orphan-hood, segregation), but who finds solace in and even a slightly magical escape from hardship in the same enchanted Hohner harmonica. And the stories all reach a satisfying, if slightly kitschy, resolution in the end when the main characters all end up at the same concert at Carnegie Hall (some performing, one conducting, some attending) in the final chapter, though they are unaware they had all at some point in their lives played the same magical harmonica.

I found this book particularly enjoyable because I happen to be a music-loving main character who plays a Hohner harmonica (though I'm fairly certain it is not the same harmonica they all played . . . ) and I loved that each new story started with the harmonica tabs to a song played in the story. I made sure to play them all for my son (he wasn't a fan of Auld Lang Syne).

 Recommendation: Whole-hearted. Best read with a harmonica on hand.

And now for an irrelevant, but related, story.

While headed home last Christmas, I was stopped by Atlanta airport security because of something in my backpack. I quickly tried to take inventory of its contents and figure out what had alerted the guys at the x-ray machine, but I could think of nothing. I heard two of the guys talking about a 'magazine' before walking over to rifle through my bag in front of me and I thought, "My church magazines are a potential threat?!" Then I peeked at the x-ray screen and saw a circle drawn around something that looked startlingly like a magazine of bullets! How did THAT get in there? The man asked me if I had a harmonica in my bag and I told him I didn't think so, so we pulled a few things out and he ran the backpack through the machine again. The magazine of bullets was still in there hiding. He (we, actually, since I kept pointing out hidden zipper pockets where he might find my contraband) searched my bag again and this time uncovered . . . my Hohner harmonica. I sheepishly told the guy I had forgotten I packed it (was it still in there from my Thanksgiving camping trip when I thought I might play some tunes at the campfire?) and he let me go free. I purposely left it in my carry-on for the return flight in anticipation of another harmonica confrontation, but apparently the Salt Lake City airport does not care much about magazines of bullets in people's carry-on luggage.

Last Stop on Market Street

Last Stop on Market Street represented several firsts for me. It's the first Newbery . . . 

 . . . I have ever finished on the drive home from the library.
 . . . I have read since becoming a mom.
 . . . I have ever read twice in one sitting.
 . . . I have ever read to my son. 

Most of these firsts were facilitated by the fact that it is a 28-page picture book.

I feel fairly strongly that reading a review of a book should take a small fraction (<1/100th?) of the time it takes to read the book and I fear I have already violated that rule so I will conclude by saying that Last Stop on Market Street is a short and sweet story about a boy and his grandma riding a bus to provide service at a soup kitchen with a good message of volunteerism and being grateful for one's circumstances. And it made me feel like I could write a Newbery, too.

Brown Girl Dreaming

It took me considerably longer to find this last 2015 honor for the slightly odd reason that I was under the impression until three weeks ago it was entitled Brown Girl Crossing. I'm not sure why I didn't look up the title again after a handful of library databases claimed they had no Brown Girl Crossing books on record, but I did eventually (three weeks ago) do just that and discovered I had the name wrong. The next day I had Brown Girl Dreaming in my possession. The following day, I finished it.

And what a lovely book! I'm becoming more and more a fan of this free verse form of narrative. Some thoughts while reading this beautiful autobiographical story of Jacqueline Woodson's childhood:

1. How on earth does she remember so many minute and colorful details from her toddler years?! I think I remember, like, two things that happened to me before I was 6. How did she fill 200 pages of pre-6-year-old memories?!

2. I am so glad she included a family tree at the beginning of the book (I referenced it often).

3. This is beautifully written.

4. All the "how to listen" pages are haiku (I may not have figured this out until how to listen #8 (and then went back and checked the syllables on all the others)) (and who knew haiku was the plural form of haiku?!)!!

5. Seriously, how does she remember all of this?

As a related aside, I participated in a book group for the first time ever this week. Friends from church invited me and despite the fact that I had not read the two novels they would be discussing, I decided to just check it out (I mean, I love books and yet have never attended a book group?! It's time!). I brought Brown Girl Dreaming and True Grit because they were the last books I'd read. Upon entering the hostess's home, the first person to speak to me was the hostess's ten-year-old daughter, Katie. Pointing at Brown Girl Dreaming, she exclaimed, "I just read that! Isn't it so good?" We then chatted for several minutes about the story and what we loved and what surprised us. I discovered it was on her list for reading bowl this year and she was surprised to find out it had won a Newbery honor. The book group then began and all the women started discussing adult fiction books they had been reading and I didn't recognize a single title. Politely attentive but disengaged, I noticed Katie lying under her chair with a book. Quietly, I whispered, "Hey, Katie, what else have you been reading?"

The Crossover

My pervading thought while reading the short basketball novel The Crossover was that even my sixth graders who were sworn non-readers would enjoy this book.

It reminded me of a "reading night" my middle school organized last year at a community center in one of the neighborhoods where our students lived. The only students that came were the six to eight kids we were able to drag in from the basketball court (wrong place, wrong time). The teachers who volunteered to come had brought our favorite books and we read those books to our small groups of kids for about 20 minutes. 

My well-meaning but slightly out-of-touch principal then gave a stirring speech about the usefulness of reading. During this middle-aged middle-class woman's haphazard attempt to connect to these poor, basketball-loving 13-year-old boys, she said, "Take basketball, for instance. Y'all love playing basketball, but let's say you want to get better at your free throw. You can go look it up in a book or online and READ about how to improve your free throw. Reading is just so useful!" 

I'm sure the kids left that gym and ran straight to the library for some "how to improve your free throw" books. I can't help but think that reading a passage from Kwame Alexander's Newbery-winning verse novel would have caught their attention. Written from the perspective of its middle school basketball star protagonist, The Crossover's appeal to a middle school athlete seems almost certain. The fact that it's written in verse might throw some kids off, but I think it just made it an easier and more interesting read.

Apart from inspiring me to grow dreads, this book did not personally move me. I felt only a slight connection to Josh Bell and even less so to his twin brother, JB and basketball has always been my least favorite sport to play and watch. It was well-done, however, and I'm sure it will inspire some kids who don't usually pick up books for pleasure to enjoy some fast-paced fiction.