At first glance, only shadows Only wisps of black knitted into The patchwork quilt of springy turf Where magic warms the notes of moon’s music, Light playing upon scruffy T-shirt and shorts, Hair swirling, legs Twirling, Hoping to gather treasure in her net Then out of dark and fresh-lain night: A tiny little bead of light Up, up swoops the net with arms raised high And the balls of bare feet jump to meet The moon And lo, the little flickerin’ thing Is caught up in the net And she reaches balled fist in eagerly, Band-Aids patching up hurts of yesterday, And tiny, warty fingers fix themselves round their catch, But, try as she will to cut off its light, Clasping both hands round the firefly, She cannot kill the hope of the creature That has been caught before, And the giggles, the attempts to close in the beams of yellow Only amuse the moon For what would parents know of such important matters? And as she releases the firefly’s light It sails back off into the night. Katie Ferman, 13Three Lakes, Wisconsin
A Morning in the Orchard
I’m lying on my back in my grandfather’s orchard, staring up at the branches above me. It is one of the last days of summer. Already the days are shorter and the nights are cooler. Some kinds of apples are already ripe. Others will be ready to pick soon. I think of my grandmother’s apple pie, and how I used to make it with her. She died last year, before the apple harvest, and I have not had her pie since. I really miss her. I hear bees busily humming about, visiting the late summer flowers. Fall is quickly approaching, and the bees move from flower to flower, collecting pollen to make the sweet honey that they will dream about all winter. They are landing so softly on flowers that it barely makes the flowers dance. The gentle hum of their wings nearly lulls me to sleep. The sky is as blue as my grandfather’s eyes. Above me, big white clouds race across the sky like pieces of cotton blowing in the wind. I look for pictures in the clouds. One looks like a dog chasing after a ball. Another looks like a frog jumping off of a lily pad. School starts in another week, and time seems to have slowed down. I hear the branches moving in the closest tree. I look up and see a squirrel, flicking his bushy tail, his eyes happily laughing at me. I don’t know what he finds so funny. And then I see it, the perfect apple! Big, ripe, and juicy, it hangs far above my head. I scramble up the last few feet, and grab the shiny apple in my hands I scrape my hands on the rough bark of the trunk as I struggle to reach the lowest branch on the tree. I let go of the trunk and leap for the branch, an adrenaline rush temporarily conquering my fear of heights. I catch it in my hands and hang from it, slowly swinging, surprised that I have made it this far without falling. Slowly, painstakingly, I pull myself up onto the branch. Standing on the thickest part of it, closest to the tree, I look up. The apple is still far above me. I continue climbing higher, using the same tactic for every large branch that I meet. The smaller branches get in my way, scratching my face and tangling my long, black hair. I pass many beautiful apples, dripping with dew and warmed by the sun, but none are the perfect apple I am after. I scramble up the last few feet, and grab the shiny apple in my hands. My mouth begins to water. I can almost taste the apple, sweet and yet tart at the same time. Crisp… juicy… with a nice big… hole? A hole?! Now I know what the squirrel was laughing at. Over in the next tree, he chatters again. I throw the apple at him. Of course I miss. His eyes still smiling, he runs away, jumping from tree to tree across the orchard until I lose sight of him. “Sophie!” calls my grandfather. “Is that you?” I scamper down the tree, take his hand, and tell him all about my day as we walk through the orchard. We talk about apples, and squirrels, and Grandma. He tells me that he misses her too. He puts his rough, brown farmer’s hand around my shoulder and pulls me close. “You know, Sophie,” he says, “I spent the morning in the attic, and you’ll never guess what I found. It’s the recipe for Grandma’s apple pie. I used to help her make it sometimes. I can’t do it all alone, but you used to help her too. Maybe between the two of us, we can figure it out. Wanna try?” “But it won’t be the same without Grandma,” I tell him. “That’s true,” he says, “but nothing is the same without Grandma. Still, I don’t think that she would want us to never have another apple pie. What do you say?” I nod yes, and we walk towards home… towards an afternoon in the farmhouse kitchen, making Grandma’s famous apple pie. William Gwaltney, 10Englewood, Colorado
The Leaf and the Web
