Kimberly Brubaker Bradley's Blog, page 15
January 23, 2018
I Need Your Opinions for Books Move Mountains
Those of you (both of you--and thanks!) who regularly read this blog know that I've become passionate about getting books into low-income children's hands.
Nationwide, if we look at fourth-grade reading tests results--this is 2016 data from the US Department of Education--and divide children only by whether or not they receive free or reduced-price school lunch,
--of those who get free lunch (the poorer kids) 21% read at proficient level
--of those who don't get free lunch (the richer kids) 54% read at proficient level.
That's right. Nationwide.
So. It's obviously a complicated problem, but I've been throwing books at it, in a couple of local afterschool programs and a very low-income local elementary school, and that's great at all--it'll be awhile of course before we know if it makes any difference at all--but I've been working on forming a real charity, a 501(c3) organization. I have a great friend who's all in, and we had a meeting in December to start to figure things out. We're meeting again today. I haven't done a thing I thought I would do in the meantime, including asking people to be on my board of directors, and it's not actually because I'm a lazy sod. I was trying to figure out what exactly we should be doing.
I love these libraries that we're putting into place, but what I'd really like is for kids to have choices about what they read--studies show that's a strong predictor of reading success--which is the whole point, I don't really care if they ever read Great Expectations, I care if they can read proficiently enough that they can learn chemistry and history and auto mechanics and whatever else intrigues them. I think I'd like kids to be able to keep the books they choose. If you know anything about Appalachia, about all these small mountain towns, you know there aren't many libraries, let alone bookstores. The schools are often poorer than you'd think possible.
I remember as a kid loving the Scholastic book flyers. My mom would always encourage me to pick out books, and it was terrifically exciting to have those books arrive. But if your parents can't pay rent, they can't give you money to buy Scholastic books. You can say all you want that it's not much money--it's not, if you're middle-class. When you're one car breakdown away from homelessness it's harder.
And then kids grow up thinking books are something they can't have. Books are for rich people.
So.
Here's my idea. I want to start something like a Scholastic Book Flyer where the books are free. The kids in low-income Appalachian schools get to pick out a book from the flyer, any one they like. The teacher sends the order in to my organization, and we send out a box of spanking new books.
I'm posting this because I NEED YOUR OPINIONS. You're teachers, librarians, writers, educators. Help me out here--what am I thinking about incorrectly? What else do I need to consider? I really want to do something of value here, and I need any and all of your thoughts.
Thanks so much. It's important.
Nationwide, if we look at fourth-grade reading tests results--this is 2016 data from the US Department of Education--and divide children only by whether or not they receive free or reduced-price school lunch,
--of those who get free lunch (the poorer kids) 21% read at proficient level
--of those who don't get free lunch (the richer kids) 54% read at proficient level.
That's right. Nationwide.
So. It's obviously a complicated problem, but I've been throwing books at it, in a couple of local afterschool programs and a very low-income local elementary school, and that's great at all--it'll be awhile of course before we know if it makes any difference at all--but I've been working on forming a real charity, a 501(c3) organization. I have a great friend who's all in, and we had a meeting in December to start to figure things out. We're meeting again today. I haven't done a thing I thought I would do in the meantime, including asking people to be on my board of directors, and it's not actually because I'm a lazy sod. I was trying to figure out what exactly we should be doing.
I love these libraries that we're putting into place, but what I'd really like is for kids to have choices about what they read--studies show that's a strong predictor of reading success--which is the whole point, I don't really care if they ever read Great Expectations, I care if they can read proficiently enough that they can learn chemistry and history and auto mechanics and whatever else intrigues them. I think I'd like kids to be able to keep the books they choose. If you know anything about Appalachia, about all these small mountain towns, you know there aren't many libraries, let alone bookstores. The schools are often poorer than you'd think possible.
I remember as a kid loving the Scholastic book flyers. My mom would always encourage me to pick out books, and it was terrifically exciting to have those books arrive. But if your parents can't pay rent, they can't give you money to buy Scholastic books. You can say all you want that it's not much money--it's not, if you're middle-class. When you're one car breakdown away from homelessness it's harder.
And then kids grow up thinking books are something they can't have. Books are for rich people.
So.
Here's my idea. I want to start something like a Scholastic Book Flyer where the books are free. The kids in low-income Appalachian schools get to pick out a book from the flyer, any one they like. The teacher sends the order in to my organization, and we send out a box of spanking new books.
I'm posting this because I NEED YOUR OPINIONS. You're teachers, librarians, writers, educators. Help me out here--what am I thinking about incorrectly? What else do I need to consider? I really want to do something of value here, and I need any and all of your thoughts.
Thanks so much. It's important.
January 17, 2018
What I'm Up Against
First of all, thank you very much for the love and support regarding my dog's death. I knew it was coming and had time to prepare, but it's still hard, and the house is very quiet; your sympathy means a lot to me.
We're having a snow day in Bristol, since there is actual snow on the ground. This is the south. It makes more sense to us to occasionally shut down all schools and half the businesses than to invest a whole ton of money in snow removal equipment that we would use once every other year. Or so we tell ourselves. Sometimes I think most communities just calibrate themselves so that, whatever their typical weather is, they get a snow day once in awhile.
My sister in Wisconsin woke to a foot of snow and her kids didn't even have a delay. That may be the only reason to avoid Wisconsin--I love cheese and their summers are lovely--but it's a big one.
Anyway, it's a full-on snow day, with both my yoga class and Bristol Faith in Action closed. I got up early with my husband (it's one of his surgery days) so I could write before yoga and BFIA, and now it's 9:30 and I've pretty much written myself out for the day. Which is fine--I have lots of work to do.
The other day I was excited to receive a book I had to search for--it's called The Modern Neighbors of Tutankhamun, it's published by the American University of Cairo, and it's all about Qurna, the village near the Valley of the Kings.
On Monday, full of grief, I found it impossible to read this book. Yesterday I made some headway, but not much, and here's why. A sample quote:
"Rather than infer certain economic practices inside the Theban Necropolis from ethnically situated psychological characteristics, here we seek to describe Qurnawi behavior in non-racially conceived terms, instead looking at their relationship with the surrounding archaeological landscape as a formative element in the specific characteristics of Qurnawi agency and action."
In other words, we're not going to assume that all the people who live in Qurna are tomb-robbers, just because they're probably descended from Bedouins. They lived near all these tombs and sometimes found stuff, and they were poor, can you blame them if they sold grave goods?
Really. Taken in context, that's what they mean.
The book is 499 pages long.
We're having a snow day in Bristol, since there is actual snow on the ground. This is the south. It makes more sense to us to occasionally shut down all schools and half the businesses than to invest a whole ton of money in snow removal equipment that we would use once every other year. Or so we tell ourselves. Sometimes I think most communities just calibrate themselves so that, whatever their typical weather is, they get a snow day once in awhile.
My sister in Wisconsin woke to a foot of snow and her kids didn't even have a delay. That may be the only reason to avoid Wisconsin--I love cheese and their summers are lovely--but it's a big one.
