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You’ll probably see a lot of posts this week about the American Library Association meeting, and lots more about the Newbery/Caldecott banquet. You’ll see pictures of librarians and writers and editors all dressed up with someplace to go. Or you’ll see pictures of place cards and menus in swirly script. You’ll see dessert.
My dinner on banquet night was a slice of pizza from Two Chefs. The plate was paper, not China. The pattern was “frog.” I skipped dessert. But I did go to the end of the banquet in time to hear the speeches from the Newbery and Caldecott medal winners. Wendy Shang drove. She can actually drive in D.C. whereas I, who learned to drive on the quiet roads of Blacksburg, Va., have always been Super Chicken and do it only when absolutely necessary. We parked a few blocks away, walked past three guys getting patted down by the police, and entered the hotel. We found the banquet room, the doors were open, and chairs were welcoming those of us who decided to come in late and forgo the $94 ticket. The hotel put out almost exactly the right number of chairs, so clearly the ALA people had this down to a science. (I saw only one person standing and she may have just wanted to stretch her legs.) We were way in the back. But it felt like exactly the right place to be. Wendy and I got to sit near other writer-type people (Pam Bachorz and her friend Vivian, Cynthea Liu, and Jaclyn Dolamore. You’ve got to love an event where you can still name drop from the second-to-last row.) We got to cringe collectively when we remembered our warped view of relationships after Newbery Chairman Katie O’Dell invoked the name VC Andrews. We got to laugh when Jerry Pinkney said the word “finally” and we got to “awww” when he shared his honor with his wife of 50 years. We got to wipe away sneak-attack tears when Rebecca Stead talked about lightning bolts of joy. I didn’t have my camera but here at home I took a picture of my little plastic cup. (The water was in the back of the room, too.) As you can see, the cup is half full. =)
We went to the beach last weekend for two (2) days and I asked my kids to pack what they wanted to bring. This is what my son packed:
Every year I try a new vegetable in my garden. Last year it was corn, which immediately attracted a 157,000 new garden pests. The chipmunks were thrilled by the addition of the corn, but no one else really was (see: 157,000 new garden pests) so this year we replaced the corn with broccoli. My kids have never been broccoli’s No. 1 fans, but they’ll eat it so I figured it was worth a shot.
Score.
Turns out broccoli is incredibly easy to grow as it’s a crop that can be started early, before mosquitoes and heat and humidity make you wonder why you’d ever hoed a garden in the first place. It doesn’t take up too much room. And the only pests that came with it were the caterpillars for cabbage butterflies, which ate some of the leaves, but left the crowns alone. On top of that, broccoli is incredibly prolific. After the first, perfect crown is harvested, all sorts of little shoots start growing off the plant. They’re not as compact or pretty, but they taste great. When the kids need a snack, they go to the garden, break off a stalk, and eat.
So what does this have to do with books? So glad you asked!
I heard a story recently about a 15-year-old who is going to have a bummer of a summer: she’s spending it in and out of the hospital, recovering from an injury. A friend wanted to send her some books, but was told not to. “She’s not really that into reading.”
I won’t go into the rant I went into the other day. But I can’t help wondering: If you grow the broccoli, will she eat it? If you find, somehow, the perfect crown, will more shoots follow?
The fine people over at PBS Booklights have been writing recurring posts about growing young readers. The optimist in me says that readers can still grow at any age; that the expression “late bloomer” didn’t come from nowhere. So I’m on a quest to find the perfect book. If you’ve got a suggestion, leave it in comments.
Our friend David sent us a package of Cheese Puffs in the mail. In part he splurged on the shipping charges because he knows my husband really likes Cheese Puffs. Mostly he sent it because of the packaging. Our question is the same as David’s, namely what in the heck made the marketing department at Payaso feel that this particular clown, who would clearly be more at home on an Insane Clown Posse album, was a good idea?
Okay, so “payaso” means “clown” in Spanish. But it doesn’t mean “really scary clown” (that would be “payaso realmente espantoso,” if you trust my Google translator). For the record, the bright orange glow of the cheese puffs was such that my kids didn’t really notice the clown. When I pointed him out, they asked “is he a bad guy?”