Lines… Veins… Silky Strands… One red leaf on a green tree, Swaying all alone in the wind One red leaf falling through the chilled fall air Swirling in the twilight. A busy spider in the early hours of dawn, Silk webbing falling behind, Swirling strand, into lines, into web of silk. Twilight One red leaf is swirling, Falling it twirls one more time, A beauty… A web with one red leaf Intertwined in the silky strands. Taylor Nelsen, 11Greenville, North Carolina
Going Home
In the blink of an eye, one chapter of your life changes into another. Someone that you knew since you were a toddler becomes a stranger. A place that you’ve memorized by heart becomes unfamiliar. And you, you’ve changed so much that your childhood best friend wouldn’t recognize you if you appeared right before them. It’s been three years since I’ve felt the North Carolina air around me, three years since I last said goodbye to my closest friends, three years since I left my native home. I expected everything to be the same as I left it. I expected everyone to be who they were back then. Only after my brief visit back home did I finally come to realize that I expected too much. As we drove past the tall, looming trees and the wide, dusty lanes, my parents pointed out all the different things that they remembered. I didn’t remember anything. Only as we entered our old neighborhood did I finally have memories pushing themselves to the front of my mind. Home, I thought, I’m finally back home. Familiar houses passed us by, well-known paths and gardens seemed to welcome us back warmly. Yet, something had changed. I just didn’t know what. All my friends welcomed me back with friendly smiles and familiar words All the adults gushed about the changes in my appearance, notably my height. All my friends, who were all grown up themselves, welcomed me back with friendly smiles and familiar words. They filled me in on all the things that I’ve missed out on and on all the changes of our community. They all seemed like strangers to me, it seemed like I was meeting them for the first time. But as the days passed, their facades disappeared, and they became, once again, the people that I knew so well. The people who I could tell my innermost secrets to, and the people who I shared all my childhood memories with. My love and care towards them returned and our friendships were revived. One night, we were all crowded around the television screen, watching the intensity of the basketball game on television. Our home team, which we all loved deeply, against some unknown college. We cheered as victories were made and groaned as the other team gained points. We were all on the edges of our seat as the final minutes of the game came upon us. When we won only by a narrow margin, we exploded, cheering like mad. Only then did memories of our past come swimming back at me. They all told me that Texas had changed me, that I was an entirely different person. My love for pop music slowly gave way to the fun country songs. Healthy East Coast dishes gave way to fried foods and steak. My hair grew out, I adored shopping malls and makeup, my clothing style became unknown to them. But at the end of the week, they too realized, that deep down inside, I was still that little girl who cherished her stuffed animals and saved every blemished photograph in her memory box. On my last day in North Carolina, I sat down on the little bed and thought. I thought about how much everyone had changed, about how much I, myself had changed. I had made plenty of new friends, and I wouldn’t give up my new Texas home for anything. I had eventually moved on and became a different person. But then, as I waved goodbye to all the people that I loved, a little voice inside my head reminded me that, only here is where my heart truly belongs. Only here is home. Note: This story is a sequel to “Moving On,” which appeared in the January/February 2005 issue of Stone Soup. Caroline Lu, 13Friendswood, Texas Olga-Teodora Todorova, 12Plovdiv, Bulgaria
Voices of War
Voices of War edited by Tom Wiener; National Geographic: Washington D.C., 2oo4; $3o Don’t get scared away by the title or how many pages in this book. It is really the Voices of Heroes. Veterans who served in World War I, World War II, Korea, Vietnam and the Persian Gulf talk about what happened to them in the wars. It’s like sitting down with someone’s grandfather or uncle or brother and hearing them tell stories that you will never learn about anywhere else. On page 127, Ben Snyder remembers on December 7, 1944 that it had been three years since he heard the horrible news of the Pearl Harbor attack by Japan. He was in the South Pacific still fighting the Japanese and he didn’t know when he would ever go home. When I read that, I remembered the attacks on September 11, 2001, and we are still trying to stop the terrorists. An army nurse, Isabelle Cedar Cook, wrote, “I keep thinking about the children that will soon only know World War II as a chapter in the history books. I wanted very much to share my experiences with them, so I decided to write a book. I called it In Times of War because in times of war things are very different.” One