When Stars Align

My husband and I were introduced by a mutual acquaintance in 1996.  She flew in from Yakima, Washington state from our wedding, and that was the last time we saw her before her husband's job took their family to Germany and then Australia. 

This weekend, we were picking up our kids from a sleepover (yay) with my in-laws in western Maryland. My father-in-law wanted to have dinner at a local pizzeria, but my daughter voted instead for Ruby Tuesday.  While there, my husband escorted my son to the restroom, and lo and behold... at a nearby table he found our matchmaker and family.  They had just returned stateside and were living in a hotel in Virginia.  They had driven to Ohio to buy furniture and had planned to stop in a different town on the way home but had missed the exit, and so... in a city that was neither theirs nor ours, in a restaurant where none of us had planned to be that night, our fates collided once more.  It was with great pleasure that we were finally able to introduce our children to the woman responsible for their very existence.  Ah, serendipity.

As a reader, I am most impatient about plot contrivances and coincidences.  But the truth is, these are also a part of real life.

This week I have been reading the prolific Debbie Macomber's Once Upon a Time, which details her blueprint for both living life and writing about it. In the book, she mentions her hometown of Yakima, Washington and her childhood librarian, Miss Bunn.  As a Beverly Cleary devotee, I know that Mrs. Clearly (formerly Miss Bunn) was once a children's librarian in Yakima.   Could it possibly be?  I turned to google, and sure enough -- uber-famous (and admittedly poor student) Beverly Cleary had, once upon a time, been the beloved librarian of uber-famous (and admittedly poor student) Debbie Macomber.

As teachers, librarians, and writers, these are the stories that we live for.  Often the rewards of our vocation are intangible and far in the future.  In the results-oriented world in which we live, it is important to remember that, ultimately, patience reigns triumphant.  Thank goodness for the occasional grace of serendipity to let us know we are indeed on the right track.  --Jeanne Marie

D.E.A.R!

If, like me, you occasionally feel the need to spend a little time with the endearing, funny, innocent characters forever residing on Klickitat Street, please join me in a shout out:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BEVERLY CLEARY!!!

You can read about this iconic American author here, on a HarperCollins site devoted to her and her books,

here, in an interview with Highlights for Children,

here, in an article by Jim Trelease,

and here, in The New York Times:

What an inspiration!

Not only is today Ms. Cleary's birthday, it is national Drop Everything And Read day. After Ms. Cleary mentioned D.E.A.R. in Ramona Quimby Age 8 in 1981, the practice spun out across the country faster than the wheels of Ralph Mouse's motorcycle. I first heard of D.E.A.R. when it was a daily event at my kids' elementary school. Oh, how they loved when their teachers stopped in the middle of another subject to shout, "Drop everything and read!" Oh, how I loved seeing every kid in school carrying a library book.

According to HarperCollins' website, D.E.A.R. is "a national month-long celebration of reading designed to remind folks of all ages to make reading a priority activity in their lives. Because, what's more fun(damental) than reading, really?"

Educators and parents, you'll want to visit the D.E.A.R. site, where you'll find "reading lists, activity ideas, digital assets, and other resources to get you started and keep you busy."

Also, be sure to check out the Ramona Journal, released just a few weeks ago. I would have LOVED this book when I was a kid. Okay, I'd love it now. I'll have to buy one for my great niece in order to get an in-depth look.

I'm off today to attend the SCBWI-Iowa spring conference to spend the weekend talking books. What could be better?

Jill Esbaum

Reading as an Eater

Reading Mary Ann's last post reminded me of a wonderful handbook for young writers that I recently bought for a talented neighbor.  In it, Anne Mazer bravely confesses that she's never much cared for Charlotte's Web.  While I adored Charlotte's Web and probably read it a dozen times, I must admit that I have no memory whatsoever of the passage Mary Ann cited with such love and affection.  I am a foodie, and instead it was the buttermilk in the creases of Wilbur's ears and the scraps of Templeton's newspapers that made a lifelong impression on me.

Reading, as I always tell my students, is a highly subjective experience.

A Wrinkle in Time conjures for me images of cocoa; lettuce and tomato sandwiches; turkey and dressing.  Of course I also remember pulsating IT, the rhythm of the bouncing balls and jump ropes, the quirky language of the three Mrs. Ws. 

In short, I am not a visual thinker.  At all.  I don't care whether the heroine of my book has honey-colored hair or which brand of shoes she is wearing.  What grounds me in an alternate reality is the scent of freshly cut grass or the taste of a dark chocolate Reese's cup.  Yet how to describe these sensations?  Because many of us are visual thinkers, English, I would venture to say, has evolved to possess a dearth of descriptive words for scents, sounds, and, to a slightly lesser extent, tastes.