Anyway, it's a full-on snow day, with both my yoga class and Bristol Faith in Action closed. I got up early with my husband (it's one of his surgery days) so I could write before yoga and BFIA, and now it's 9:30 and I've pretty much written myself out for the day. Which is fine--I have lots of work to do.
The other day I was excited to receive a book I had to search for--it's called The Modern Neighbors of Tutankhamun, it's published by the American University of Cairo, and it's all about Qurna, the village near the Valley of the Kings.
On Monday, full of grief, I found it impossible to read this book. Yesterday I made some headway, but not much, and here's why. A sample quote:
"Rather than infer certain economic practices inside the Theban Necropolis from ethnically situated psychological characteristics, here we seek to describe Qurnawi behavior in non-racially conceived terms, instead looking at their relationship with the surrounding archaeological landscape as a formative element in the specific characteristics of Qurnawi agency and action."
In other words, we're not going to assume that all the people who live in Qurna are tomb-robbers, just because they're probably descended from Bedouins. They lived near all these tombs and sometimes found stuff, and they were poor, can you blame them if they sold grave goods?
Really. Taken in context, that's what they mean.
The book is 499 pages long.
January 16, 2018
A Strange Sense of Calm
I had to have my dog put down yesterday. It was completely the right decision, at the right time, but of course it totally sucked. I was able to have the same vet who castrated one of my barn cats on the tailgate of her pickup truck come to the house and do it there, so it was peaceful and calm, and, oddly enough because I've been dreading this day, that's how I feel today.
I've always written from home, but I've never been alone before today. When I quit my job as a research chemist to write, I was pregnant, and far enough along that the baby felt like a minnow fluttering inside me. (That baby lives in Chicago now, working his first full-time grown-up job.) By the time that baby went to preschool, twice a week, I was pregnant with his little minnow sister. (She's in Philadelphia, at college). By the time she went to preschool, twice a week, we had acquired Under Dog, a wiry terrier of limited intelligence but enduring dogged affection for his people. (Under died five years ago, at a very old age, following a stroke.) Eventually we acquired Under's consort, Sweet Polly, one of the gentlest dogs on earth. So while the children were at school, growing up, I would go to my office to write, and the dogs would follow. Polly liked the green chair or the window seat. Under sometimes curled up in the dog bed in the corner but was more likely to drape himself across my feet, to the extent that I eventually put a dog bed beneath my desk. (It's still there. I just checked.)
Polly snored loudly enough that sometimes I had to walk across the room and wake her, as I absolutely couldn't think with that much noise. Under barked whenever anything happened outside--the day the UPS truck chased two deer up our driveway I thought he would burst his brainstem--and Polly joined in if the threat seemed real.
Yesterday afternoon I felt very sad. I'd been feeling sad all weekend, knowing what was on the horizon, but I'd made my peace with it. It was sad, and right, and good. But I still let myself feel sad. My husband came home late, after basketball practice, but I thought to myself, if there's ever a day you're allowed to put on flannel pajamas at four in the afternoon, it's the day you euthanize your dog. So I did. Then I heard my daughter's voice. While she was home for Christmas, when we came in cold from riding and doing the barn chores, she'd say, "Mom, would you like a hot beverage?" and put the kettle on for tea. So I put the kettle on, and brewed a nice pot of herbal tea. I snuggled up under the floofy couch blanket, and drank tea, and read a book about the Holocaust because the one I need to read, about the village of Qurna in Egypt, was too technical for my sad brain.
I also baked a chicken, because it was a comforting dinner that required very little work on my part.
This morning I slept in a bit. Lately the dog had been sleeping in our bed. It was hard for her to sleep with her heart condition worsening, and it made her feel panicky unless she was with us--but she coughed and wheezed in the night, and the last few nights I'd woken several times to check if she was still breathing. Last night I woke several times, thinking, where's the dog?
But now it's morning. I'm writing in the complete silence of an empty house. It's not as bad as I thought it would be. I miss my darling Polly. I miss Under. And I'm okay with the quiet that surrounds me.
I've always written from home, but I've never been alone before today. When I quit my job as a research chemist to write, I was pregnant, and far enough along that the baby felt like a minnow fluttering inside me. (That baby lives in Chicago now, working his first full-time grown-up job.) By the time that baby went to preschool, twice a week, I was pregnant with his little minnow sister. (She's in Philadelphia, at college). By the time she went to preschool, twice a week, we had acquired Under Dog, a wiry terrier of limited intelligence but enduring dogged affection for his people. (Under died five years ago, at a very old age, following a stroke.) Eventually we acquired Under's consort, Sweet Polly, one of the gentlest dogs on earth. So while the children were at school, growing up, I would go to my office to write, and the dogs would follow. Polly liked the green chair or the window seat. Under sometimes curled up in the dog bed in the corner but was more likely to drape himself across my feet, to the extent that I eventually put a dog bed beneath my desk. (It's still there. I just checked.)
Polly snored loudly enough that sometimes I had to walk across the room and wake her, as I absolutely couldn't think with that much noise. Under barked whenever anything happened outside--the day the UPS truck chased two deer up our driveway I thought he would burst his brainstem--and Polly joined in if the threat seemed real.
Yesterday afternoon I felt very sad. I'd been feeling sad all weekend, knowing what was on the horizon, but I'd made my peace with it. It was sad, and right, and good. But I still let myself feel sad. My husband came home late, after basketball practice, but I thought to myself, if there's ever a day you're allowed to put on flannel pajamas at four in the afternoon, it's the day you euthanize your dog. So I did. Then I heard my daughter's voice. While she was home for Christmas, when we came in cold from riding and doing the barn chores, she'd say, "Mom, would you like a hot beverage?" and put the kettle on for tea. So I put the kettle on, and brewed a nice pot of herbal tea. I snuggled up under the floofy couch blanket, and drank tea, and read a book about the Holocaust because the one I need to read, about the village of Qurna in Egypt, was too technical for my sad brain.
I also baked a chicken, because it was a comforting dinner that required very little work on my part.
This morning I slept in a bit. Lately the dog had been sleeping in our bed. It was hard for her to sleep with her heart condition worsening, and it made her feel panicky unless she was with us--but she coughed and wheezed in the night, and the last few nights I'd woken several times to check if she was still breathing. Last night I woke several times, thinking, where's the dog?
But now it's morning. I'm writing in the complete silence of an empty house. It's not as bad as I thought it would be. I miss my darling Polly. I miss Under. And I'm okay with the quiet that surrounds me.
January 9, 2018
Shaking Down My Family Tree
The other day my daughter's friend came over with her laptop and her access to Ancestry.com. We had a bit of a field day. It was fascinating--to the point where both my husband and I are going to be copying out entries and sending them to our extended family.
I can't write about everything that amazed me--let's just say I found evidence of what had been rumors regarding a couple of family members--the people involved are gone now, but not that long ago, and their stories still don't feel like mine to tell. But a few other things were far enough back that I don't think it matters. One of my husband's way-back ancestors lived in central Indiana, and is listed as having had five children with his wife, and then nine more children with a Miami Indian woman. A written notation (on a census record? I don't remember now) says that he is "a great friend to the Miami." I should hope so.