man told about how his brother had been killed. His mother thought the army would fly him home immediately. “Unfortunately, she believed the nonsense the government put in the newspapers during the war for civilian consumption, such as flying soldiers home when tragedy struck a family,” wrote the soldier, William Whiting. He was in the Army’s 802nd Field Artillery Battalion. When he saw dead German soldiers he wrote that “even though they were .the enemy, once they were dead you could no longer hate them. You could not help but remember they were or had been someone’s son, husband, father, brother.” That’s what this book is about. How the war is for regular people like nurses, soldiers and sailors. That’s why you should read this book. So you can see how Americans coped with war. I feel like a walking version of Voices of War I am involved in the Stories of Service Veterans History Project. I am a youth producer. I videotape interviews of veterans for the Library of Congress. Then the veterans’ interviews will be preserved for future generations. These interviews will give information for speech writers, college students and book writers. Each veteran that I interview becomes part of me. I am hearing firsthand accounts of what happened to these men and women. Every one of them has a great story and lesson to pass on. One thing I hear the veterans say is that they want peace. These people know what war is and they want peace in the world. At DePortola Middle School, where I am a seventh-grader, war is not something students think about, but this book would be a very good book to have. It can be used to write history essays and learn about how soldiers and sailors lived and felt then and how they think about the wars now, which is thirty or forty or sixty years later. In history we learn about the generals and presidents and the famous battles. This book tells the real story of the people who fought the wars that became history. Celia Arguilez Smith,12San Diego, California
Makoto, the Turtle Boy
There was once a boy who lived in a village in a valley of Japan. His village had wooden houses with sliding doors and rushing water and creeks. One hot summer day, it rained heavily from dawn to dusk. The creeks got deeper and wilder, and the boy, Makoto, thought it was the perfect time to venture down to the creek and hop from rock to rock. Makoto loved to watch the water, to feel it gushing over his hands. He put on a finely-woven straw hat and his blue shoes. Makoto’s mother was fixing lunch, and she told him to be back in half an hour so he could eat with his father when he came home from his job at the post office. Makoto told his mother that he would be back by then. Stretching his socks up to his knees so he would not get mosquito bites, Makoto started down the road. Not many others were on the road at the time, but Makoto did not mind. He liked to be by himself, to breathe in the fresh, thick air, to wade in the creek, to trek amongst the large green trees of the valley School had just ended, and Makoto went out every day to see something new, or to visit old special places. School had just ended, and Makoto went out every day to see something new Makoto headed down the road, and stopped at the post office to say hello to his dad. Makoto reached into his pocket and took out a few pumpkin seeds. He handed them to his dad over the counter where he worked, selling people stamps or arranging for their letters and packages to be mailed. Makoto pressed the seeds into his father’s hand and his father smiled and thanked him. “Where are you off to today?” he asked Makoto. “The creek,” Makoto told him. Then, in a hurry to get there, Makoto waved to his father and ran down the rest of the road. Makoto walked past the giant bamboo stalks and he stepped carefully down to the creek. He hopped from rock to rock, and then stopped to listen to the loud, rushing water. He looked to his right, where two waterfalls stood. They had been there for hundreds of years. He hopped onto three more rocks, slipping on the last one, which was wet and slippery. He fell on it and scraped his knee, and as he scrambled up on the opposite bank, his shoe was pulled from his foot and swept down the river. Makoto ran down the riverbank as fast as he could. He caught up with his shoe, but then it floated away from him and under the bridge. There was no bank for him to run on and no rocks to hop on. He waded into the creek, then swam through the creek and under the bridge. His shoe had caught in between two rocks. He swam closer to it, but was soon swept off to the side. Makoto was tired from swimming and his limbs were sore. He pulled himself up onto the bank, and lay down on his side. He was wearing only one shoe. He turned to lie down on his back on the muddy bank. He sat for a long while, just thinking and sitting still. Then he remembered that he had been asked to be home to eat lunch with his