Louisiana’s Song, by Kerry Madden; Viking Children’s Books: New York, 2007; $16.99 “We just keep walking but going nowhere.” This statement, spoken by Livy Two, the main character in Louisiana’s Song, explains the children’s difficulty in reconnecting to their father after his car accident. The car accident leaves him without any memory of his family and his past. This situation gives the Weems family an unexpected opportunity to discover what matters most in their family and in their mountain holler. The Weems family is growing up in rural North Carolina in 1963 and life is anything but easy. When their father, who was involved in a serious car accident, comes home pale, thin, and listless in the back of an old pickup truck, he doesn’t look like a man anyone knows. Hope only remains in a few hearts, like Louisiana’s. Louise, as her family calls her, is convinced that Daddy has the power to get better, and just as she sees the shades of blue in her paintings, she sees the light of hope in her father. Together, Louise and Livy Two make a powerful team, but some things just can’t be fixed without magic, like Daddy. Then again, other things can. Trouble is in store for the Weems as their money supply vanishes, and the older children are forced to find jobs, including Louise, the artist of the family, who is shy and tall, forever longing to get out her brushes and paint, leaving the rest of her complicated world behind. Louise too knows the true meaning of hardship, and with Livy Two by her side, she takes life into her own hands and gathers enough courage to paint portraits on the street for strangers, beginning to sing a song of her own. As Louisiana ponders her own complicated world, I as the reader have questions too. The whole time I read Louisiana’s Song, I found myself thinking the same thing over and over: why does tragedy always strike in the most powerful and meaningful books? I wondered why, in the many books I’ve read that have affected me to the level that Louisiana’s Song did, why was there always a tragic death or accident that changed the characters’ lives and personalities forever? I am almost sure that I’ve found an answer. Books must use tragedy to reveal life more openly, and help people understand our world today is full of things that may not be noticed, but once they are, change your perspective on something forever. For example, in Louisiana’s Song, readers get to see how a tiny miracle can feel like so much when the Waterrock Knob tragedy strikes, something that wouldn’t have been possible without a catastrophe earlier in the book. Also, I feel like in this book in particular, I have a relationship with the characters that goes far beyond the pages of this book. At first, Louise seems like an average character, confined to just one type, but as you read on, her personality and the personalities of all the characters emerge and become more complicated. I was even shocked to see how they were all full of surprises when I had started to think this was just a regular book. Livy Two’s voice as narrator will always stay with me, and when times get tough, I’ll remember Louise, naming the shades of blue. I think that Louisiana’s Song has helped me to understand both literature and the world a little bit better, and I’m positive that this book will do the same to you. Anna West Ellis, 11Orono, Maine
Zitza
Zambia sat in a rare patch of green grass, surrounded by the tall yellow straw-like plants that made up the African savanna, her homeland. This was her place. She came here to be alone with her thoughts and escape life’s anxieties. A feeling of peacefulness washed over her every time she lay down there. She’d lose herself in the warm breeze rustling the golden stalks around, welcoming the feel of the soft grass on her callused feet. But nothing could cure her sorrow now. A tear slid down Zambia’s dark cheek and landed in the dirt, disappearing almost immediately as the thirsty ground drank it. She was reminded of how much she wanted water, and how long she’d been waiting for some. Zambia thought she’d lived about fourteen Dry Seasons, though she didn’t know for sure. Dry Season seemed to be getting longer and longer lately. This season had been especially arid, and water and food were scarce. The water had sunk into the ground and the plants had shriveled up, killing or driving off all the animals. All but one that is. Zitza had stayed. Zambia had befriended the zebra when they were both young, long before the drought and the sorrow it’d brought. Zitza was the only one who accompanied Zambia to the soft grass. The zebra dropped her striped head down to Zambia’s, nuzzling her cheek. Zambia reached up and entwined her fingers in Zitza’s mane, closing her eyes and wishing for rain. Sometimes it seemed like Zitza had the spirit of a girl, not a zebra. Sometimes it seemed like Zitza had the spirit of a girl, not a zebra Zambia and her tribe were starving, and many had died from lack of food and water. Many were dying now, including her mother. There was nothing she could do about it. Just wish for rain, rain, rain. She stood and hoisted herself up onto Zitza’s back, wrapping her arms around her friend’s neck. A gentle nudge with her foot signaled Zitza to start walking. She knew where to go. They started off at a trot, breaking into a canter towards home. Running her hands over Zitza’s back, Zambia recalled what