It turns out that my children are a Son and Daughter of the American Revolution, as another of my husband's way-back ancestors fought in the Revolutionary War. No one on my side of the tree had made it to America by that point--I can actually remember much of the generation that immigrated, and the last member of my family born in Poland died only last year. (I was so sorry she missed the Polish translation of The War That Saved My Life--she was literate in Polish, and would have loved it.) We found a copy of a ship's manifest listing my great-grandfather as a passenger--his name in America was Walter Guernewicz, though I called him Dziadek, Polish for grandpa. Family legend says that Guernewicz was a misspelling picked up at Ellis Island, and there in the records we could see it--both spellings of his last name, as well as the Polish spelling of Walter--which now, away from my daughter and her friend's computer, I can't remember, except that it made perfect sense. He went by Walter Guernewicz in his daily life, but on his marriage certificate, written after many years in this country, he spells his name the Polish way.
Walter was 19 when he boarded a ship called the Amerika. He settled in Gary, Indiana, and worked in a steel mill until an accident there blinded him. My mother remembers him as stern and somewhat dour, but when I was small and visiting his and Babcia's tiny house, I would climb onto his lap. He would run his fingers very lightly over my face, smile, and say the only English word I ever heard him say. "Pretty," he said.
I can't write about everything that amazed me--let's just say I found evidence of what had been rumors regarding a couple of family members--the people involved are gone now, but not that long ago, and their stories still don't feel like mine to tell. But a few other things were far enough back that I don't think it matters. One of my husband's way-back ancestors lived in central Indiana, and is listed as having had five children with his wife, and then nine more children with a Miami Indian woman. A written notation (on a census record? I don't remember now) says that he is "a great friend to the Miami." I should hope so.
It turns out that my children are a Son and Daughter of the American Revolution, as another of my husband's way-back ancestors fought in the Revolutionary War. No one on my side of the tree had made it to America by that point--I can actually remember much of the generation that immigrated, and the last member of my family born in Poland died only last year. (I was so sorry she missed the Polish translation of The War That Saved My Life--she was literate in Polish, and would have loved it.) We found a copy of a ship's manifest listing my great-grandfather as a passenger--his name in America was Walter Guernewicz, though I called him Dziadek, Polish for grandpa. Family legend says that Guernewicz was a misspelling picked up at Ellis Island, and there in the records we could see it--both spellings of his last name, as well as the Polish spelling of Walter--which now, away from my daughter and her friend's computer, I can't remember, except that it made perfect sense. He went by Walter Guernewicz in his daily life, but on his marriage certificate, written after many years in this country, he spells his name the Polish way.
Walter was 19 when he boarded a ship called the Amerika. He settled in Gary, Indiana, and worked in a steel mill until an accident there blinded him. My mother remembers him as stern and somewhat dour, but when I was small and visiting his and Babcia's tiny house, I would climb onto his lap. He would run his fingers very lightly over my face, smile, and say the only English word I ever heard him say. "Pretty," he said.
January 1, 2018
New Year
I've never really understood the big deal about New Year's Day. Some of my friends really love it, see it as a sort of cosmic do-over, a fresh start, a chance to resolve to be better.
I pretty much see it as Monday. If pressed, I'll add that it's the day after my son's birthday (the moment he took his first breath, 23 years ago, New Year's Eve ceased to have any meaning for me either). It's the day I get to open my new Dilbert-A-Day calendar--my husband's given me a Dilbert-A-Day calendar for as long as I can remember, probably longer than my son's been alive.
Last year the only resolution I made was to finally go out to lunch with one particular friend. We kept saying we were going to meet for lunch, and then not doing it. I'm happy to say that not only did I keep this resolution, I made a habit of it. Lunch with XXX is now a Thing.
I have a book to finish in 2018. ("Finish?" my daughter asked, yesterday. "Finish, or finish-finish. Copyedited finish?") (Her Christmas gift to me was a t-shirt reading Unreliable Narrator. I loved it.)
The answer is, finish-finish. Yes, it is. And no, this book is not the third one about Ada. I can not promise a third book about Ada. A bad book would be much worse than no book at all.
Also, I'm sorry to say this, but the character who dies in TWIFW is dead. Dead-dead. I make up the rules for this particular cast of characters and it never once occurred to me that this person was not entirely dead, until I started getting conspiracy-theory letters from readers who were hoping, really hoping, that this character was not really dead and that in the mythical third book would walk up the cottage's front path to the amazement and heartfelt joy of all. (Please to note: I took the spoilers out. )
It won't happen. But thank you, thank you so much, for wanting it to. Your connection with all my characters, with Susan, with Lady Thorton, Maggie and especially my dear Ada, brings me both amazement and heartfelt joy.
Whatever this day means to you, I wish you a good one.
I pretty much see it as Monday. If pressed, I'll add that it's the day after my son's birthday (the moment he took his first breath, 23 years ago, New Year's Eve ceased to have any meaning for me either). It's the day I get to open my new Dilbert-A-Day calendar--my husband's given me a Dilbert-A-Day calendar for as long as I can remember, probably longer than my son's been alive.
Last year the only resolution I made was to finally go out to lunch with one particular friend. We kept saying we were going to meet for lunch, and then not doing it. I'm happy to say that not only did I keep this resolution, I made a habit of it. Lunch with XXX is now a Thing.
I have a book to finish in 2018. ("Finish?" my daughter asked, yesterday. "Finish, or finish-finish. Copyedited finish?") (Her Christmas gift to me was a t-shirt reading Unreliable Narrator. I loved it.)
The answer is, finish-finish. Yes, it is. And no, this book is not the third one about Ada. I can not promise a third book about Ada. A bad book would be much worse than no book at all.
Also, I'm sorry to say this, but the character who dies in TWIFW is dead. Dead-dead. I make up the rules for this particular cast of characters and it never once occurred to me that this person was not entirely dead, until I started getting conspiracy-theory letters from readers who were hoping, really hoping, that this character was not really dead and that in the mythical third book would walk up the cottage's front path to the amazement and heartfelt joy of all. (Please to note: I took the spoilers out. )
It won't happen. But thank you, thank you so much, for wanting it to. Your connection with all my characters, with Susan, with Lady Thorton, Maggie and especially my dear Ada, brings me both amazement and heartfelt joy.
Whatever this day means to you, I wish you a good one.
December 20, 2017
A Quick Update
Very quick, because I can hear that my son's upstairs in the shower (his bathroom is directly above my office) and when he's done we're going shopping. I was trying to work on my novel, but have given it up after about 50 words and several internet excursions, one of which was actually research. (Arabic boys' names that American children can pronounce: go!)