father. His shoe was no longer in sight and Makoto was so tired that he couldn’t bring himself to swim through the rushing water and the sharp rocks. He decided that he would sit on the bank until a villager noticed him. But if he didn’t arrive home soon, his parents would be worried. Makoto was just falling asleep when he heard an ancient voice whisper into his ear. “I will take you back, and look! I found your shoe.” Makoto opened one eye and then two. A turtle was standing in the mud next to him. On the turtle’s back was his shoe! Makoto thanked him gratefully and put his shoe back onto his foot. The turtle waded into the water. “Climb onto my back,” he said. Makoto sat down on the turtle’s back and he leaned forward and held on tight to the turtle’s beautiful shell. Then the turtle swam swiftly into the water. Makoto held his breath, but the turtle assured him that he didn’t need to. Makoto breathed in, and water came out his nose. “I wasn’t ever able to breathe water before!” he told the turtle. The turtle smiled wisely and said to Makoto, “Did you ever try?” Makoto had not. The turtle said to him, “Makoto, you have always been one of us” The turtle said to him, “Makoto, you have always been one of us. You are really a human body and mind, but your spirit and soul are turtle. Once every seven years we give one newborn child the ability. The child can breathe and swim like us. When you fell into the creek when you were young, all the turtles of the creek circled around you to cast the spell. Your mother came and took you out of the water just after you had become part turtle.” Makoto was amazed with the turtle’s tale, and he believed it. He even found himself about to check if there was a shell on his back, but he remembered that his appearance was human. He began to get used to breathing water, and soon they had swum under the bridge. The turtle paddled in between rocks, and then up the bank. Makoto turned to say goodbye and thank you to the turtle. But the turtle had swum back into the creek. Makoto crossed the creek on the rocks once again, and he held on with his hands so that he didn’t slip. He hurried up to the road and ran toward his house. His slid open the door and took
Fireworks
It had been five days since Mae had seen another person. It had been five days since she had brushed her hair, taken a shower or changed clothes, and those were just a few of the previously considered necessary things which she had not done since June 30. But it would end soon. It had to. She could see the mainland from here, for God’s sake! But it was too far to swim, and her only boat was currently smashed against the rocks about a half a mile away. In retrospect, it was really stupid to try to see how close she could go past the rocks without hitting them. She mentally promised to whatever insane, totally unfair god was up there that if—no, when—she got back she would never go out on a boat again. No, that was stupid, because if Mae didn’t get back she wouldn’t go out in a boat anyway. It seemed it was in God’s best interest that she just festered here for the rest of her life. Of course, she wasn’t going to make it easy for him. On the wide part of the beach facing the mainland she had dug, in giant lettering, the words HELP! STRANDED! and a frowny face above it just in case any plane pilots were illiterate. She also had a red towel, rescued from her yacht, that she planned to wave wildly at anything that was or resembled a vessel that could carry humans. Now she was sitting on the cape, because her green shirt and blue jeans were the most conspicuous with a background of sand. The cape went out high and far enough that she could see all around her little island, making it impossible for a boat to go unnoticed. She was eating her dinner now, made up of fiddler crabs, snails, a lettuce-like plant that she hoped was edible, and eggs. The eggs she got from a nest she found in the woods. She had promised herself she would eat only two of them today, but they were too good to resist. She was now eating the last one. Has anyone else ever noticed that the colors of the sunset are much like those of yogurt? At first she had ignored the idea of finding food, instead depending on getting rescued, but after missing a few meals she changed her mind. There weren’t many choices. The Spanish moss, live oaks, palmettos and sea grass all were pretty unpalatable. She tried catching fish, but somehow they always got away. Then she remembered eating crab, and though she had never liked it, the abundance of fiddler crabs along the beach made them all the more appetizing. At first they were like the fish, always dodging away at the last second, but she learned to scoop them up and hold them like she used to hold fireflies she caught in her backyard. She soon found that they were good, though they pinched hard for such little things. She had tried finding clams, but when she actually found