her father would say about them. “Zambia’s as close to Zitza as Zitza’s black stripes are to the white ones,” he’d say. A smile played briefly across her face but vanished as quickly as it’d come. Her father wasn’t like that anymore—not since the drought. They reached the small village they lived in. It was mostly mud and thatch huts with a little altar and figurine at the center. Zambia’s family hut was the farthest away from the others—and the closest to the Bush. When they arrived, she slid off Zitza’s back and led her to her arena, which she’d made years ago for the zebra. “Good night, dear Zitza,” she whispered, and went inside. Her father greeted her solemnly and said good night. Zambia knelt by her mother, who was lying down already, her eyes closed. It hurt Zambia to see her so thin and her stomach bloated with deprivation of water. After kissing her hot forehead, Zambia retreated to the opposite side of the hut and prepared herself for sleep. She closed her eyes and dreamed of cool, clear water raining down out of the heavens. * * * Zambia awoke to her father gently shaking her by the shoulders. “Wake up, Zambia!” he said, his voice hushed so as to not wake her mother. “I need you to go look for insects to eat.” “But father,” she answered dazedly, “no one’s been able to find any.” “Please, Zambia.” He looked into her eyes, his own filled with sorrow. She knew he needed her to leave. Was it something to do with her mother? “Please.” She nodded and got up reluctantly. Her father hugged her, to her surprise, and Zambia could see tears in his eyes. What was going on? “Go,” he said, not unkindly, and gave her a push towards the door. Confused, Zambia walked out, past the arena, and into the rough golden sea of tall grass. She thought about bringing Zitza, but when she looked back at her, she decided to let her rest. The zebra had been sleeping against the fence, reminding Zambia of her starving mother who was still asleep. Looking for insects was a very hard task, seeing as there weren’t any to find. But the thought of locust cooked over an open fire, its scent traveling on the breeze, its crunchy outside giving way to her teeth, kept her going. It had been so long since she’d eaten. Zambia finally decided to give up, for it was already midday, and she couldn’t find anything. She didn’t want to disappoint her father, but the task he’d given her was impossible. She walked into the village at the opposite side of where her hut was. She passed many homes, a few with owners no longer living. Zambia had almost reached her home when she saw it. A zebra skin was stretched across the ground. Zambia’s stomach lurched. She stopped and gasped for breath. No! she thought. No! Her father came out of their hut and saw her. He rushed towards her and held her to his chest. “I’m sorry, Zambia!” he cried. “Zambia, child, I’m so sorry! But your mother…” Zambia broke away from him and staggered over to the arena. Empty. She stumbled into the tall grass screaming, “Zitza! Zitza!” frantically scanning the field for black-and-white stripes. “Zitza!” Zambia shot off at a run, still screaming, until she fell onto soft grass. She pressed her face into the ground and tore at the plants with feverish hands. When I look up she’ll be there, grazing in our special place, she thought. Slowly she lifted her head. Nothing. She was alone. Her head dropped back onto the ground, her body shaking with sobs. No, no, no! Not gone! Not my Zitza! Zambia stayed there until it got dark.
Stille Nacht A World War I Christmas
CHRISTMAS EVE, 1967 ISLINGTON, LONDON, ENGLAND Old Tom Foxley sat in his living room by the fireplace hearth, the logs of the fire burning brightly. His dog, Mack, lay next to his armchair, like a pile of laundry, his shadow flickering on the wall behind him. The warmth of the fire was the only warmth Tom felt this Christmas, for many of his friends were now gone and his dear wife, Elizabeth, had passed away the previous spring. In the corner, a beautiful Christmas tree towered above the room. The golden halo of the angel which adorned the top brushed the ceiling. She had been in his family a long time, dating back to an era when his parents had lived in this very house. Her once-white robes were ivory now; her wings, originally covered in soft downy feathers, were more than a little bit spotty. Yet she still played her celestial harp, her eyes closed in quiet concentration, her face showing nothing but goodness and peace. The warmth of the fire was the only warmth Tom felt this Christmas The giant fir seemed illuminated by the many gleaming orbs that hung from its fragrant limbs, even though they made no glow of their own and only reflected the light from dozens of glowing candles that lined the tree’s branches. Certainly not the safest of decorations, the candles were a reminder of a special long-ago Christmas, and it just never seemed right not to have them on his tree. Tom sighed as he thought of how Elizabeth used to complain about the fire hazard they created. He decided that he missed her fussing almost as much as he missed her. He gently reached down to stroke old Mack’s head, remembered more happy Christmases of the past and then… the most memorable that he had ever witnessed. * * * It was Christmas Eve Day, 1914, and the continual barrage of shells and gunfire seemed to pound his ears like a hammer. Young Tom, just seventeen years