People keep asking me if I'm ready for Christmas. It's a common enough phrase--are you finished buying gifts, sending cards (I don't send cards anymore), wrapping gifts, cooking, traveling, receiving travelers, whatever it is you're doing? No one means, are you ready for the holy day? Are you ready for hope in the midst of the darkest part of the year? I'm being a little philosophical here--it's the mood I'm in--but I like to think I'm mostly ready for both. It's been an odd year, but a very good one. My son's home now, and my daughter comes home tomorrow. I know we won't always get this much time together, as they continue into their adult lives, and I'm grateful to the point of driving them crazy. Yesterday I was Facetiming my daughter, who's immersed in final exams, and she said rather bitterly that it was amazing how I could hover from more than 500 miles away.
It's a skill I've honed.
Whatever.
I am behind on my thank-you notes for everyone who has sent me books. Books, books, books--it's been amazing. Really, really, good, and I'm really, really, grateful. I've decided to make this a full-time project--I'm in the very beginning stages of creating a full-fledged charity to put more books into the hands of low-income Appalachian schoolchildren. I'll keep you all updated as that proceeds, but for now--the library in the afterschool program is looking awesome. I'm about halfway through the weeding and I've gotten about half the new books onto the shelves, and they're being checked out and read, which is awesome. If you see on my Amazon wishlist some stuff that doesn't look like Quality Children's Literature--say, for example, Fly Guy, which I have no objections to but which isn't on my personal top ten--some of those are specific requests from the children.
The other afterschool program now has a lot more books that reflect the diversity of the students there. The elementary school has a lot more books. There is a lot of work to do--and honestly, a lot more places to put books--but what's happening so far is tremendous, and it makes me very, very glad. And also hopeful. So there. I guess I am ready for Christmas.
People keep asking me if I'm ready for Christmas. It's a common enough phrase--are you finished buying gifts, sending cards (I don't send cards anymore), wrapping gifts, cooking, traveling, receiving travelers, whatever it is you're doing? No one means, are you ready for the holy day? Are you ready for hope in the midst of the darkest part of the year? I'm being a little philosophical here--it's the mood I'm in--but I like to think I'm mostly ready for both. It's been an odd year, but a very good one. My son's home now, and my daughter comes home tomorrow. I know we won't always get this much time together, as they continue into their adult lives, and I'm grateful to the point of driving them crazy. Yesterday I was Facetiming my daughter, who's immersed in final exams, and she said rather bitterly that it was amazing how I could hover from more than 500 miles away.
It's a skill I've honed.
Whatever.
I am behind on my thank-you notes for everyone who has sent me books. Books, books, books--it's been amazing. Really, really, good, and I'm really, really, grateful. I've decided to make this a full-time project--I'm in the very beginning stages of creating a full-fledged charity to put more books into the hands of low-income Appalachian schoolchildren. I'll keep you all updated as that proceeds, but for now--the library in the afterschool program is looking awesome. I'm about halfway through the weeding and I've gotten about half the new books onto the shelves, and they're being checked out and read, which is awesome. If you see on my Amazon wishlist some stuff that doesn't look like Quality Children's Literature--say, for example, Fly Guy, which I have no objections to but which isn't on my personal top ten--some of those are specific requests from the children.
The other afterschool program now has a lot more books that reflect the diversity of the students there. The elementary school has a lot more books. There is a lot of work to do--and honestly, a lot more places to put books--but what's happening so far is tremendous, and it makes me very, very glad. And also hopeful. So there. I guess I am ready for Christmas.
December 14, 2017
Favorite Books of 2017
Today a friend thanked me for posting the titles of books I liked on Facebook. I was actually already thinking about doing a book list blog post, so here you are.
Two years ago I started writing down the titles of every book I read all the way through. For 2017, so far, I have 196 books. Not bad considering that the first few months I was hampered by a concussion and the last few by a book tour. If I counted partially-read books there'd be a lot more. I'm not going to list them all. I see that I started 2017 with a run on bodice-ripper romances by Jo Beverly--no shame there, but you can find those on your own.
Anyway here are my favorites. I mostly didn't put the author down when I wrote the list, and I'm not going to go searching for it, but I will put the genre after each book.
Mayday (middle grades)
Freedom in Congo Square (picture book)
Refugee (middle grades)
*The Haunting of Falcon House (middle grades)
*Midnight at the Electric (young adult)
Radiant Child (picture book)
the Maisie Dobbs detective series, all 13 of them (adult)
Olive Kitteredge (adult)
Wolf in the Snow (picture book)
*Textbook, by Amy Krouse Rosenthal (adult)
*The Pearl Thief (young adult)
The Other Boy (middle grades)
The Jane Austen Project (adult)
The Poet's Dog (middle grades)
The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue (young adult)
Jane Austen at Home (adult non-fiction)
*All's Faire in Middle School (graphic novel, middle grades)
*The Hate U Give (young adult)
All Rise for the Honorable Perry T. Cook (middle grades)
*One Crazy Summer (middle grades)
The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (young adult)
*Yaqui Delgado Wants to Kick Your Ass (young adult)
*Evicted (adult non-fiction)
*Dear Martin (young adult)
*Long Way Down (young adult)
The Night Diaries (middle grades)
Heating and Cooling (adult non-fiction)
*The 57 Bus (young adult)
La La La (picture book)
Piecing Me Together (young adult)
Ms. Bixby's Last Day (middle grades)
I only selected books I really liked. I left off mass-market adult paperbacks, like Jo Beverly. I read a lot of books for research this year and I'm not listing any of those, either, although I quite enjoyed most of them. If I dislike a book I don't finish it unless I'm reviewing it and have to. I didn't really read that many picture books this year, but when I did I read really good ones. I made a conscious effort to seek out more middle-school and YA books with non-white narrators and was really happy I did. I don't have a lot of diversity in the adult novels I read, and that's something I'll work on in future.
I've starred my absolute favorites, the ones that really stuck with me, that I thought about over and over again. Of those, my most favorites: Textbook. Amy Krouse Rosenthal was an intellect like no other, and oh, I miss her. All's Faire in Middle School. Victoria Jamison is so, so good at recreating middle school and giving us a lovable flawed character. The Hate U Give. Angie Thomas's startling debut. Worried it wouldn't live up to the hype, but wow, it did. Yaqui Delgado Wants to Kick Your Ass. This one's a couple of years old and wins the award for the book that surprised me the most this year. Meg Medina doesn't flinch. Loved it. The 57 Bus. Another debut. Dashka Slater's incredibly nuanced, honest reporting makes this perhaps my favorite nonfiction book ever, or at least, of my life so far.
Two years ago I started writing down the titles of every book I read all the way through. For 2017, so far, I have 196 books. Not bad considering that the first few months I was hampered by a concussion and the last few by a book tour. If I counted partially-read books there'd be a lot more. I'm not going to list them all. I see that I started 2017 with a run on bodice-ripper romances by Jo Beverly--no shame there, but you can find those on your own.
Anyway here are my favorites. I mostly didn't put the author down when I wrote the list, and I'm not going to go searching for it, but I will put the genre after each book.