one she couldn’t figure out how to open it. Then she noticed the snails that were all over the sea grass. Mae had never eaten escargot before, but she remembered the French ate it, so she figured it couldn’t be too bad. All over the spiny sea grass in the marshes tear-drop-shaped snails crawled, inching their way through their own tiny world. She could just swoop down and pluck them off one by one. Once she ate some she couldn’t figure out what the French liked about them, but the snails were so easy to catch she felt it would somehow be a waste if she didn’t eat them. Mae knew she couldn’t go on like this. It wasn’t lack of food, it was lack of people. There was no one to talk to, no one to gossip about, no one. Mae had always known she was an extrovert, and now she was being deprived of her biggest pleasure—people. Without them the world seemed empty and purposeless. Whenever she had eaten enough that she didn’t feel hunger gnawing at her stomach, a miracle that rarely occurred, she found that she didn’t have the motivation to go on. All she wanted to do was sit on the cape and try to identify the individual buildings that cut the smooth line of water and sky that was the horizon. It took her till she got hungry again to be able to get up and get something done. The sun was setting now, so Mae decided to stay on the cape even though she was done eating. She had realized that most animals had an obvious advantage over her in the nighttime. They could see her clearly, but she might have no idea they were there. She tried not to go into the woods or the marsh at night, figuring that’s where any potential dangerous animals would most likely hang out. She spent all her nights on the beach just above the high tide line with a small fire lit a few feet away (she lit it by using her glasses the way she used to use a magnifying glass to light fires) in case of any nocturnal planes. Has anyone else ever noticed that the colors of the sunset are much like those of yogurt? It’s true. They both have the same subdued, rosy tones. The sky near the horizon, Mae decided, was strawberry flavor, and the big red sun that hovered reluctantly above the skyline was a chunk of strawberry thrown in to make it look less artificial. If you went a little higher the sky became peach yogurt, and even higher the beginnings of night were coming in and a few of the bolder stars were already shining. Mae didn’t feel sleepy, so she stayed to watch the whole sunset. Mae had never been much of a sunset person before. Now, though, sunsets were often the highlight of her
The Old Farmhouse
The farmhouse was small and old. Its ancient yellow paint was peeling from the clapboard walls. Its black roof was worn and was missing some shingles and sagged in the middle, as if an elephant had once slept there. “I know it’s not perfect but it just needs a few homey touches,” my mom said, getting out of the car behind me. “A lot of homey touches,” I said huffily, dropping my bags on the ground. “This is all we can afford to live in right now and I know it’s hard on you and I’m sorry.” We unpacked in silence and when we were finished I sat drinking a cup of juice sulkily at the kitchen table. “Why don’t you go find something to do?” mom said, putting a box of cereal in a cupboard. “Like what?” I said gloomily. “Go exploring.” “Fine,” I said angrily, getting up and heading for the door. “Janie?” “What?” “Don’t forget a sweater.” “Whatever!” I said, grabbing a sweater off a chair and shoving it over my head. Then I strutted out of the house, slamming the screen door behind me. I heaved at the barn doors and they slid open. The first thing I noticed was the smell. The stench of rotting hay and dust filled the air and I sneezed. The barn was also dark. “I know it’s not perfect but it just needs a few homey touches,” my mom said I fished my flashlight out of my pocket and turned it on. That is when I realized how big the barn was. It seemed to stretch a mile back. On one side four stalls clung to the wall and on the far side a ladder led up to a hayloft. I headed to the ladder and examined it closely for loose or missing rungs. Surprisingly, it was almost perfectly intact. I climbed up into the loft. Nothing was there, only a few moldy hay bales. I climbed down the ladder and started to investigate the stalls. They were all the same: same bins, same moldy hay covering the ground. Just as I was leaving the last stall, something shiny caught my eye. It was a doorknob. I tried it and it opened. I cast the beam of my flashlight into the opening and saw stairs leading down into the earth. “Mom, Mom!” I yelled, running back to the house, forgetting about my anger about the move for the moment. Mom came running out and looked relieved to see I was OK. “Come on, I’ve got something to show you!” I called. It was a long walk down the stairs and it was freezing by the time we reached the bottom and I was glad I had brought my sweater. A small room was at the bottom of the stairs and Mom said, “Wow, this is really old. People a long time ago might have lived down here during storms. That is probably what it’s for.” I had remembered my anger and was being quiet again. ” This can be our own secret place,” she said, putting her arm around my shoulder and squeezing me close to her. In that moment, I felt my anger evaporate completely and it was replaced by guilt. I realized I had been very selfish and had only been thinking about myself. The move had been as hard for her as it had been for me. Then I did something I hadn’t done in a long time. I looked up and smiled at her. Shannon Halpin, 12Bow, Washington Min Joo Yi, 12Bellevue, Washington
