Tricia Springstubb's Blog, page 12

Let a Smile Be Your…

On Wednesday, the 16th consecutive day of rain here in Cleveland (new record), (really, it’s been Biblical), I was out walking when I got caught in a downpour. I’d put my backpack on my head and was trudging on, when a car pulled over, its window rolled down, and a tattooed arm extended a very nice umbrella. Peeking inside, I saw a smiling, curly-haired woman.

“Take it!” she said.

“But how will I get it back to you?”

“Just give it to the next person you see caught in the rain!”

I can’t give you an umbrella, dear reader, but here’s the goodwill, passed on with interest. And the forecast for tomorrow is sun all day.

  

Jacob Ezra Katz

I remember trying  to learn to whistle.  Big kids and grown-ups made it look so effortless, so fun, but all I could do was puff my cheeks and spit air. It was the same with riding a two wheeler, or swimming–magnificent feats I couldn’t master until, suddenly, I did  (Full disclosure: I still can’t manage much of a whistle).   

The intense longing and frequent lonesomeness of childhood came back to me –flooded into me–last week at the Akron Art Museum, where we caught one of the  last days of  “The Snowy Day and the Art of Ezra Jack  Keats”.  The exhibit, now on its way to Philadelphia, is sponsored by The Jewish Museum. All these years I’ve ignorantly assumed Keats was  black, only to discover that he was the child of Jewish immigrants. Growing up very poor in Brooklyn, back when that borough was packed with tenements full of striving, marginalized newcomers, little Jacob Ezra Katz  made one of his first drawings on his mother’s tablecloth. His parents were none too wild about him becoming an artist, though nothing could stand in his way.

   When I think of his work, ”Whistle for Willie,” “A Chair for Peter”, “Letter to Amy” and of course “The Snowy Day” spring to mind. But the exhibit features  works less known to me, more intensely auto-biographical and more depictive of what it was like growing up poor and an outsider. “The Dream” and “Apt. 3″ are almost tone poems, done in the dark,  broody tones of  tenement life, where everyone lived on top of one another for better or for worse. The Louie books, especially, show a little boy who feels invisible, but slowly comes to find his place in the world. These books speak to anyone, of any ethnicity and time, who’s ever felt longing or dreamed   dreams.

After spending time with those illustrations, I saw, even in the whimsical, celebratory “”The Snowy Day” a hint of lonesomeness. Look at Peter, out there all alone in that immense, silent landscape! The pictures are all cut paper, something else I didn’t know, and it’s astonishing to get a close-up look at what the man could do with one curving snip of his scissors. Peter looking back at his footprints in the pristine snow.  That snow angel, wearing the same pointed cap as Peter!  Keats said of the book that he just wanted to convery “the joy of being a little boy alive on a certain kind of day”.  

Keats never married or had kids, and from the film I watched he seemed a shy, serious man with a fine sense of humor. Sherman Alexie, another writer who grew up on the outside, says that he finds in the the art  “a gorgeous loneliness and a splendid isolation”.  I found myself thinking, improbably, of Maurice Sendak, whose work, while so different, also shows how deeply and permanently childhood joys and fears imprint on us.

Keats, who was largely self-taught, loved Japanese art, and I’ve got an order in for a book of haiku he illustrated, “Spring Garden”, edited by Richard Lewis. The exhibit had one painting/collage from it, a glorious picture of a small boy dancing down the side of a hill, holding a poppy nearly as big as he is.  The poem is by Issa:

Just simply alive,

both of us, I

and the poppies.

the entry way to the children's room at my local library

Show and Yell, err… Tell

In the Department of Nice Coincidences, this year’s national cooperative summer reading program theme is

That’ s helped make ol’ Phoebe and her digger popular for summer story hours. This week I read and talked at my own beloved Cleveland Heights Library, where the way to the children’s room is paved with

I took to the road to visit neighboring libraries in Amherst and Oberlin. The dynamite librarians in those two towns collaborated on an afternoon that featured

At Amherst, the computers were decked out in construction worker vests, and the kids wrote their own stories–my favorite featured a bunch of tigers who took a summer walk through town, got thirsty, and enjoyed a Pepsi break.