Mayday (middle grades)
Freedom in Congo Square (picture book)
Refugee (middle grades)
*The Haunting of Falcon House (middle grades)
*Midnight at the Electric (young adult)
Radiant Child (picture book)
the Maisie Dobbs detective series, all 13 of them (adult)
Olive Kitteredge (adult)
Wolf in the Snow (picture book)
*Textbook, by Amy Krouse Rosenthal (adult)
*The Pearl Thief (young adult)
The Other Boy (middle grades)
The Jane Austen Project (adult)
The Poet's Dog (middle grades)
The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue (young adult)
Jane Austen at Home (adult non-fiction)
*All's Faire in Middle School (graphic novel, middle grades)
*The Hate U Give (young adult)
All Rise for the Honorable Perry T. Cook (middle grades)
*One Crazy Summer (middle grades)
The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (young adult)
*Yaqui Delgado Wants to Kick Your Ass (young adult)
*Evicted (adult non-fiction)
*Dear Martin (young adult)
*Long Way Down (young adult)
The Night Diaries (middle grades)
Heating and Cooling (adult non-fiction)
*The 57 Bus (young adult)
La La La (picture book)
Piecing Me Together (young adult)
Ms. Bixby's Last Day (middle grades)
I only selected books I really liked. I left off mass-market adult paperbacks, like Jo Beverly. I read a lot of books for research this year and I'm not listing any of those, either, although I quite enjoyed most of them. If I dislike a book I don't finish it unless I'm reviewing it and have to. I didn't really read that many picture books this year, but when I did I read really good ones. I made a conscious effort to seek out more middle-school and YA books with non-white narrators and was really happy I did. I don't have a lot of diversity in the adult novels I read, and that's something I'll work on in future.
I've starred my absolute favorites, the ones that really stuck with me, that I thought about over and over again. Of those, my most favorites: Textbook. Amy Krouse Rosenthal was an intellect like no other, and oh, I miss her. All's Faire in Middle School. Victoria Jamison is so, so good at recreating middle school and giving us a lovable flawed character. The Hate U Give. Angie Thomas's startling debut. Worried it wouldn't live up to the hype, but wow, it did. Yaqui Delgado Wants to Kick Your Ass. This one's a couple of years old and wins the award for the book that surprised me the most this year. Meg Medina doesn't flinch. Loved it. The 57 Bus. Another debut. Dashka Slater's incredibly nuanced, honest reporting makes this perhaps my favorite nonfiction book ever, or at least, of my life so far.
December 13, 2017
No Moore. No More!
I woke up in a sort of crummy mood this morning and stalked around the house muttering to myself about how first-world-privileged my issues were. The house is a mess and I've really not started preparing for Christmas, mostly because I was on vacation all last week with my husband, so you all can put the violins away, even those really tiny ones you play between your forefinger and thumb. My son doesn't know when he'll be home for Christmas yet, but he's happy about that--it's a long story, not mine.
My dog is dying. That's true, and I can't fix it. Also some people I love very much have very heavy burdens right now that simply can't be lifted, they have to be borne. So that's hard, and it's truthful, and those are legitimate reasons to be in sort-of crummy moods.
I opened today's Gospel in my email. The University of Notre Dame sends it to me every morning; I only read it sometimes. But today, wandering about my messy house with my ailing dog, seemed like a good one. And I read,"Come to me, all you who labour and are heavy burdened, and I will give you rest."
No joke.
So that was good, but then the internet got even better. I opened Facebook, and my top post was from my dear friend and heart-sister Christa, who lives in Chicago. It said, "ALABAMA." And then a row of tiny hearts.
I don't have a political home--currently I pretty much dislike all politicians, and the only thing I'd absolutely vote for is term limits, other than absolutely voting that NO SEXUAL PREDATOR EVER BE IN A PLACE OF POWER AGAIN.
I mean, I know that's not realistic. As someone in my yoga class said the other day, there isn't an adult woman in America who hasn't been harassed at the very least. But for so long, sexual assault was discounted, disregarded, disbelieved. Unimportant. And finally, finally, that's starting to change.
Once, when I was already an adult, a friend told me how when she was a little girl, she stayed overnight at a neighbor's and the dad exposed himself to her. She went home and told her mother, her mother pressed charges, and the man was arrested. And I was dumbfounded. You could go to jail? Really? I knew that showing your naked penis to a six-year-old was bad, and technically against the law, but for someone to actually get called on it completely blew me away. I didn't know that was possible. I didn't believe it could happen.
And that was maybe ten years ago.
It's not a party thing. Trump was a predator and so was Bill Clinton. Bill Cosby, Dustin Hoffman--don't know how they voted. I read a syndicated editorial the other day, written by a woman, with the title "The Martyrdom of Al Franken." I assumed going in that the title was satire, or sarcasm, but no--the writer really thought that what Al Franken did was "not that bad." That's true in the sense that exposing yourself to a six-year-old is better than making a six-year-old beat you off, which is better than raping the six-year-old, but it's all degrees of stuff that is absolutely wrong, and I'm really proud to live in a place that is not going to put up with that any more.
My husband dislikes the amount of profanity used by my new favorite blogger, Katie at Katykatikate.com. He thinks it overwhelms her message, which is mostly, quit assaulting women you assholes. I think it's the perfect amount of profanity, because after all these years, we are finally allowed to be angry. We are saying exactly what we want to say, because we finally, oh Lord, finally, can.
And predator by predator, we'll call them out, as much as we can. Our daughters won't have to be silent. Our granddaughters won't freeze in shock and horror. It won't be acceptable any more.
So yeah, I'm in a better mood now.
My dog is dying. That's true, and I can't fix it. Also some people I love very much have very heavy burdens right now that simply can't be lifted, they have to be borne. So that's hard, and it's truthful, and those are legitimate reasons to be in sort-of crummy moods.
I opened today's Gospel in my email. The University of Notre Dame sends it to me every morning; I only read it sometimes. But today, wandering about my messy house with my ailing dog, seemed like a good one. And I read,"Come to me, all you who labour and are heavy burdened, and I will give you rest."
No joke.
So that was good, but then the internet got even better. I opened Facebook, and my top post was from my dear friend and heart-sister Christa, who lives in Chicago. It said, "ALABAMA." And then a row of tiny hearts.
I don't have a political home--currently I pretty much dislike all politicians, and the only thing I'd absolutely vote for is term limits, other than absolutely voting that NO SEXUAL PREDATOR EVER BE IN A PLACE OF POWER AGAIN.
I mean, I know that's not realistic. As someone in my yoga class said the other day, there isn't an adult woman in America who hasn't been harassed at the very least. But for so long, sexual assault was discounted, disregarded, disbelieved. Unimportant. And finally, finally, that's starting to change.
Once, when I was already an adult, a friend told me how when she was a little girl, she stayed overnight at a neighbor's and the dad exposed himself to her. She went home and told her mother, her mother pressed charges, and the man was arrested. And I was dumbfounded. You could go to jail? Really? I knew that showing your naked penis to a six-year-old was bad, and technically against the law, but for someone to actually get called on it completely blew me away. I didn't know that was possible. I didn't believe it could happen.