Night in the Woods
Smoke rising Into the dark sky Crickets chirp And a twig snaps Warm air presses against me And a cold wind Blows behind my back The fire crackles And Mother laughs As my marshmallow Blows up in flames Then it is bedtime Crawl into the tent The air is cold But inside the sleeping bag It is warm The glow of the fire Shines through the tent As a stick cracks And I drift asleep Amanda Johnson,13Hanover, Pennsylvania
Summer of the Sea Turtles
The sun is setting over the ocean as I walk out onto the porch. Reflecting the last rays of the sun, the ocean sparkles a bright, brilliant orange. I leave my beach house and walk out onto the sand, which feels cool and slightly damp beneath my bare feet. I glance up at the beautiful soft sky, reminiscent of pink lemonade, which seems to stretch out in every direction. A faint breeze sweeps in off the ocean. It ruffles my hair and tickles my face. It’s the perfect night for a walk. As I stroll down the beach, I see thousands of footprints in the sand, left over from midday beachgoers. I have never understood why everyone flocks to the beach during the daytime, when the sky is so bright that it hurts your eyes and the hot sand burns the bottoms of your feet… when the beach is crowded, noisy and stuffy I have always found the beach to be unfriendly and unwelcoming during the day. But in the evening, the beach is soothing and peaceful. In the evening, the beach is mine. I share it only with the pelicans and seagulls, who play tag on the gentle currents of evening wind. The water remains warm even though the sun has almost set and the air is cooler. I walk close to the water’s edge, letting the frothy waves wash over my feet. I am so lost in my thoughts, that at first I do not see the large brown mass lumbering out of the water just ahead. When I do glance up and see it, I quickly jump back in surprise. It takes a moment for me to realize that it is a turtle, a sea turtle, crawling clumsily out of water and onto land. I wonder why it would leave the water, where it moves so gracefully, for dry land where it must struggle to take every step. It drags itself determinedly across the beach, intent on some important mission all its own. I think of whales and how they sometimes beach themselves, and wonder if this turtle has a similar task in mind. I sit down on the sand to watch. When I do glance up and see it, I quickly jump back in surprise Once the turtle has chosen just the right spot, it turns around 36o degrees to make an impression in the sand. Then it begins to dig a small hole with its back feet, sending sand flying everywhere. Once it is done it seems to settle down into the hole and lies still. It happens so effortlessly that I miss the arrival of the first few eggs. By the time I realize that this turtle is nesting, there is already a small pile of ping-pong-sized, leathery white eggs on the sand. The turtle continues to lay eggs for several hours. Without thinking, I begin to count. One, two, three… I stop at 1oo, but the turtle does not. She lays a few dozen more eggs before she is finished. When she is done she fills her nest in with sand and then, without warning, she suddenly drops to the ground. Oomph! She does this several more times. By the third time she drops, I realize that she is using her hard smooth underbelly to pack down the sand over her eggs. Once she finishes this, she flings sand all over the nest and the surrounding beach. Apparently, this is to confuse unwanted visitors about the location of her nest. Once she is satisfied, she begins her long slow crawl back to the ocean. Of course, as she crawls, she leaves a very distinctive track which will lead others directly to her nest no matter how hard she tries to hide it. I decide to help her. Looking around, I choose landmarks that will enable me to find this spot again. Then, using the old sweatshirt I have tied around my waist, I sweep her tracks from the sand. Once I am finished, I check to make sure her nest is entirely hidden. Then I walk home along the beach, my mind still full of what I have just witnessed. Even though I was up half the night and am more tired than I could ever have imagined, I get up the next morning