In Oberlin, a group of flip-flopped girls and I worked on stories that just happened to include, somewhere, the phrase “dig in”. Characters were excavating bones, diamonds, traces of lost civilizations and carrots (this a fat, lonesome bunny).  I believe a couple of novels were in the works by the time I left.

And that reminds me: here’s a photo from last week’s visit to Cleveland Reading Camp, courtesy of the very lovely and incredibly organzied Emily, the OSU student who ran it.

 Paul and I also took a field trip to the Akron Art Museum, where we caught, just before it closed, the stunning and moving exhibit “The Snowy Day and the Art of Ezra Jack Keats”. I was going to write about that, too, but the fact is, his greatness deserves its own post. So, see you next week.

Round Round, Get Around

Knowing me and how serious I insist on being, you no doubt assumed  that image to the left was a metaphor for…umm…the evanescent nature of all good things, or, maybe, the messiness but essential sweetness of life.

But, dear reader, the truth is far simpler. Today has brought together so many of summer’s pleasures, there’s nothing left to do but list them. First I went to camp–reading camp, that is, the Cleveland branch of www.readingcamprocks.org  The kids had just come back from rafting–lots of sunburned noses– but happily sat down in the lodge (I love that word) to do some terrific writing with me. Of course I forgot my camera, but photos got taken and I’ll share when I get them.  

Then Paul and I ate Lake Erie perch and walleye in a wonderful, shack-y place on the Grand River. From the menu: Did you know that Lake Erie is the natural outlet for the Niagara River, so most of that water cascading over the falls is from here? Neither did I and I still kind of doubt it. Afterwards we walked the beach, where children were chasing balls or digging epic trenches or refusing to get out of the water or hosing their sandy feet in the ice cold shower–an eternal scene. I was right back on the Long Island beaches of my childhood, scenes of  my happiest kid memories.

 One last treat: a chocolate-vanilla swirl from the Kurly Kone.  Riding home we rolled down the windows, and all I needed was the Beach Boys on the radio. (My very first date was on a night just like this one. I wore a dress I made myself and yellow Capezios. But that’s another story).

Happy Solstice!

Parents Choose

PHOEBE AND DIGGER received a Spring 2013 Parents’ Choice Award last week. This is nice in so many ways–who (beside Jonathon Franzen) doesn’t appreciate a sticker on their book cover?

But maybe the nicest thing is that word parents. I remember how picky I was about the books I gave my girls when they were small, both because I only wanted them to have what I deemed best, and because I knew I stood a good chance of having to read those books aloud over and over and over again. So having other Mamas and Papas decide PHOEBE fits the bill feels very good.

There’s more. In their description, Parents’ Choice talks about bullying. To be honest, I never thought I was writing a Bullying Book. The story sprang from something that happened to my oldest daughter one day in the sandbox at our favorite park, and I thought of it as just that: a slice of life in the day of a young child. 

But once you write a book and send it out into the world, it’s no longer just your own. What I like to point out is that Phoebe, too,  knows the pleasures of making mischief and feeling powerful,  and can be a bit of a bully herself. When the big girl steals Digger, Phoebe gets a taste of her own medicine, one of the quickest and surest ways to learn a lesson, no matter what age you are. I have the feeling that, having felt scared and small herself, Phoebe’s going to be a nicer big sister (at least for a while!)

A few parents haven’t agreed. One blogging mother criticized how Phoebe tries to rescue Digger: knuckles (just a little), foot (not too hard). ‘But Phoebe tries her words first, and when those fail, she’s gonna use whatever she’s got to get her toy back.  Her techniques probably aren’t in the How to Handle a Bully Manual, but I think they’re faithful to how a small child with limited options would behave. Likewise, at the end of the book the big girl hasn’t exactly reformed–that’s real life, too.  What Phoebe’s discovered–that despite the new baby, Mama will love and protect her just as much as ever–is the real heart of the story.