And that was maybe ten years ago.
It's not a party thing. Trump was a predator and so was Bill Clinton. Bill Cosby, Dustin Hoffman--don't know how they voted. I read a syndicated editorial the other day, written by a woman, with the title "The Martyrdom of Al Franken." I assumed going in that the title was satire, or sarcasm, but no--the writer really thought that what Al Franken did was "not that bad." That's true in the sense that exposing yourself to a six-year-old is better than making a six-year-old beat you off, which is better than raping the six-year-old, but it's all degrees of stuff that is absolutely wrong, and I'm really proud to live in a place that is not going to put up with that any more.
My husband dislikes the amount of profanity used by my new favorite blogger, Katie at Katykatikate.com. He thinks it overwhelms her message, which is mostly, quit assaulting women you assholes. I think it's the perfect amount of profanity, because after all these years, we are finally allowed to be angry. We are saying exactly what we want to say, because we finally, oh Lord, finally, can.
And predator by predator, we'll call them out, as much as we can. Our daughters won't have to be silent. Our granddaughters won't freeze in shock and horror. It won't be acceptable any more.
So yeah, I'm in a better mood now.
November 28, 2017
Actions Have Consequences
When my children were small, one of the ideas I tried hard to instill in them was that their actions had consequences--both good and bad. I tried not to protect them from the natural consequences of small mistakes because I preferred they suffered from small mistakes before they got to catastrophic ones. I actually can think of lots of examples, sitting here as I type this, and I'm not going to tell you any of them, because when I start telling what I think are amusing little stories about my children without their permission they get angry. And then I have to face the consequences of being my inappropriate on the internet. That's nailed me before, and I have learned my lesson. See? It works.
Which would be the point.
So. Yesterday I got an email from someone who recently read The War I Finally Won. He wrote, "I am a children’s trauma therapist and you got it right. "
Thank you. I know I did.
Also yesterday I got an online review from another person who recently read The War I Finally Won. She wrote--I can't find it right now, so not quoting, but this is about right--that she didn't understand why Ada was so whiny and ungrateful and didn't appreciate the way her life had changed for the better. I didn't post anything in response--of course I didn't, people are allowed to dislike my writing for any reason at all--but I thought, Trauma has consequences. When you abuse a child the effects last a very long time.
So. Over the weekend I shared something on Facebook about Roy Moore, the current Republican candidate for an Alabama senate seat, who's been accused of sexual assault on 14 year old girls, among other creepy behavior. I don't get to vote in the Alabama elections but I wanted to register my dislike of any candidate with a history of sexual misconduct. A woman friend of mine commented that I and anyone who agreed with me were wrong because it was not fair to condemn someone without proper trial, innocent until proven guilty and all that. Now, I watched the live interview from one of Roy Moore's alleged victims and I believe her entirely. (I almost always believe the women accusers because it is so damn hard to speak up about abuse, particularly when the accused is someone in power. It's so hard, and so important.)
I agree that innocent until proven guilty is a good law. But no one is suggesting we throw Roy Moore in jail. We can't, for one thing--the statute of limitations has passed. He's in no danger of incarceration. But prison and the United States Senate are two different things. We can say, hey, whatever the actual truth is, there's a whole lot of accusations floating around this man--a whole bunch of stories that all point to a similar truth, and if you assault fourteen year old girls when you are in your thirties, I will not vote for you for dogcatcher, much less the second-highest position in our state. Not even 40 years later. You shouldn't have done that. Your actions have consequences. Just because you got away with shit back then is no reason it shouldn't affect you now.
Then on Sunday the University of Tennessee leaked that it was about to hire Greg Schiano as its new head football coach. I live in Tennessee, and lots of my children's friends go or went to UT. My son's twitter, especially, began lighting up with students and recent alums who thought hiring Schiano was a terrible idea. He worked at Penn State during the time in which Jerry Sandusky was sexually assaulting a series of young boys. On Sunday someone at UT painted "Schiano covered up child rape at Penn State," on the giant graffiti rock on campus, and a whole lot of students protested, as did the governor of Tennessee and other state officials. UT decided not to hire Schiano.
I went to lunch with some friends yesterday and was surprised that not all of us were pleased by the decision to avoid the man. One friend had been listening to a lot of sports talk radio, where a bunch of men heavily involved in college sports were using words like "lynch mob," thus proving that they had no idea what actual lynch mobs entailed.
Schiano was never charged with crimes at Penn State. His involvement comes from this deposition, of Mike McQueary--we argued at lunch over whether or not the deposition was under oath. My internet says it was. Anyway, here it is:
During the deposition, McQueary said he once discussed Sandusky with another Penn State assistant, Tom Bradley, who most recently was an assistant coach at UCLA. He said Bradley was not surprised by what McQueary told him because Bradley had heard similar.From the deposition:Q: “Did [Bradley] tell you that he had had information concerning Gerald Sandusky and children?”A: “He said he knew of some things. … He said another assistant coach had come to him in the early ’90s about a very similar situation to mine, and he said that he had — someone had come to him as far back as early as the ’80s about seeing Jerry Sandusky doing something with a boy.”Q: “Did he identify who the other coaches were that had given him this information?”A: “The one in the early ’90s, yes.”Q: “And who was that?”A: “Greg Schiano …”Q: “And did he give you any details about what Coach Schiano had reported to him?”A: “No, only that he had – I can’t remember if it was one night or one morning, but that Greg had come into his office white as a ghost and said he just saw Jerry doing something to a boy in the shower. And that’s it. That’s all he ever told me.”What happened to that nameless boy after his assault in the shower? The effects of trauma are lifelong, severe, even deadly. No one even knows that boy's name.In 2016, when the court documents were unsealed and this deposition became public, Schiano denied it was true. He said he had no knowledge whatsoever of Sandusky raping children. And that may be true. I personally doubt it--Roy Moore also says the allegations against him are false, as did Bill Cosby, as did Bill Clinton, etc.--but I agree, we can't throw him in prison for it. But even if he didn't have first-hand information, he was part of a program that turned a blind eye to Sandusky and the parade of children he brought into the locker rooms there. No one asked questions and everyone should have. And for that, I agree, I don't think he should get to be UT's head coach. He can go be an assistant coach somewhere. He can have a job. But his reputation is deservedly tainted: he doesn't get to be the highest-paid federal employee in the state of Tennessee. A long time ago he made bad choices and now he gets the consequences.A few years ago a friend of mine accused a man I knew less well, but worked with on a charity board and very much liked, of sexual harassment. I was so grieved. I didn't want to believe that of him, but the alternative--that the woman was lying--made no sense to me. She was not in a position of power, she was someone I trusted--and I knew the courage it took for her to make that accusation.Once she spoke up, other women did too. He had harassed a lot of women. He was entirely guilty.Sometimes we don't want things to be true, but they are still true. Even long-ago actions have consequences. The way to not face consequences for harming women and children is to never harm women or children. That isn't hard. At least, it shouldn't be.Also, if I ever again hear sportscasters, newscasters, or any voice of authority anywhere claiming that denying a rich white man the position that he craves is the action of a "lynch mob," I will puke. Go to Google Images. Type in "lynch mob." Ignore the photos of the inappropriately-named band, and look, really look, at the other photographs that come up. Right. Throw "lynch mob" into the bucket with "Nigger" as Words White People Don't Get To Say.That's all I've got, but if you'd like to read another rant on this topic, may I suggest my dear Katykatikate? Only fair warning, she cusses in print a lot more than I do.