old, kept as low as possible as he moved through the sloppy trench, the water in the bottom rising well above his knees. As explosions rocked the earth, dirt was sent hurtling over the crest of the trench, where it fell into the water, mixing into a muddy soup. The place reeked of death and decay, for the bodies of his fallen comrades could not always be removed from the trench safely. Snipers were everywhere, and their fire was an ever-present danger. Holding his rifle above his head in an effort to keep it dry, Tom plunged through the water, moving toward a firing step. The man already on the platform ducked as bullets whizzed over his head. Then he gratefully stepped down, allowing Tom to take his place. Looking over the edge of the trench, Tom could see bodies scattered across No Man’s Land, the area between the German and the English trenches. In this war, gains came at great cost. They had been trying to hold this single trench for weeks as the Kaiser’s army had advanced across France like a puddle of water across a stone floor, seeping slowly but steadily in every direction. When Britain had entered the Great War the previous summer, no one had expected it to last this long. They’d thought victory would be theirs in a matter of months. Now here it was Christmas, with no end to the war in sight, and the men were all miserable and longing for home. Tom glanced up and saw Fred Mooring trudging toward him through the trench. Fred was struggling through the muck, lifting his legs high in an effort to evade the mud that was threatening to suck the boots right off his feet. If only the weather would turn colder, they might have some relief from living in standing water. That alone would be a blessing. A German mortar round suddenly landed nearby, the roar of the explosion causing temporary deafness. One minute, Fred was there. The next he was buried under a wall of earth as part of the trench collapsed. Tom leaped forward, grabbing his spade. He attacked the earth, digging furiously, struggling to uncover Fred, while straining to keep his own body upright in the slippery mud. Finally, he found Fred’s leg. Grabbing hold and using all his strength, he pulled Fred from the earth. Fred was gray but breathing, alive but unconscious. Medics ran to his aid and carted him away on a stretcher. Tom collapsed from exhaustion on a pile of earth. This war was dirty business, in more ways than one. The medics offered to tend to him as well but he pushed them away, wanting only sleep, something he hadn’t had in days. No one slept well in the trenches. Some men simply slept standing on their feet, while others preferred to sleep in dugouts, small holes crudely cut into the earthen walls of the trenches. They were cramped and damp, and sometimes rat-infested, but not nearly as wet as the trenches themselves. Tom went in search of his sergeant. He found him at a small table set up in the driest part of the trench, consulting with the lieutenant over a series of maps laid out in front of them. Tom saluted and waited to be acknowledged. When the men finally looked up, Tom couldn’t help but notice the exhaustion etched in the lines of their faces. “Corporal Foxley,” the sergeant said, “what is it?” “I’d like to retire for a few hours, sir,” said Tom. “Very well,” replied the sergeant, “but first, take this package.” He handed over a large box wrapped in plain brown paper. Tom took the box and saluted. A look at the return address, 23B Lancaster Street, Islington, London, England, told him that this package had come from home. Mum had chosen to brighten his Christmas in the only way she knew how. Inside the box, Tom found his favorite chocolates, some
Red Moon at Sharpsburg
Red Moon at Sharpsburg, by Rosemary Wells; Viking Children’s Books: New York, 2007; $16.99 When I first glanced at the cover of Red Moon at Sharpsburg, by Rosemary Wells, the rich hues and hypnotic detail drew me in. A fire bursts out of the sunset as a young girl and two men look on, entranced. This fire burns deep inside India Moody, a fourteen-year-old girl caught up in the Civil War behind Rebel lines. In a letter from a friend, India learns of a college in Ohio that accepts women. The story goes on to tell of India’s survival in a male-dominated world, where women traditionally stay at home, cooking, cleaning, and caring for children, and certainly not attending college. Many activities that I participate in, such as cross-country, are very dominated by males, so I share the struggles that India has as well. Reading about life in this time period makes me extremely glad that I live in a world that accepts women as equals. Emory Trimble, the son of India’s godparents, takes her in as a student, where she is supposed to learn feminine wiles and scripture. Instead, India is swept into Emory’s studies, becoming interested in what her mother calls “men’s science”: chemistry. Fueled by her passion, India becomes Emory’s assistant and spends more time in his laboratory than she does at home. India and Emory have plans to publish a paper on popular European studies—medicine, bacteria, and disease. India transcribes Emory’s letters and they prepare for a breakthrough in science that will have lasting impact and save millions of lives. India believes in the Rebel cause, yet she is primarily concerned with curing victims through preventative medicine. Because I am a believer in