What a Night

This evening, my girl, L, and I went to see "The Help" at the local theater.  I had been looking forward to seeing the movie ever since devouring the book this past summer.  It was a fantastic film, despite some changes, and I am determined to read the book again A.S.A.P. 

We laughed and cried.  I had some tissue in my pocked, but it wasn't nearly enough to cover the tears, so I simply let them roll down my face before using my jacket sleeve to mop them up.  My girl was sniffling right beside me.

We left the theater around 9:15 and were traveling down the mostly dark Mission Avenue, when we passed a dead Labrador in the middle of the street.  We were instantly saddened again, and decided to pull around to see if it had any identification.  With my little flashlight in hand, we made our way over to the dog, who had a broken neck and was a bloody mess.  Already emotionally fragile from the film, outraged at whoever just left  the dog in the road after killing it was compounded by the heedless drivers who drove past us without slowing.  We were both almost hit.  Multiple times.  I have to say, we didn't use our pretty language as we told them to SLOW DOWN!  L got the collar off, but there were no id tags.  She placed it on a nearby mailbox and as we contemplated what to do, two more cars pulled over.  Turns out, these folks had also been to see the film and had pulled over after seeing a dead white dog on the side of the road.  Two dead dogs.  L ran over.  Same story.  Collar but no tags.  A few more cars pulled over, and even though there were multiple people in the street, with blinking emergency lights and flashlights, the cars just kept barrelling by.  The dog in the middle of the street was miraculously not hit again, right in front of us. 

A teenage girl came running down the driveway and asked what had happened.  I told her there were two dead dogs.  She said they were hers, that they had been out looking for them.  Oh, heartache.  She was crying and I was crying, hugging her.  Her dad came running out and he was very distraught as well. 

One of the bystanders offered to help him move the dogs, but he pulled the black one by himself to the side.  He went and got his truck and the two men picked up both dogs and set them inside.  The girl said she had to go home to tell her sister.  The dad was crying very hard by the time his task was completed, hugged us both and thanked us numerous times.  Seems he and his family had just moved to this house, which explained why the dogs didn't have tags yet.

The whole night was surreal.  I am emotionally drained.  It's almost midnight and I have chores to do, lunches to make, and need to be at work with my son by 7:30 a.m., but I am wired.  I shot off a letter to the editor of my local newspaper, imploring my fellow townspeople to be considerate of people in their times of need.  My heart hurts for the family that just lost their animals.  I was very happy to come home to my own two waggy-tailed pups.  Goodnight and thanks for listening.

Summer's Over . . .

Even though the calendar states that Summer isn't over until September 23rd, for those of us who work in education, it's time to put away our beach towels and comfy clothes.

I had a marvelous summer break.  After obsessing and planning over my 40th birthday party, it went off without too many hitches.  Family and friends filled our modest home and spilled out into the yard.  We put some living room furniture outside to accommodate the karaoke set-up.  I borrowed and rented tables and chairs and a huge jumpy with a slide.  We declared our son's room off limits, so we went on a toy buying spree at Dollar Tree.  Whether the toys survived the party or not didn't matter.  We sanded and painted his tree fort, reinforcing the loose boards and making it cooler and more child friendly.  I ordered unicorn themed decorations to symbolize my inner child.  The party went late into the night.  Friends slept in the furniture out front and in the jumpy.  It was a good time. 

My son and I singing Karaoke.   A Sabbath song, I think.

Mark n Captain Mady

Chef Mady with Auntie Judy, baking Smore Bars on the Houseboat.

Cousins in the Kayak

Two weeks later we went on our ?th annual houseboat trip.  I have lost count of the times we have packed up food and entertainment and driven to Nevada to soak in the lake and enjoy each other's company.  For those of you who have never been on a houseboat trip, there isn't much to it.  Just make sure you invite people who are flexible and fun-minded, bring lots of snacks, and plenty of ice.  I bring along books, movies, games for the kids, and a few changes of clothes.  My husband prides himself on bringing only a pair of swim trunks and a few t-shirts.  This year's trip was bittersweet, being the first one without our beloved Punky (E's father, who died last Labor Day).  At one point, walking up the dock to the store, my breath caught as I saw a broad-backed man filling an inntertube with air.  For a moment, it looked just like my father-in-law, who would be pleased that we continued our traditional summer trip.  This year my brother-in-law drove the boat to the landing spot just right, letting one of the children "help" steer, just like Punky used to.  On our last night, we took a bottle of Punky's favorite Bushmill's whiskey to the top of the boat.  We poured a shot for each of us, plus one for him.  Emotions spilled over as we remembered this amazing man, gone too soon.