Which would be the point.
So. Yesterday I got an email from someone who recently read The War I Finally Won. He wrote, "I am a children’s trauma therapist and you got it right. "
Thank you. I know I did.
Also yesterday I got an online review from another person who recently read The War I Finally Won. She wrote--I can't find it right now, so not quoting, but this is about right--that she didn't understand why Ada was so whiny and ungrateful and didn't appreciate the way her life had changed for the better. I didn't post anything in response--of course I didn't, people are allowed to dislike my writing for any reason at all--but I thought, Trauma has consequences. When you abuse a child the effects last a very long time.
So. Over the weekend I shared something on Facebook about Roy Moore, the current Republican candidate for an Alabama senate seat, who's been accused of sexual assault on 14 year old girls, among other creepy behavior. I don't get to vote in the Alabama elections but I wanted to register my dislike of any candidate with a history of sexual misconduct. A woman friend of mine commented that I and anyone who agreed with me were wrong because it was not fair to condemn someone without proper trial, innocent until proven guilty and all that. Now, I watched the live interview from one of Roy Moore's alleged victims and I believe her entirely. (I almost always believe the women accusers because it is so damn hard to speak up about abuse, particularly when the accused is someone in power. It's so hard, and so important.)
I agree that innocent until proven guilty is a good law. But no one is suggesting we throw Roy Moore in jail. We can't, for one thing--the statute of limitations has passed. He's in no danger of incarceration. But prison and the United States Senate are two different things. We can say, hey, whatever the actual truth is, there's a whole lot of accusations floating around this man--a whole bunch of stories that all point to a similar truth, and if you assault fourteen year old girls when you are in your thirties, I will not vote for you for dogcatcher, much less the second-highest position in our state. Not even 40 years later. You shouldn't have done that. Your actions have consequences. Just because you got away with shit back then is no reason it shouldn't affect you now.
Then on Sunday the University of Tennessee leaked that it was about to hire Greg Schiano as its new head football coach. I live in Tennessee, and lots of my children's friends go or went to UT. My son's twitter, especially, began lighting up with students and recent alums who thought hiring Schiano was a terrible idea. He worked at Penn State during the time in which Jerry Sandusky was sexually assaulting a series of young boys. On Sunday someone at UT painted "Schiano covered up child rape at Penn State," on the giant graffiti rock on campus, and a whole lot of students protested, as did the governor of Tennessee and other state officials. UT decided not to hire Schiano.
I went to lunch with some friends yesterday and was surprised that not all of us were pleased by the decision to avoid the man. One friend had been listening to a lot of sports talk radio, where a bunch of men heavily involved in college sports were using words like "lynch mob," thus proving that they had no idea what actual lynch mobs entailed.
Schiano was never charged with crimes at Penn State. His involvement comes from this deposition, of Mike McQueary--we argued at lunch over whether or not the deposition was under oath. My internet says it was. Anyway, here it is:
During the deposition, McQueary said he once discussed Sandusky with another Penn State assistant, Tom Bradley, who most recently was an assistant coach at UCLA. He said Bradley was not surprised by what McQueary told him because Bradley had heard similar.From the deposition:Q: “Did [Bradley] tell you that he had had information concerning Gerald Sandusky and children?”A: “He said he knew of some things. … He said another assistant coach had come to him in the early ’90s about a very similar situation to mine, and he said that he had — someone had come to him as far back as early as the ’80s about seeing Jerry Sandusky doing something with a boy.”Q: “Did he identify who the other coaches were that had given him this information?”A: “The one in the early ’90s, yes.”Q: “And who was that?”A: “Greg Schiano …”Q: “And did he give you any details about what Coach Schiano had reported to him?”A: “No, only that he had – I can’t remember if it was one night or one morning, but that Greg had come into his office white as a ghost and said he just saw Jerry doing something to a boy in the shower. And that’s it. That’s all he ever told me.”What happened to that nameless boy after his assault in the shower? The effects of trauma are lifelong, severe, even deadly. No one even knows that boy's name.In 2016, when the court documents were unsealed and this deposition became public, Schiano denied it was true. He said he had no knowledge whatsoever of Sandusky raping children. And that may be true. I personally doubt it--Roy Moore also says the allegations against him are false, as did Bill Cosby, as did Bill Clinton, etc.--but I agree, we can't throw him in prison for it. But even if he didn't have first-hand information, he was part of a program that turned a blind eye to Sandusky and the parade of children he brought into the locker rooms there. No one asked questions and everyone should have. And for that, I agree, I don't think he should get to be UT's head coach. He can go be an assistant coach somewhere. He can have a job. But his reputation is deservedly tainted: he doesn't get to be the highest-paid federal employee in the state of Tennessee. A long time ago he made bad choices and now he gets the consequences.A few years ago a friend of mine accused a man I knew less well, but worked with on a charity board and very much liked, of sexual harassment. I was so grieved. I didn't want to believe that of him, but the alternative--that the woman was lying--made no sense to me. She was not in a position of power, she was someone I trusted--and I knew the courage it took for her to make that accusation.Once she spoke up, other women did too. He had harassed a lot of women. He was entirely guilty.Sometimes we don't want things to be true, but they are still true. Even long-ago actions have consequences. The way to not face consequences for harming women and children is to never harm women or children. That isn't hard. At least, it shouldn't be.Also, if I ever again hear sportscasters, newscasters, or any voice of authority anywhere claiming that denying a rich white man the position that he craves is the action of a "lynch mob," I will puke. Go to Google Images. Type in "lynch mob." Ignore the photos of the inappropriately-named band, and look, really look, at the other photographs that come up. Right. Throw "lynch mob" into the bucket with "Nigger" as Words White People Don't Get To Say.That's all I've got, but if you'd like to read another rant on this topic, may I suggest my dear Katykatikate? Only fair warning, she cusses in print a lot more than I do.
November 27, 2017
We Miss Ralph and Julie
So Thanksgiving weekend is over; my parents, my husband's parents, and both my darling children have all gone back to their regular lives. We had spent Wednesday night through Saturday morning together in our house in the mountains of North Carolina. It's always terrifically peaceful there, and we had a really nice holiday.
When I was a child, Christmas was a variable holiday--for several years my family went on vacation over it--and while it was always family-centered and enjoyable the details changed from year to year. Thanksgiving, on the other hand, was fixed: I could count on the menu (Grandma's baked apples, among many other things) and the venue and the people and even the after-dinner activities (a walk, then playing euchre partnered with my Great-uncle Paul) staying the same.