pacifism, I see myself working as India did, doing anything possible to help those affected by war, no matter which side they are on. I am glad that India had science on her side. I have a lot in common with India Moody and Emory Trimble. India feels torn when she travels to see her father on the battlefield at Sharpsburg: timidity at what new experiences she may encounter, alongside courage and curiosity about what lies ahead. When I departed from my elementary school, I also felt like I was being torn in two. Part of me wanted to remain where I had been and been loved, but another part of me wanted to move on and see the great opportunities that were ahead of me. Emory decides to become an army medic so that he will be treated with respect. I try to gain respect by being courteous and by treating others kindly. I also try to gain respect while leading by example—doing well in school, having a role in a play, and participating in a chorus. At home, India uses her knowledge from Emory for the wounded, but she feels insecure without him by her side. I have often felt that insecurity when I am asked to do something without a strong companion. Throughout the book, India tests her strength, perseverance, and allegiance as stability collapses, leaving her with only a few remnants of her old life. Red Moon at Sharpsburg is a story that will be cherished by readers of all ages. It is the telling of a life spun out of balance, a true test of loyalty, and a girl who witnessed the gruesome tragedies of the Civil War on the other side of the history books. Nora Katz, 13Riegelsville, Pennsylvania
Irah, the Princess
She is leaning against the school sign that reads “Half- Day Friday!” Her brown hair comes only to her chin. In her hand she carries a plain, brown book. I have never seen her before, but I know at once she is my friend. “Kara, don’t forget your lunch bag,” my mother says from the front seat, jerking me from my thoughts. I nod, take it from her and start across the lawn. “What did your mommy want, Kara?” Cheryl Reyes asks, striding over to me. “None of your business.” “So,” says Cheryl, “how have your precious drawings been going lately?” “Leave me alone.” Cheryl knows I’m sensitive about my drawings; it’s my way of escaping from a world in which I am neither academically brilliant nor popular at school. I turn to see the girl holding the book looking over at us. Cheryl sees her too and rolls her eyes. “Who’s she?” I ask Cheryl. “The new girl. She’s so ugly!” I didn’t see how. She wasn’t a fashion model, but she had a kind smile. “I- I don’t see…” “So,” says Cheryl, “how have your precious drawings been going lately?” “Her clothes are old-fashioned, and did you see her feet? She’s barefoot!” “Barefoot?” I follow Cheryl’s gaze, and I see that the new girl’s feet are naked. Cheryl sniffs. “She’s weird.” But when the bell rings, I notice that Cheryl is careful to avoid the new girl’s eyes. * * * “Class, we have a new student today.” I look up from my sketching to see Ms. Reynolds, our teacher. “I hope you will all treat her nicely. Would you like to come up and introduce yourself?” The girl I saw on the playground looks up from her journal and nods. As she walks to the front of the room, I see that she is still barefoot. Ms. Reynolds notices as well. “Where are your shoes, please?” “I left them at home,” she says simply. Her voice is like music to me, but everyone else is sniggering. Ms. Reynolds is uncomfortable. Spitballs and loud students she is used to, but never a student forgetting his or her shoes. “Um, well, OK. Try to remember them tomorrow, will you?” “I promise,” the girl says. “All right. You may introduce yourself now.” The girl stands there, seeming oblivious to all the whispers and giggles. “My name is Irah Anders,” she begins, but one of the boys interrupts. “Irah—is that Italian or Japanese?” He laughs. “My parents liked the sound of it, but it’s short for Amirah, which means princess. I love to write. My favorite school subjects are literature…” “Oh, you can’t say plain English?” “Rob Wilson,” cuts in Mrs. Reynolds, but Irah finishes. “…and princess training.” “Where’s your tiara?” “Yeah! Princess!” the class taunts, but I don’t join in; instead I hide my face in my notebook. The kids laugh. But Irah holds her head high, staring straight ahead with a mysterious smile on her lips. “Yes, I am a princess,” she says finally. The class goes silent. “A princess,” she repeats. Cheryl forces out a laugh. Still Irah stands defiant. Irah, the princess? * * * It’s recess, my least favorite time of the day. Kids can tease me without having to be worried a teacher will catch them. And I’ve never been one for the playground equipment, the running, and the noise. The only thing that seems remotely interesting to me is the patch of woods right near the playground. I’ve always wanted to explore them, but I usually prefer to sketch, or else kids tease me instead. And sure enough, Cheryl and her friend Marianne corner me against the brick wall. “So, what’s up, Picasso?” says Cheryl. “Nice clothes—hand-me-downs?” adds Marianne. It’s not the teasing that I mind so much. I’m used to the insults of middleschool girls. It’s Cheryl, Cheryl who I’m afraid of, Cheryl, who I’ve never been able to stand up to. I can’t stand it anymore. I push past them and run to the small patch of woods, faster than I’ve ever run. I run so fast and