I spent the rest of the summer playing mom and chauffeur to my son and his friends, watching movies, reading books, and stripping a new-to-us dining room table.  I love my sander.  With my i-pod blasting tunes in my ear and the wood showing it's true beauty out from under the old stain, I am in heaven.  I still need to re-stain the table, but as the raw wood is just so gorgeous to me, I am loathe to cover it up, even though I know I need to protect the wood and match the table to the chairs.

I went back to work a little early to clear out a room in the library that is now the student store, as well as to help with registration.  I erased the anti-"others" sentiment from the door and put in a request to the custodial staff to clean off the sharpied curse words on my book drop.  I entered to find the usual "mystery" boxes that had been left in the library by those who feel that when in doubt, the library's the place to put it.  Sometimes these are welcome surprises, other times I wonder, "what were they thinking???"

Yesterday was the first day of school.  Students and their parents packed the hallways, waiting to get their class schedules.  Staff was working as efficiently as possible.  Purple papers meant the students had to stay in the MPR, they needed to meet with the principal in regards to their low G.P.A.  Green dots meant their registration packets weren't complete.  Red dots meant they still needed to show proof of their Pertussis immunization to the nurse.  The little 6th graders looked eager and fresh, if not a little nervous about finding their way around.  The 7th and 8th graders were more interested in their class schedules and comparing them with their friends'.  By 2 hours into it, I was finally back into my sanctum, the glorious library.  I had requested fewer Teacher Assistants this year, as last year, I learned that more student helpers were definitely a hindrance to efficiency.  I had 3 returning helpers and 1 new.  I was closed to the general public at lunch, but some of my regulars snuck past security and with the familiar faces around me, it felt like an extension of the year before. 

Summer already seems far away, although the weather is too hot for my cute Fall clothing.  I am surrounded by textbooks that will be distributed next week.  Earlier today, one of my students asked what I was going to dress up as for Halloween.  Yup.  Summer's over.                           Thanks for listening.

Mix the Dark with the Inspirational and Just Plain Entertaining

A few months ago, a friend and fellow school librarian, sent me an interesting article from The Wall Street Journal entitled "Darkness Too Visible" (June 4/5, 2011), which examines the dark literature that is so popular with young readers. 

Pathologies that went undescribed in print 40 years ago, that were still only sparingly outlined a generation ago, are now spelled out in stomach-clenching detail.

The author points out that as early as 40 years ago, "no-one had to contend with young-adult literature because there was no such thing.  There was simply literature, some of it accessible to young readers, and some not."  Beginning with The Outsiders, still a tremendously popular book, the young-adult industry was born. 

The article asks, what is our responsibility to our children (and the children we may come in contact with because of our school district jobs :) )?  What do we want to put in their absorbent and impressionable brains? 

I come at this question from a few different directions.  As a young reader, my life was indelibly shaped with the controversial novels by Judy Blume.  I vividly remember reading my first "sex" scene while slowly swinging on the playground and hoping the adult supervisor wouldn't sneak up and read over my shoulder.  Some may have argued that I was too young to be reading this, but I felt empowered (as well as a bit nervous and tingly) to know that people would tell me things in a book that an adult might not say to my face.  As far as "dark" books go, those are the ones that fly off the middle (and high) school shelves.  During the school year, I can't keep a copy of A Child Called It (which, unfortunately, is NOT fiction) in house.  I am not saying that books containing violence and sex and suicide should be pushed just for the sake of kids reading, but if I promote reading as a way to step into someone else's shoes, I won't ban them either.  I pray the the dystopian societies portrayed in The Hunger Games or The Forest of Hands and Teeth won't even remotely come into existence, but the human emotions portrayed (loyalty, bravery, sorrow, camaraderie) are a real part of everyone's lives.