After I got married, and especially after I had children and moved south, the holidays reversed. Christmas became the one absolutely steeped in tradition (5 pm Christmas Eve Mass, make-you-own pizza for dinner, taking hours to unwrap the gifts one by one on Christmas morning) and Thanksgiving varied. Most years I cooked, though sometimes I didn't; sometimes family members came, sometimes they didn't; often we hosted friends. But we created one invariable Thankgiving weekend custom: on Saturday, we bought our Christmas tree. On Sunday, we decorated it.
In my hometown there's a vacant lot on the corner of Volunteer Parkway and Holston Drive. In spring the strawberry man sets up there. This time of year, it's Christmas trees. Twenty years ago was our very first Christmas in Bristol. We lived on Holston Drive, so the tree lot was only a block away. I was largely pregnant with my daughter and had a very excited not-quite-three-year-old son, so we were slightly memorable, I suppose, because the next year the sellers did remember us and were happy to see our lovely girl.
And every year it was the same. The Saturday after Thanksgiving. The gleeful excited children, the lovely stand of trees. When we moved out to the farm we increased our order, every year buying not only a tree, but also two large wreaths for the barn doors, and, starting a few years after that, seventeen very small wreaths to grace the windows wrapping our dining room and kitchen. The couple who ran the tree stand--we came to know them as Ralph and Julie--made the wreaths themselves, and they were well-constructed and economical. As the years went on they would often have our 17 small wreaths under a tarp behind the camper they parked on the lot, though some years one of their employees would sell them anyway, and we'd have to come back the next day to fill our order.
My son would always be wearing a Notre Dame sweatshirt, and he and Ralph would discuss the football team. My children grew older and taller. One year my son could tell them that he'd just been accepted into Notre Dame; after that, they always asked him how he was doing there.
We probably only spent half an hour at the tree stand every year, but it was half an hour for 20 years, and that adds up. A few weeks ago I saw that the lights and tree stands and the trailer, though not yet the camper, were set up on the lot. I told my children that even though Thanksgiving was early this year I was sure the trees would be ready.
We came home from Linville, unhitched the truck--it's an old truck, it's been part of the day for 17 years--piled in, drove up the Volunteer Parkway--
--and the trees were sparse on the lot, not crammed together as they usually were. There were hardly any wreaths. The camper wasn't there--and neither was the giant blow-up snowman holding the sign that said, "Wolverton Mountain Christmas Trees." There wasn't any sign at all.
We stared. And then we slowly got out of the truck, and a man came up who wasn't Ralph. We asked where the usual people were. The man sighed, as though he'd already answered that question more than he cared to. "They got deployed," he said. "They aren't here this year."
Now I think I remember that both Ralph and Julie were in the reserves. And I get it that people's lives change. But it was still a blow to all of us. We wandered around the not-quite-right lot. "They want a hundred and fifteen dollars for a sixty-dollar tree," my husband said. I said, "The smallest wreaths they have are too big."
We got back in the truck and drove aimlessly down the Parkway. We found another lot selling better trees for more reasonable prices, and we were able to buy a few wreaths, though not as many and not as good. We sat down to lunch strangely subdued. Ralph and Julie have become part of our lives; we care about them. "I'll see if I can send them an email through the farm website," I said. "I'll thank them for their service. Then I'll tell them to get back here and sell us a tree next year."
When I was a child, Christmas was a variable holiday--for several years my family went on vacation over it--and while it was always family-centered and enjoyable the details changed from year to year. Thanksgiving, on the other hand, was fixed: I could count on the menu (Grandma's baked apples, among many other things) and the venue and the people and even the after-dinner activities (a walk, then playing euchre partnered with my Great-uncle Paul) staying the same.
After I got married, and especially after I had children and moved south, the holidays reversed. Christmas became the one absolutely steeped in tradition (5 pm Christmas Eve Mass, make-you-own pizza for dinner, taking hours to unwrap the gifts one by one on Christmas morning) and Thanksgiving varied. Most years I cooked, though sometimes I didn't; sometimes family members came, sometimes they didn't; often we hosted friends. But we created one invariable Thankgiving weekend custom: on Saturday, we bought our Christmas tree. On Sunday, we decorated it.
In my hometown there's a vacant lot on the corner of Volunteer Parkway and Holston Drive. In spring the strawberry man sets up there. This time of year, it's Christmas trees. Twenty years ago was our very first Christmas in Bristol. We lived on Holston Drive, so the tree lot was only a block away. I was largely pregnant with my daughter and had a very excited not-quite-three-year-old son, so we were slightly memorable, I suppose, because the next year the sellers did remember us and were happy to see our lovely girl.
And every year it was the same. The Saturday after Thanksgiving. The gleeful excited children, the lovely stand of trees. When we moved out to the farm we increased our order, every year buying not only a tree, but also two large wreaths for the barn doors, and, starting a few years after that, seventeen very small wreaths to grace the windows wrapping our dining room and kitchen. The couple who ran the tree stand--we came to know them as Ralph and Julie--made the wreaths themselves, and they were well-constructed and economical. As the years went on they would often have our 17 small wreaths under a tarp behind the camper they parked on the lot, though some years one of their employees would sell them anyway, and we'd have to come back the next day to fill our order.
My son would always be wearing a Notre Dame sweatshirt, and he and Ralph would discuss the football team. My children grew older and taller. One year my son could tell them that he'd just been accepted into Notre Dame; after that, they always asked him how he was doing there.
We probably only spent half an hour at the tree stand every year, but it was half an hour for 20 years, and that adds up. A few weeks ago I saw that the lights and tree stands and the trailer, though not yet the camper, were set up on the lot. I told my children that even though Thanksgiving was early this year I was sure the trees would be ready.
We came home from Linville, unhitched the truck--it's an old truck, it's been part of the day for 17 years--piled in, drove up the Volunteer Parkway--
--and the trees were sparse on the lot, not crammed together as they usually were. There were hardly any wreaths. The camper wasn't there--and neither was the giant blow-up snowman holding the sign that said, "Wolverton Mountain Christmas Trees." There wasn't any sign at all.
We stared. And then we slowly got out of the truck, and a man came up who wasn't Ralph. We asked where the usual people were. The man sighed, as though he'd already answered that question more than he cared to. "They got deployed," he said. "They aren't here this year."
Now I think I remember that both Ralph and Julie were in the reserves. And I get it that people's lives change. But it was still a blow to all of us. We wandered around the not-quite-right lot. "They want a hundred and fifteen dollars for a sixty-dollar tree," my husband said. I said, "The smallest wreaths they have are too big."
We got back in the truck and drove aimlessly down the Parkway. We found another lot selling better trees for more reasonable prices, and we were able to buy a few wreaths, though not as many and not as good. We sat down to lunch strangely subdued. Ralph and Julie have become part of our lives; we care about them. "I'll see if I can send them an email through the farm website," I said. "I'll thank them for their service. Then I'll tell them to get back here and sell us a tree next year."