hard that I have no idea how far I’ve been running until I stop, hearing a soft cry of surprise. Something—or someone—jumps down from the tree overhead. Then I see her— hair messed and tangled now, but otherwise looking as she did in the classroom. Irah, the princess. She smiles at me with a mysterious, beautiful smile, reaches down, and pulls up an obscure little wildflower I’d never noticed before. One of the leaves is cracked and brown. “This is a pretty one, don’t you think?” she asks. “Um, yeah.” I want to ask a million questions, but I’m still too awkward with this barefoot princess girl. “Here, do you want to hold it?” She hands it to me, cracked leaf and all. “Didn’t I see you in Ms. Reynolds’s class today?” “Y- yes, I- I think you did.” “I thought so,” she said. “What do you think?” “Of what?” “Of me.” I look puzzled for a moment until she explains. “Whenever I meet another person, I like to check them out.” “What did you think of Cheryl?” I ask, preferring not to answer the original question. “She is very nice,” Irah says. “I mean the one who laughed at you.” “I knew which one you meant, and my answer remains the same.” I don’t quite understand, but I do not want to press her. “I saw you drawing earlier,” she says. “It reminded me of what I imagine I look like writing. Writing and drawing are two of the best ways to express your feelings.” “Yes!” I say, excited that she understands. “But it is hard to do when I’m teased.” “People are ignorant when they tease others. But when you look past cruelty and differences, you will see beautiful people.” How I wish I could speak such wise words! My own words are clumsy stones. “May I see some of your
One Night in Autumn
The wind Is blowing strongly into my face. It feels good. I close my eyes and lie back In the wet grass. It is dark out and everyone else is sleeping. Everyone but me. It’s a nice feeling, being alone Out here. Ticktock. I hear the sounds of my watch, Every second, every minute. Why does my watch have to remind Me of the time passing? It was nice to forget About time. Always people are so busy, They never have time to think About who they are And who they want to be. Am I really here, all alone, so close to my home, Yet so far? Is this a dream? Everything that happened and everything that will happen Rides away on the wind— Up, up it goes Past the moon and into infinity. Dawn creeps in on me and I quietly let myself In through the back door. I tiptoe up the stairs into my bedroom— Like a burglar in my own house. Safe in my bed again, I pretend I’m sleeping. No one will ever guess where I was that autumn night— But I will never forget it. Rhiannon Grodnik, 12San Francisco, California
Bowl of Strawberries
Jacky kept a steady pace, enjoying the scenery around his neighborhood. His old, worn sneakers kissed the asphalt every time he took a stride. The sun was out, and clouds scattered the sky like the stuffing from a ripped pillow. Jack felt his heart pound in line with his breathing. His legs slowly relaxed as Jack continued on his run. It was good to be alive and moving. As he approached his house, Jack slowed to a jog and stopped on the front lawn. He sat down and stretched, easing the muscle he had just warmed up. The grass felt cool against his thighs. He took a sip from his water bottle, stretched some more, and walked inside. “How was your run, Jack?” Jack’s mother greeted him. “Was it hot out?” “It was fine, Mom.” “Well, it’s nice to know that you’re not wasting this beautiful day.” Jack’s mom had dark brown hair that matched her eyes, with a serious smile that radiated her affection for her kids. Jack plopped down at the kitchen table. Grabbing an apple, he opened the track-and-field magazine his grandfather had given him. It was a collection of a bunch of neat articles about the different events in track and field, tips for staying fit, and how to have a healthy diet. His grandfather had given it to him as a birthday present, knowing that Jack had recently made his school’s track-and-field team. Jacky kept a steady pace, enjoying the scenery around his neighborhood “Hey, Mom? When’s my next meet?” “I wouldn’t know, honey. Why don’t you go check the calendar? I’m sure it’s sometime this week.” Jack smiled. He threw the apple core into the trash and walked to the family calendar, tracing his finger over the paper. “Hmm. My practice on Monday goes until 5:15 this week, Mom. My meet is on Tuesday. You’re all coming, right?” Jack’s mom came into the room, wiping her hands on her kitchen apron. “This Tuesday? I’m sorry, Jack, I forgot to tell you. Grandpa said he wasn’t feeling well these past few days. I have to go stay with Grandpa on Tuesday, but I think your dad might be able to come. I’m sorry about your meet, but your grandpa will have to go some other time.” “What’s wrong with Grandpa?” Jack looked at his mother. “Is he all right?” “Yes. He’s just feeling a little ill. He complains that his ankle hurts more than usual. Why don’t you go visit him after practice tomorrow? You could run there, and I’m sure Grandma will be happy to see you too.” * * * “Oh, is that what she said, ill and not feeling well?” Jack’s grandpa chuckled the next day. “I’m as fit as a violin.” When Jack gave his grandpa an odd look his grandpa merely said, “I never really liked fiddles. “I just have to stay in bed for a few days. My doctor said my ankle’s acting up again. Nice of