From Ramona Quimby, Age 8, by Beverly Cleary:

"Ramona bit into her hamburger.  Bliss.  Warm, soft, juicy, tart with relish.  Juice dribbled down her chin.  She noticed her mother start to say something and chnage her mind.  Ramona caught the dribble with her paper napkin before it reached her collar.  The French fries -- crip on the outside, mealy on the inside -- tasted better than anything Ramona had ever eaten."   

I never liked hamburgers as a kid until I read this passage.  I don't believe that Beverly Cleary is best known for her descriptive language, but I still think of this scene every time I eat a french fry.

Of course the brilliance of Beverly Cleary is typically recognized to be in her humor, and these are the other passages that have always stayed with me.  From the first page of Ramona the Pest:

"'I'm not acting like a pest.  I'm singing and skipping,' said Ramona, who had only recently learned to skip with both feet."

I have a five-year-old daughter, and Ramona IS my daughter.  Oh, when Ramona thought she had to sit still for "the present," when she described her eye color as "brown and white," when she understood the lyrics of the national anthem to involve a "dawnzer" that emitted a "lee light" -- what child could not empathize with these situations and laugh?  I am typing this paragraph and thinking, "I can't WAIT to read these books to my kids!"

So food and funny is what does it for me.  What an interesting exercise in self-analysis this has been!  As writers and readers, it is always a good idea to ask ourselves -- what are our touchstones?  And why?
--Jeanne Marie

P.S. Don't forget to enter our fabulous Patricia Reilly Giff two-book-set book giveaway!



  

Mangia! (Or Mang, as my grandmother would say)

In my addled state at the time of my last post, I completely lost track of our topic du week -- my favorite subject.  Food!

Since having children and losing my limited ability to concenterate for anything greater than a two-minute interval, my sole non-Nickelodeon TV viewing consists of the news and The Food Network.

A great disappointment to my mother and especially my beloved late grandmother, I am not a cook.  I did somewhat redeem myself by marrying Emeril. :)  As a child, I did not enjoy eating -- much consternation ensuing.  Of course this situation has been more than remedied now.  I may not cook, but oh, how I love to eat.

As I type this, I am listening to my husband and two-year-old son in the next room, watching an HBO concert tribute to the Rock and Roll Hall of fame. The pride of a musician sharing his passion with his appreciative son is beyond words. Of course I thoroughly comprehend why my grandmother could not get over my lack of aptitude for (or interest in) her life's work. But honestly -- as a cook, she was an impossible act to follow.

Like Carmela, my family had the whole pasta-turkey-22 course Thanksgiving meal as an established tradition.  Like Mary Ann, my grandmother grew up in a home with boarders (and 10 siblings).  And scrapple (yum -- I know, I know) and stewed tomatoes (yuck) were staples of my youth. 

My mother's family hails from Ischia and Amalfi.  My mom and aunt finally visted their ancestral homeland a few years ago, and the initial plan was to tour northern Italy.  My mom nixed this idea immediately.  "We can't go there!  They eat white sauce!"  In our family, tomato is King. 

My parents dated in high school.  My dad eventually went to college, joined the army to avoid being drafted and, eight months into his service, called my mom from California (in the middle of the night) to propose.  He said that army food sucked, and he really wanted to get married so he could move out of the barracks and have someone cook him good meals.  She turned him down. :)  He called back.  They have been married for 41 years, so he must have done something right. 

My father (a "Mitigan" = American) had a favorite meal -- stew.  He looked forward to it all day on one of their first days as a married couple.  He came home and was surprised to smell something spaghetti-like.  My mom assured that no, it was stew.  He was expecting beef in broth.  What he got was hot dogs, peas, and potatoes in a tomato sauce.  My mom had never eaten or cooked a meal that was not tomato-based.   Today, she makes a mean beef stew.  However, she remains horrified that my four-year-old prefers her pasta without sauce, thanks very much.

My dad being a Korean linguist and my mom being a cook, I also grew up eating some of the very best Korean food.  I recently read a book by Paula Yoo, and as soon as the protagonist mentioned mandu, she had me hooked.  Back in the day, my parents used to watch every episode of The Sopranos (bear in mind that I have two Aunt Carmellas, an Uncle Junior, and that my mom's godmother is married to a Tony Soprano who worked in waste management).  My mom would then call me in LA to report, in mouthwatering detail, the foods consumed in each episode.  If any family member eats at a restaurant, I know to expect a ten-minute recap of the meal, soup to nuts.  Family recipes are cherished posessions, framed and hung, replicated, discussed and dissected.  Especially in a family of non-readers and non-writers, the effort to record a recipe (much of which consisted of "a pinch of" this and "add until it looks right") was clearly and act of pure love.