There are books I won't read, and when my school kids check them out, I might warn them about the darkness contained in the book.  (The aforementioned Child Called It is a prime example.)  I choose what I want to read and encourage others to do the same.  I only got to page 80 in the young adult series Lockdown.  Escape from Furnace, because the plot of sadistic alien creatures wearing the guise of humans who set young boys up only to incarcerate them into a prison where there is no escape and you had better not get close to anyone, because chances are, one night they will disappear, hit a little close to home, with my only child being a 10-year-old boy. 

Yes, I will incorporate this title into my school collection.  Yes, I will get the sequels as they come out.  I know (by the subtitle) that they boy will escape and perhaps another child reading this book will find a way out of his/her own personal horror, or, less grandly, just be "into" the book.

I had started this blog post to tell you about a few other books I recently read that would portray the other side of the coin.  Seeing as I've already gone off on a rant and want to keep you interested, I will quickly tell you about them.

From oldest to newest, I am happy to say that I have finally read My Side of the Mountain by Jean George.  This Newberry Award book, written in 1959 is what I love about a book with its wonderful, courageous and ingenious character.  City boy, Sam, decides that he wants to live off the land.  He has heard stories all his life about the family land in the remote mountains and he makes his way there and accomplishes his goal.  It was a glimpse into another time and place, where a family might let their child prove himself in this manner, without reality shows or mommy looking after him.  Sam lives in a tree (the trunk, not the branches), makes his own clothing and supplies and a few friends (both human and animal).  I will read the other books in this series.  I will hopefully get my own son to read them.; a far cry from his own reality, I must admit.

Al Capone Does My Shirts (2004) won both the Newberry and Young Reader's Medal awards, and for good reason.  Matthew ("Moose") and his mom, dad, and autistic sister move to Alcatraz Island, where his father is an electrician and a guard.  This book sucked me up like a biscuit soaks butter.  I was  fully enthralled by this character rich story about kids who have a lot of rules to follow, but live in a time and place where they are on their own a lot.  Yes, Al Capone plays a small, but inspirational role in this book.  Yet again, this book has a sequel, which I will be on the lookout for.

Lastly, and those of you who have no patience with books dealing with supernatural romance can skip ahead, there is Paranormalcy.  This book was recommended to me by the Bookfair rep for my local Barnes and Noble, plus the book is written by a San Diego author, so how could I resist?  Evie is one of the only "normal" creatures who work for the International Paranormal Containment Agency, or is she?  Dedicated to keeping the world a safer place by placing tracking and behavior modification devices on potentially dangerous creatures like vampires, werewolves and hags, Evie is challenged by nightmares, both real and in her sleep.  Paranormals are being murdered and her faith in the Agency is shaken.  The fairies are being evasive and one, in particular, is stalking her.  And what's up with the hot guy who is practically invisible and has the gift of mirroring anyone he chooses?  A great book, again with a sequel that is on my to-be-read-and-purchased-for-my-school list.  (Phew!)

So, while I find a lot of merit in the concern of the New York Times author who is wondering exactly what it is we are teaching young people today, I think my own personal role is to keep reading as many of these books as I can and steering as many kids toward them as possible.  That's what they pay me the big bucks for, right?!?                             Thanks for listening.

These Times, They are A-Changin . . . for the Better . . .

             I love when books I am reading magically intersect each other. 

Both The Memory Keeper's Daughter (by Kim Edwards) and The Help (by Kathryn Stockett) deal with separation and inequality in the American '60's. 

"The Memory Keeper" refers to Dr. David Henry, a doctor, who is forced to attend to his pregnant wife's delivery when a snowstorm prohibits his way to the hospital.  His son, Paul, is perfectly healthy, but his daughter, Pheobe, has Down syndrome.  Stunned by this reality, David is forced to recollect his own sister, who died at age 12 from a heart problem, breaking the spirit of their mother.  To save his wife the grief of a retarded child, he asks the attending nurse to take the baby to a nearby home for the mentally disabled. When his wife, Norah, awakens, he tells her that the baby has died. 

The nurse's name is Caroline, and after seeing the facility, decides she cannot leave the newborn there.  She takes the baby home instead.  When she sees the infant's death announcement in the newspaper, she decides to raise Phoebe as her own and moves to Pittsburgh. 

Raising a child with Down syndrome in the 60's is no easy feat.  After rushing a the child to the emergency room when a bee sting proves almost fatal, the attending nurse asks Caroline if she is sure she wants to save her. 