you to come though, Jack.” Jack put his backpack down, relieved at seeing his grandpa so well. “Good to see you too, Grandpa. I’ll have Dad tape our meet for you.” “Your meet on Tuesday? I haven’t forgotten, you know, but I’m sorry I won’t be able to come. But you know what? I used to be on the track-and-field team too, back in high school.” “Really?” Jack looked surprised. “You never told me that, Grandpa.” “ I haven’t now? Didn’t I ever tell you how I busted my ankle?” Jack shook his head no. “Well. It was a very long time ago. My junior year, I think. I had joined the track-and- field team and was as excited as ever for our last meet. Let’s see now. I was doing the long jump and the 400-meter dash. Huh, I never was good at jumping.” Jack’s grandpa sat up higher in his bed. “My baby was definitely the 400-meter dash. Fastest on the team, I think, except for maybe the few seniors that were too lazy to sprint more than 200 meters. I was pumped that day, expecting to break my personal record.” “Did you?” Jack asked. “Well, almost.” His grandpa gave a sigh of disappointment. “I was coming around that last bend for the straightaway when I saw one of the runners from the other school gaining on me. I sprinted as fast as I could, but he kept on getting closer. I was about 50 meters away from the finish line when he closed in to just a pace behind me. Suddenly, I felt something clip my heel, causing my right leg to buckle. I tripped and fell hard onto the track. I tell you, it wasn’t pretty.” “He tripped you?” Jack was indignant. “That guy should have been disqualified!” “No one ever proved anything, and the official wasn’t exactly paying attention,” explained Jack’s grandpa. “Heck, I don’t even know myself. I might’ve tripped myself by accident. But I learned to accept it over time. After all, if life throws mushy apples at you, you can always make applesauce. Anyway, I twisted my ankle and felt a deep pop. Heard it, more like. I didn’t feel the pain until five seconds later, sprawled there on the track. The people had to call 911 for a stretcher to bring me to the emergency room. Well, I could still walk then, but I had to be extremely careful. In my old age now it’s been bothering me more and more. I spend so much time in bed now I wish I could have just finished that last race. If I had kept my lead over that kid and ended the race, I would still be up and walking now.” Jack looked in wonderment at the determined look on his grandpa’s face. “The 400-meter dash? I’m doing that for Tuesday too, Grandpa!” “Really now? Well, good luck, Jack. I wish I could watch, but I’m still expecting great things from you.” His
Silence Is Golden
The bus shrinks in size as it trundles down the tree-lined street Every day, when I arrive home, I step off the bus after chatting loudly with my friends. The bus engine roars, and the passengers’ voices swell, and then the wheels begin to turn. And I watch over my shoulder as I walk up the drive. The bus shrinks in size as it trundles down the tree-lined street. And now, the only things heard are the faint sound of my shoes on the concrete or a squirrel pawing at the ground for an acorn. As I walk up the steps, I fish for the key in my bag, find it, and with a satisfying “click,” open the lock. Once inside my house, I kick off my shoes and put down my bag. I walk towards the kitchen, now dark and empty. With the flip of a switch, the room is flooded with light and the little blue tiles on the wall twinkle. I stand in the middle, surveying my surroundings. At this time, every day, I realize something. I realize that, though I am alone, and all is quiet and still, the world outside still goes on. I can stop and stare at the plastic carrot magnet on the fridge for an hour, seemingly going no where, pausing time and space, but no! Other things happen, the universe progresses, time continues… Ken across the street finishes mowing his lawn and the Mougin girls begin a game of baseball in their front yard. Three blocks away, the pizza place cashier rings up a mushroom slice as a gum ball zigzags through a maze into a child’s hand. Many, many miles away, a little blond pigtailed girl is celebrating her birthday, and an old woman holds her daughter’s hand in a sterile, white hospital ward. An airplane takes flight, another one lands, the president signs a document, and an audience erupts into applause. And yet, all the while, I stand in my quiet little blue-tiled kitchen, the silence enveloping me. And at that moment, I may not be adorned with diamond rings and bracelets, but I am the richest person in the world. Why? Because silence is golden. Aviva Leshaw, 13Teaneck, New Jersey Sarah Jessica Osburn, 12Lindley, New York
The Delivery Boy