Still, I hate to think about offending parents, whose job today is harder and more complicated than ever.  So I’m grateful that a bunch them enjoyed the story enough to give  it that seal of approval.  Thanks, Moms and Dads.

(Braggart alert–the book is now in its third printing.)

Life in Its Muchness

Last night while working at the library I helped an almost-third-grader look for a new book to read. I love doing this, drifting up and down the stacks, pulling out my favorites, describing each a little bit. Some kids will have read pretty much everything I offer, and we’ll fall into our own mini-book-club, discussing favorite parts or characters, exchanging opinions on whether the ending worked or let us down.  Last night’s patron will be one of those kids in a year or two. Her eyes had that light.  So far, she hasn’t read all that much, but when I asked her what she’d enjoyed lately, she said, “I just finished a book called Two Plus One Makes Trouble.” GAAAA!

(like sands through the hourglass…)

“Wait,” said I. “Were the characters named Betsy and Ida?’

“Yup,” said she. “Betsy, Ida and Missy.”

“I wrote that book, ” I told her.

Her shoulders hitched, her brows arched, her mouth made the shape of an egg. I was  probably her mirror image, only three times bigger.

I said I’d written it a long time ago–i.e., before she was born.  Who knows how kids less than a decade old conceive of time? But we both knew it was an amazing, lucky lightning strike coincidence. When I showed her “Fox Street” and “Mo Wren”, both on the shelf, she grabbed ‘em.

Next time I get crazy impatient over how loooong it takes me to make a book and whether it’s worth it, I’ll remind myself about her wide eyes. And how we both stood there in the stacks going, Really? Yup. Yup, really!

A little coda: I just sold a story (for grown-ups) to the literary parenting magazine Brain, Child. I’m not sure exactly when I first wrote it, but it had a reference to the coming new century (meaning the 21st). I pulled it out while taking a break from my WIP,  liked much of it, and went to work revising. Though it’s about mothering, and though I first wrote it when my girls were so much younger, an awful lot of it still holds true. Namely, wishing I was a better mother than I am. When it pubs, I’ll let you know!

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Writing quote of the week, from Paula McLain, author of “The Paris Wife”: “I like to get in over my head. For me, the sweet spot is trying something I don’t know how to do.”

Reading Lives

May 29 was my mother’s birthday. She’d have been 88. This year I’d have given her “TransAtlantic”, Colum McCann’s new novel. I’m not sure if she’d have liked it, but  its Irish-American connections would have intrigued her, and we’d have debated his prose style. I also might have bought her “Dear Life”, by Alice Munro, who is herself in her 80s now and still writing wrenching, beautiful stories. 

It was such a pleasure not only to talk books with my mother, but to buy them for her, something she never did. I mean, never. Why throw away good money–even on something as vital to you as food–when you could get them for free? When I work at the library, the bent old ladies who come in to pick up their reserves always make the tears spring into my eyes.

When we were growing up, Mom never read to us. She never recommended books, or asked us what we were reading ourselves. I’ve thought about this many times, wondering why. I wrote about it here. http://nerdybookclub.wordpress.com/2013/05/27/my-mothers-secret-by-tricia-springstubb/

Happy birthday, Mom! Your peonies are in full bloom.

Celebs

I went down  to Columbus, Ohio, the first weekend in May to take part in  the Ohioana Book Festival.  I LOVE meeting readers, but book fairs can be so weird.  There you sit, behind a big, bright, hopeful pile of your books, as people file by.  If they stop to browse, what is the proper writer etiquette? My instinct is to look down at my lap and hum softly under my breath, signaling NO PRESSURE HERE.