Reading JoAnn's post about A Wrinkle in Time, I was transported as soon as I saw the words "cocoa" and "liverwurst."  I remember those details intimately, along with the turkey dinner served at the denouement.  The word "tongue" in Mary Ann's post immediately invokes Beverly Cleary and Ramona Quimby, Age 8, as well as a Cleary description of french fries that I can recite to this day.  I was recently reading my daughter a picture book based on Little House in the Big Woods, and of course the maple sugar candies that I so vividly recalled were a centerpiece.  Buttons that resembled blackberries and even canned peaches were described in detail that stays with me to this day.  No wonder I always want to eat when I read! 

The English language is sadly lacking in words to describe tastes, smells, and textures.  Writing well about food is more difficult than it might seem.  Watch the Food Network, and you will hear the words "beautiful" and "delicious" more often than you can stand.

Many of my friends who enjoy cooking describe the activity as a satisfying creative outlet.  For me, writing about food serves the function of "creating art" more effectively than actually cooking.  After all, eating is a fleeting act; words are forever.

***
Check out this link for information on developing writing lessons and even entire composition courses centered on the subject of writing about food:

http://www.pearsoncomppro.com/electures/index.php

Serendipity Part Deux

I remember an odd assortment of precise details about my childhood (my grandparents' jar of carrot- and pea-shaped candies; the Mickey Mouse electric toothbrush I got for my third birthday; chasing seagulls in Monterey and being crushed when they flew away -- every time).  I do not, however, remember learning to read. I've always had a notion that this milestone happened suddenly. Watching my daughter today, I know that it could not have been so.  She can read words, phrases, and even short books with a bit of prompting. She is not yet what I would call a Reader. I remember very well when I first became a Reader, and that was the day my kindergarten teacher gave me a copy of RAMONA THE PEST from the classroom library.  (And yes, I'm sure the book selection was no accident.)  This was the first "big-girl" book that I remember reading myself and, oh happy accident, it remains one of my very favorites to this day.

As I'm sure I have mentioned in prior posts, Beverly Cleary was to my childhood what Miley Cyrus might be to girls today.  So in large part thanks to Mrs. Matsushige (kindergarten teacher) and Mrs. Cleary...

As I believe I have also mentioned, my stint at Vermont College coincided with (or perhaps instigated) a cascade of changes in my life.  Within two years, I finally felt entitled to call myself a professional writer; I was engaged, married, owned a home, and was expecting a child.  What suffered as a result of all this busy-ness, of course, was the very thing I went to Vermont College to live and  breathe -- writing for children.

With my kids finally sleeping through the night (though not so much lately, but that's another story), I returned this past summer to Montpelier for an alumni reunion and a dose of inspiration. Between work and kids, I was unable to take full advantage of the planned events.  Perhaps the most useful thing that happened was completely serendipitous and cool.

Be it known that I live in Nowhere, Maryland -- Lake Linganore, to be precise. The nearest post office is in New Market, and the nearest everything else is in Frederick, a beautiful gem of a city where tractors often travel at 15 mph on one-lane roads with lines of cars behind them.  And no one honks!  (Our children have learned some foul language in these situations, but of course we are transplants.)

At any rate, I was perusing the very thoughtfully aseembled alumni brochure at VC and noted that one Shawn K. Stout also lives in Frederick, MD (!).  I introduced myself to her and discovered that she, too, was greatly missing the community that VC offered and hoping to find a critique group locally.  We met for dinner once we returned home and I learned that she is from my husband's hometown of (even-more-obscure) Hagerstown, MD. She lives two blocks from our favorite brew pub.  And, most exciting, she just published her first book, Fiona Finkelstein: Big-Time Ballerina!! Very much in the spirit of a modern Beverly Cleary, it is fun, funny, and the perfect read-aloud (or maybe even read-to-herself) for my daughter in about a year.  It even features a soap opera actress.  Love Live Fiona!  (In fact, Fiona will be back for an encore performance very soon.)

My daughter and I went to a book-signing at the wonderful Dancing Bear toy store in Frederick, where we spent too much money (as always) and supported our favorite local author.  The store also features works of fellow VC alum (and former faculty member) Deborah Wiles, who once lived in -- you guessed it, Frederick!   

Shawn K. Stout at the Dancing Bear

My scene-stealing ballerina (Discovery Station, Hagerstown)