A furious gust of wind howled down the moonlit lane, sending a cascade of freshly fallen snowflakes tumbling from the treetops, up and over the rooftops, whirling around the lampposts, before finally slamming into the row of houses that lined either side of the street. The houses strained against the frigid blast, creaking and groaning, all the while steadfastly shielding the inhabitants lying dormant inside. The wind struggled for a moment, moaning with the sheer force of which it pushed against the walls of the houses, and then whistled away to continue on towards wherever its path lay. As the continuous drone of the wind slowly died away, the houses gave one final creak and shudder before relaxing back to their normal positions. In the muffled cover of heavy snow, all was silent once more. It was this creak that awoke Tom on that cold, dark, winter’s morning. With a start, he turned his head towards the alarm clock that sat upon his bedside table. Three numbers winked in the darkness on the face of the digital clock: 6:34. For a second, Tom just stared. Then, with a sigh, he sank back into his pillow and turned the other way towards the bedroom window. The shades had been pulled back the night before, and the soft clear moonlight filtering in through the glass stood in stark contrast to the harsh, cold world that lay outside. The soft blanket of snow that had fallen outside earlier that night had been frozen into a single untouched sheet of ice that sparkled and glittered in the starlight. The long, glistening icicles that dangled from the top of the window lay testimony to the frigid temperatures outside. There was no way he’d be going outside to deliver newspapers today Even more telling of the conditions outside was the fact that there wasn’t a single newspaper boy outside delivering papers. Tom shut his eyes firmly and burrowed down under the warm covers of his bed. There was no way he’d be going outside to deliver newspapers today. For one thing, it was just completely frozen out there and Tom didn’t fancy becoming a human popsicle. Besides, he was already late anyway. Mr. Beason, the newspaper delivery manager, wanted them “on the spot, six o’clock, at the dot.” It was a bit too late for that. Tom imagined walking into the office more than a half hour later and announcing to him, “Here I am!” He scoffed. Chances were that the office would be completely abandoned and Mr. Beason himself was probably snug under the covers of his bed himself anyway. However, Tom couldn’t quite help thinking about walking into the newspaper office on that first day and asking for the job. Pocket money was always a bit tight around the house, and when he had seen the ad in the newspaper, he had jumped at the chance. His interview with Mr. Beason had been short, but he could never quite forget it. After a few niceties and introductions, Mr. Beason had fixed Tom with an unblinking stare and said, “I want to tell you straight off the bat. We’re looking for hard workers only here. The mornings delivering these papers won’t always be easy, and they won’t always be fun. But if you want to be a part of our team, you have to do your job no matter what.” He had mumbled something like, “I won’t quit on you. I’m a hard worker.” It was then that Mr. Beason smiled and clapped his shoulder. “I know that, son. I can see that you’re a hard worker. Have a good sleep tonight. You start tomorrow at six.” Tom saw Mr. Beason’s face smile through his closed eyes. He could hear his voice saying, “I won’t quit on you.” And then Mr. Beason clapping his shoulder and telling him, “I can see that you’re a hard worker.” The words seem to echo in his ears. Tom opened his eyes and looked up at the dark ceiling of his bedroom. Remember what Mr. Beason said about you, a voice told him. But Mr. Beason was wrong. He wasn’t a hard worker. Besides, Mr. Beason probably said the same thing to every kid who applied for the job. You said you wouldn’t quit on him. So perhaps he had been lying to Mr. Beason when he had said he was a hard worker. On the other hand, who cared what Mr. Beason thought? So what if he had lied? It was ultimately Mr. Beason who made the decision to give him the job. But in his heart, Tom already knew. You weren’t just lying to Mr. Beason, you were lying to yourself. Groaning, Tom turned away from the ceiling and tried to bury his face in the pillow. “Go to sleep,” he told himself. “Go to sleep. Mr. Beason doesn’t care. I don’t care.” However, sleep wouldn’t come and the voice in his head was inescapable. But you do care. And so do the others. It hit him then. The people he delivered the newspapers to! Would they be so disappointed not to get them that day? In his head, he saw Fido, the Kentleys’ dog, leap onto him in joy at the sight of the rolled up bundle of newspaper. He saw the two Swanson twins running to meet him at the door when they saw him walking up towards their house. He saw old Mrs. Johnson, who always had a treat or two for him when he delivered her newspaper. Would they be so disappointed to not get their newspapers that day? Tom shook his head, wearily trying to shake off this crazy, this insane idea. He couldn’t deliver the newspapers today. Just by glancing out the window, it must have been at least minus-forty degrees outside. For heaven’s sake, he thought, Icicles are hanging on my bedroom window. The streets are frozen and slippery. Delivering newspapers now is just completely stupid. That’s why none
Hiroshima Dreams