But what if they want to talk? What if they’d really like some help choosing among the million good books on display? So sometimes I give a little pitch, and sometimes I fall into a lovely little conversation, and sometimes they buy the book, which makes me happy of course.  But all in all, I’m not very comfortable with peddling.  A big reason I’m a writer is that I trust and like my considered voice, the one I put on paper, more than the one that blabs away aloud.

I got to talk–not blab but really talk– about exactly that with Sally Oddi,  the owner of  Columbus’s iconic children’s book store, Cover to Cover www.covertocoverchildrensbooks.com  Shockingly, I’d never met Sally, even though she’s been in business since 1980, which just happens to be the year I had my first children’s book, “My Minnie is a Jewel.” (Long out of print, it was published by CarolRhoda, then just a teeny tiny blip on the publishing screen).  Here the two of us are, leaning back (or leaning in).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Sally left teaching to open the store. She knows kids and she knows books. She’s seen the book-selling landscape change–understatement of the decade–and  we reminisced a while about ye olden days. She’d just hosted a visit and signing with a very big name writer, a guy who makes kids roll around on the floor laughing. Sally told me he turned out to be shy. He did no presentation, but had a  personal conversation with every child who brought him a book to sign.  We both got nostalgic for the pre-social-media days when a writer wrote her book, put it in the hands of her editor and publisher, and that was it.  Back then, you went back to your desk and got straight to work on the next one.  Sally said watching children’s authors become celebrities has been really startling to her. I said the feeling that you could always be doing more to promote your work is a drag.

Ever since 1980, she’s been having writers who stopped by her store sign the walls.  Walls are easier to share than a guest book, she says. When she moved the shop in 1997, she simply brought the walls with her. They’re  in a back room now, and the new walls are all but covered with the most glorious graffiti ever.

 

Here’s a miniscule section, the smallest fraction of the whole. You can enlarge it and play I Spy. Aliki, Angela Johnson, Laura Numeroff, Kimberly Willis Holt. The store, an unassuming place on the outside, is a temple of the gods within.

Oh indie booksellers, thank you for keeping the faith.  You are the real celebrities.

Picture Day

You know how I always forget to take pictures.  No problem when I visited Normandy Elementary in Bay Village, OH, last week.  The staff took great photos, just one of  many things that made it one of the sweetest, smoothest school visits I’ve ever done. Here’s how I was greeted when I walked in the door: 

Students made those terrific, reptilian diggers, by the way.

The librarians had read PHOEBE to all the classes. Did I mention Normandy is K-2? Nearly 500 little dynamos in that building. They were so enthusiastic I got bold enough to do my first ever slide show. Here I am showing the difference between some of Jeff Newman’s early sketches and his finished illustrations:

A helpful teacher taught me how to pause the slides, which turns out to be a useful thing to know.  And after a long day of talking, reading, asking and answering questions, here we are chilling in the gorgeous school library:

Thank you, Normandy! I dig you all.

“Writeing is one thing I know…

…and I like Phoebe and Digger.”

That’s a  quote from one of the dozens of letters I got from Boulevard School after a recent visit. Here I am reading–I really need to work on my posture.

And here’s a shout-out to illustrator Jeff Newman:

A few more favorite quotes:

“I like to be a Tricia and a illlustrated.”

“If I see my big brother bullyin on my little brother I will tell him this author name, Mrs. Stringstubb.”

“When you talked I felt like I wanted to bee a Author. But it’s  hard to pick from all the jobs I want. I’m going to tell you. A peteyochrishen, dancer, singer, songwriter.”

“I really like your books!!!!!!!! Hope you win a reward. I believe in you. Make me proud.”

And a couple more drawings–wish I could include them all–this one from the next  Picasso:

 

And this one from a girl who cut straight to the heart of the plot.

One last treasure: I showed the kids some of the early sketches for the book, and many, including this girl, preferred the earlier, scarier version of The Bully.

Thank you again, wonderful Boulevard teachers and students!