I wasn’t sure of the answer there. Maybe he’s trying to do the honorable thing and scare us away from processed foods?
It’s nearly the end of National Poetry Month. And finally! A Poetry Friday post! (I know you’ve been holding your breath.) Today I’m paying tribute to Barbara Park, whose Junie B. Jones books have been cracking us up all year. I know there’s a divide over Junie B. so I’d like to come out and say I am firmly in the “pro” camp — so much so that I just don’t get why there’s a divide in the first place. (I should probably come out here and say I’m pro Captain Underpants, too.) Junie B. has taught us plenty, like how your own Grandma’s house is best, how lots of things can qualify as pets and how you shouldn’t kick a cow watering can when it’s full. She (and her teacher, Mr. Scary) also taught us how write a five-line poem called a cinquain.
Read on
I went to see The Rock Bottom Remainders this week, figuring that my standing as a writing geek would be revoked unless I saw these people play live. The band of writing luminaries started jamming together in 1992 and for me the draw was — no, not Stephen King, who wasn’t on this tour — Dave Barry, a founding member, an author, columnist and humorist.
When I was in college, I had sort of a writing crush on Dave Barry and I thought I might marry him except that I already had a boyfriend and he was married to “my wife, Beth,” who often appeared in his columns. Then they got divorced, which should have meant there was room for me but actually? I was kind of crushed. But he found love again. I’m hoping Beth did, too.
Anyway, my senior year in college I wrote him a letter asking for job advice and he graciously responded with a long handwritten note that I kept on my bulletin board for years after I finally did land a job in journalism. In 1991 I was even quoted in an actual Dave Barry column because I had reported on a tomato that speed-dialed 911. True story. (The column is here, online, courtesy of the Orlando Sentinel. You will find his reference to me on page 2. My fifteen minutes. Tick. Tock.) Read on
Dear Aunt Sylvia and Uncle Morty,
I’m sorry you couldn’t come to my bat mitzvah.
 I don’t remember why you couldn’t make it, especially since 30 years have passed since then. My mother says you didn’t like to travel outside of New York much so that was probably it. The ceremony was held at the new synagogue in Blacksburg, Va., which we had just finished working on. It used to be an Oddfellows Lodge, and when we were cleaning it up Mr. Krutchkoff looked in the small room behind the pulpit and found a coffin. Fortunately, it was empty.
My father always called the synagogue The Building. “We have to go work on The Building,” he would say, and we were always working on it — it was the first time such a place existed in our corner of Southwest Virginia, where the Jewish population wasn’t exactly thriving; we did most of the handiwork ourselves. Now it reminds me of that song “I’m working on a building for my lord, for my lord,” but I didn’t know the song then and anyway, I wouldn’t have sung it because at the time I thought if you were Jewish and you sang gospel songs you might get into trouble.
Read on
Sometimes it’s easier to get rid of things if you take a picture first.
poetry month, yes, I’ve got that. And I HAVE been playing around with some poetry. But I’ve also been trying to make April Spring Cleaning Month. Which is harder. At least for me.
Here’s the thing: I stink at cleaning. It’s not just that I can’t sweep right; it’s that I have no idea how to organize things and put them away. So I pile. Sometimes the piles are neatish. Sometimes they’re Pisa-esque. But they’re always there. Stone Henge on my dresser and the counter and the hutch. The piles add clutter to my house and to my brain.
This month, a number of my friends have embarked on admirable art projects. My friend Mary (who hasn’t updated her blog in ages), is writing a poem a day. My friend Cece has been a maniac, completing an illustration a day based on the adjectives, colors and animal names she picks from a jar. (The snapping turtle is still my favorite, followed closely by her sad, musical possum.) And me? For my April project, I’m trying to cut down on the piles by throwing away 10 things a day.
I got the idea from this Post article by Michelle Singletary. In it, she suggests throwing out (or recycling) 50 things this spring. But somehow, 50 didn’t seem like enough. (Which is Michelle’s point: It’s enough to get STARTED.) I’ll let you know how it goes. Cleaning is an art. I haven’t learned it yet. But if I clear away enough stuff, maybe I’ll have room to create. Which will mean that my April was a little artsy after all.
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