In The Help, close-mindedness is rampant on an even larger scale.  While it is perfectly acceptable for a black woman to be employed in a white person's home, cooking for them and raising their children on a day-to-day basis, it is considered unhealthy for them to use the same toilet as the white family.  They must not use the same silver or glassware.  They are expected to use the back door.

But not everyone is content to let these inequalities go without question.  Eugenia Phelan, commonly known as "Skeeter" for her tall, skinny frame, is home from college without a wedding ring on her hand and a fierce desire to write.  She lands a job answering domestic questions for the local paper.  Being a rich socialite, she has no idea how to address such issues as sink stains and bitter coffee.  She decides to ask someone who would know.  Aibileen is the maid of her best friend, Hilly.  Aibileen grudgingly gives her the answers and when she shares that her son, who has recently died, was interested in writing a book about being black in Jackson, Mississippi, Skeeter decides to take a great risk and run with the idea.  She secretly interviews maids about their lives and what it is like to work for the white ladies of the town.  Some of the stories are decent, but a lot of them are not.  Risking their lives, one by one, the maids offer their stories and Skeeter types them up, hoping to impress a New York editor with her book idea. 

Both of these books caused me to shake my head and feel an aching heart at what so many people have gone through because of being different.  While 2011 is far from a Utopian society, I am very grateful that I can have a house full of mixed-race friends and not think anything about it.  When I was a child, I was uncomfortable being around people with mental disabilities.  Having a family member who is affected, as well as working in the public, has helped me to grow up and out of these prejudices.

In The Memory Keeper's Daughter, I had to wait over 300 pages for Norah to discover that the daughter that she has never stopped grieving for was not dead after all.  It was worth the wait.  The prose are beautiful and the character development over a span of 25 years is wonderful and insightful.

The Help is by far the best book I have read this summer.  When I posted on Facebook how much I loved it, a friend mentioned that when her mother started reading it to her grandmother, the grandmother became angry; citing, "we never treated our help that way!".  Hopefully not.  I know there are a lot of decent people who understand that all are created equal.  Unfortunately, I also see the opposite on a daily basis. 

Pick up either or both of these books.  They are worth your time.  Thanks for listening.

"The House Settled in for the Story"

"The minutiae had consumed the whole."

Meredith and Nina are sisters, daughters of Anya, their Russian-born mother who doesn't look them in the eye, hug them or share any part of herself.  Meredith and Nina survive their childhood and Nina becomes an award-winning photojournalist, documenting tragedies all over the world and working on her pet project, photos of amazingly strong women of all nations.  Meredith has stayed close to home, married her childhood sweetheart, and runs the family's apple orchard business.  Their father, Evan, the loving bond that holds them all together is dying.

On his deathbed, Evan makes his daughters promise to take care of their mother and to get to know her.  The only time she has opened up to them is through her fairy tales, of which Meredith refuses to listen, ever since a heartbreaking incident when she was young and tried to act the stories out during a Christmas evening.  Her mother exploded and put an end to all her hard work.  Now a widow, Anya is calling her daughters by different names, pulling down and boiling the wallpaper and cutting her fingers with a knife. 

After a short stint in a retirement home (for which she packed a bag of leather belts and butter), both girls redouble their efforts to find out who Anya really is.  Nina relentlessly hounds her to retell the fairy tale of their youth.  Although Meredith is determined to stay out of it, she is drawn to the magic of her mother's voice and the memories of the only times in her childhood that she had her mother's attention.

"It's a tearjerker, but the journey is as lovely--and haunting--as a snow-filled forest," promises People magazine on the front cover of this amazing book that I bought from my last bookfair and squirreled away for summer vacation.  Boy, they weren't kidding.  Riding around in the backseat of the truck yesterday, I was glad to be in my own ipod/dark sunglasses world as Anya relieved any mother's nightmare (think Sophie's Choice . . . shudder, shudder).  I finished the book tonight, hidden away from the family, and quietly shared my grief with the dark night.  It was a beautiful story and one I can't wait to pass on.  In the past, I would have saved it to give to my Gram.  She loved romance novels.  She lives only in my heart these days, so I think I'll give it to my sis-in-law, Kris.  She loves this stuff too.  Thanks for listening and pick up a copy of Winter Garden.  You won't be sorry.