before my father leaves for work. He and my mom are surprised to see me, as I usually sleep in until at least nine o’clock in the summer. I eat a bowl of cereal with my parents and my dad asks, “What are you going to do today, Sport?” “I’m thinking of going to the beach,” I tell him. “What?” asks my dad. “I thought you hated the beach during the day.” I tell him that I am having second thoughts about that, and ask my mother if she will pack me a lunch. She looks surprised, but agrees to do it. I have a plan. I gather two beach towels, a picnic basket, a water bottle, and my sunglasses. I put on my swimming trunks. The picnic basket is the old-fashioned kind. It is a huge wicker affair that will hold all the rest of my gear. I grab my lunch and the sunscreen my mother insists on, then head out the door, letting it slam shut behind me. I stop at the garage on my way out and look up on the shelves lining the back wall. I see an old, faded box, strewn with large cobwebs and covered by thick dust. The writing on the side of the box says “Tyler’s Toys.” I open the box. Inside are things I haven’t seen in ages… a ball, a frisbee, an old pull toy, and two ancient stuffed animals named Fluffy and Sticky who slept with me every night until I was seven. Underneath all this, I find what I am looking for… a plastic pail and shovel which were once a cheerful red, now bleached a
Guess What, Rebecca Baits?
Rebecca knew a lot more about life than most children do. Rebecca, being the eldest of three children, had a lot of experience with young kids. She was kind and accepted the challenges that everyone must face now and then. What she did not know was that something huge was coming, something that would change four children’s friendships forever. Fred Lipto adjusted his Harry Potter glasses before finishing the last (and hardest) problem on his ninth-grade algebra test. Fred was in fourth grade. He was a math wiz with freckles, and a good sense of humor. He was Rebecca’s best friend and had known her since kindergarten. He was also the co-author of Stonehedge, a book he and Sarah (a girl who I will mention later) are currently writing. Fred’s pen name is Flying Duck. Sarah Hinkle flexed her fingers and sharpened a fresh, number 2 pencil before looking down in her notebook to do a final edit of the story she had been working on for months. Sarah was an author, a lover of books, a critic, and a lover of comfortable shoes. She treasured green eyes, black hair, black cats, and Harry Potter movies (as well as the books). She was Rebecca’s good friend and never missed a chance to cheer people up with her lively ways and sharp mind. She played the violin, as well as the piano, and her two favorite quotes were, “Great minds think alike” (she said that to Fred a lot) and “Winners are losers and losers are winners” (she said that to George a lot). For your information, George is the fourth friend. Sarah’s pen name is Keylock Sniders. “George Wiles, put that video game down and do something useful!” hollered George’s mother. “Good luck,” they all said, “and goodbye” George Wiles reluctantly put down his control and turned off the X-Box he had gotten for Christmas. He had been at the height of the game where Mario was about to get out of the Yube, get back his star charts, and enter the secret chamber! He walked outside and helped his sister, Madison, haul the disgusting garbage cans out of the garage and onto the sidewalk. His neighbor, Robert Mettla, was doing the same thing. When he went back inside, he recaptured the moments in school that day. The class had loved the new (and improved) “Ember Tyke and Breezy Baby” story that he wrote. Ah, life was perfect for George, or so he thought. Wham! The door slammed as a tired Mr. Decker walked in. He settled himself in a chair and his wife brought him a steaming plate of macaroni and cheese, and, of course, a mug of boiling, hot coffee. As he stirred his dinner around in his bowl, he thought about his fourth-grade class, especially Rebecca Baits. She was a good student, a little on the shy side perhaps, but precise and clever. Three blocks away, Fred had put down his algebra book and was now nestled snugly in his favorite chair, eating rice and chicken. Two blocks away, Sarah was settling down to some steak and cucumbers after just submitting her latest story to Stone Soup magazine. At 36 Joseph Drive, George was scraping the last piece of pizza onto his dish. It was obviously pepperoni pizza, George’s favorite. On Baits Lane, Rebecca and her family were eating pasta, Rebecca’s favorite food. Her mother cleared her throat. “I’ve already told your siblings about this,” she began. “You are not going to like what I have to say. Guess what, Rebecca Baits? We’re moving.” Rebecca didn’t tell her friends immediately that in four short months she would have to move from Norwell, the only home she had ever known. A battle raged in her mind between enjoying her life and spending a carefree four months with her friends or giving her friends the time to get used to the idea that she was moving. She finally decided to tell them. Even though Fred was her closest friend, she told Sarah first. She had always been able to share a lot of things with Sarah, for she was a girl too. Sarah took it calmly but you could see the worry in her hazelnut eyes, and when she got home she destroyed her newest story (an act that her mother said was a disgrace). Sarah promised to let Rebecca break the news to Fred and George and swore she wouldn’t tell anyone else at school. Next, Rebecca told Fred. He jumped up and down and said he’d cut off his left arm if Rebecca moved. When he got home, he tried to snap his flute in half George’s turn! George went home and chucked his Play Station 2 out the window he was so mad. All of them were terribly angry but didn’t tell their parents anything. Rebecca pleaded with her parents, but they said they had to move because of their jobs. “Where are we moving to?” Rebecca questioned, but the answer was always the same. “We don’t know yet.” Rebecca was discouraged. Her friends tried to cheer her up but it was no use. She had known George since third grade, Sarah since second, and Fred since kindergarten. Rebecca had faced many challenges before but this was the worst. She didn’t know what she was going to do. Sure she was going to make new friends, but not like these. She would miss everyone in her class, especially her teachers, Mrs. Williamson and Mr. Decker. When she found out the day they were moving to Alabama, Rebecca immediately told her friends. On the day of the move, right before she got into the car, each of her three friends gave her a parcel. “Good luck,” they all said, “and goodbye.” Rebecca hopped into the car, and was driven away. In the parcels she found from Fred a little book that said “My Secrets” and a note that said, “In case you forget all the secrets
Underground Man
Underground Man, by Milton Meltzer; Harcourt Children’s Books: New York, 2006; $17 Milton Meltzer’s Underground Man is a fictional but historically accurate account of life during the Civil War. Josh, a teenager, leaves his farm home to start a life of his own away from his parents. During his travels, he meets a runaway slave. Josh hears of the horrible conditions and the brutal treatment of slaves by their owners. After learning about this, Josh is inspired to become an abolitionist working to rescue blacks from slavery It is surprising that the hero in this book, Josh, is Caucasian. I learned many things about the brutal treatment of slaves and how horrible life was for them. I also learned many things about how abolitionists were detested and unpopular by the people of the southern states. Some specific things that Josh does to free slaves is buying them at auctions and then letting them free. He even puts himself in danger by helping slaves run away from their plantations and owners in the night. I had many reactions during the story One reaction was that I appreciated Josh’s will and determination to try and help prove that all humans should be treated equally. Josh experiences many things that I could relate to and you will probably too. Josh is confused about what he wants to do with his life. He begins to have disputes with his father over decisions that he makes for Josh. For example, Josh’s father secretly signs Josh up for a hat-making apprenticeship when he does not want to do this. One similar experience that I encountered just like Josh is when I have had my parents make me do things against my will. For example, when I wanted to quit an instrument but they made me keep on playing it. One interesting thing that I never knew was that abolitionists used signs. Josh uses many secret signs and simple objects to signal the people he will help. For example, he uses a blue handkerchief and a bent spoon to signify that help is on the way I can relate to this because even today in the army ordinary-looking things can signify operations and actions. Josh encounters important choices and decisions in this story I thought it was exciting to experience the many life-endangering adventures and quests that Josh encounters until he is captured by guards when he is helping a runaway slave to safety Thrown into jail with a long sentence hovering over his head a difficult choice must be made by him to continue his beliefs or quit them. As he thinks over his rights and wrongs surprisingly he has his jail sentence shortened. With the choice of a lifetime Josh must decide to accept his fate as an abolitionist or to stop believing in what is right. I was astonished to find out that this story is based on the true life of Calvin Fairbanks. He spent twelve years in jail for what he believed was right. I appreciate and am in awe of the determination and righteousness of this amazing man. Mason Grande, 10Glastonbury, Connecticut