Hiroshima Dreams, by Kelly Easton; Dutton Children’s Books: New York, 2007; $16.99 “I have the gift of vision. It was given to me by my grandma, handed to me in a lotus seed, a pod that felt as big as my five-year-old hand.” Lin’s unique gift of vision, which she describes in the opening sentences of Hiroshima Dreams, helps her over the years, rescuing others, making her aware of danger, and seeing what no one else can. When Lin’s Japanese grandmother, whom she calls Obaachan, comes to the United States to live with Lin and her family, secrets unravel about the family’s history, and Lin gains a new strength and insight. Obaachan was fifteen years old when Hiroshima was bombed during World War II. She tells the story to Lin: young Obaachan and some boys were tossing her mother’s dress around and it was flying through the wind. The next moment, Obaachan heard a loud clap of thunder, and all that was left was her and a barren landscape. I can relate to a story like this about the horrors of war and how they can instantly shape an ancestor because, when my great-grandmother, Zoia, was one year old, she lived in Russia at the time of the Bolshevik Revolution. When her parents refused to give up their land to the Communists, their house was set on fire. Five out of Zoia’s six siblings died, as well as her father. She, her mother, and one remaining sister, Nina, had to flee to China. Lin and I have stories that changed our family histories in an instant, but unlike me, Lin didn’t learn her story until her grandmother arrived to share it with her. When Obaachan arrives, she brings herself, and also stories that have not only changed history but have made her and Lin who they are. Obaachan shares these stories with Lin alone, and together they learn about their past and how to face the challenges that lie ahead. Hiroshima Dreams takes readers through Lin’s childhood, from ages five to sixteen. Lin’s strange gift of vision develops further from listening to Obaachan’s stories and thinking more deeply about them by meditating. Obaachan teaches Lin how to meditate and they both do so when they have something on their minds. It acts as a way to help them think and consider other thoughts and ideas. This practice helps Lin understand the terrible times of the Hiroshima bombing, and also allows her to see things in a brand new way, making her more perceptive. For example, Lin visits her friend’s house where her friend’s brothers have built a mobile. Lin predicts that it is not sturdy enough and will soon collapse, but everyone else disagrees with her. Sure enough, she is correct! Stories of all kinds bring mystery and memories, and I think that Hiroshima Dreams is a great one, because it encourages us to remember our own stories. Whether or not Lin’s story connects to your story, it still can help you think differently about yourself or your family. Alexandra Skinner, 10St. Paul, Minnesota
Breaching the Wall
There stood Grandpa Wilson, his old yet strong form slightly hunched over, while his gaze followed our car as we pulled up to the house. The light drizzle dripped off the old tweed cap he liked to wear. As I clambered out of the car, a grin appeared on his face and he opened his arms to hug me. As I wrapped my arms around him, I could feel his red woolen sweater scratching my skin. A few moments later, Mom appeared with little Betsy. My little sister charged Grandpa and allowed herself to be picked up in his strong arms and smothered with affection. “Come in, come in,” said Grandpa. “Grandma’s been hard at work all morning baking cookies for you.” “Yum, yum, yum!” shouted Betsy, who had immediately lost interest in Grandpa and desperately tried to get out of Grandpa’s arms and inside to the cookies. Inside the scent of homemade chocolate-chip cookies filled the air. “Hello,” shouted Grandma from the kitchen. “Who wants cookies?” “Meeeeee!” yelled Betsy at the top of her lungs. A few moments later, we were in the kitchen, stuffing ourselves with cookies. Betsy elaborated on and on about how tedious the car ride to Connecticut was. When I looked up from the vast plate of cookies, I noticed that Grandpa had disappeared. I knew that Grandpa was the kind of man who realized that arguing with his wife is pointless and for the most part avoided her by pursuing his interests—reading World War II stories and biographies of infamous criminals in the hut by the brook and repairing furniture and building bookshelves for his ever-expanding library in his workshop. I also knew that he didn’t like spending time with other people. Still, stunned that he would leave us the moment we arrived, I inquired about his whereabouts. A few moments later, we were in the kitchen, stuffing ourselves with cookies “He’s probably in his workshop; he’s got a bookshelf that he’s got to finish,” answered Grandma. “Why don’t you go and build something with him? He always wanted to make a model boat,” suggested Mom. I walked down the hallway, turned at the open door and peered down the stairs to Grandpa’s workshop. I could hear a paintbrush swishing over wood. I walked silently down the stairs and watched Grandpa staining the individual boards of the bookshelf. The evilly toxic smell of the wood stain flooded my nostrils and almost made me gag. Finally, he finished and set the pieces to dry. As Grandpa turned, he noticed me, sitting on the unfinished wooden stairs. “Well, hello Peter,” he mumbled, “what brings you down here?” “Mom said we should make a model boat together,” I stated awkwardly. “If you want to,” I added. Grandpa said nothing. He went over to the corner of the shop, mumbled to himself a bit and then appeared with several two-foot-long boards. I just stood there, not knowing what to do. “Come on, let’s get to work,” he ordered. We took the boards and cut them into thinner strips. Then, we started making the ribs of the boat. We worked until dinner in almost complete wordlessness. The Grandpa who had welcomed us was long gone; this new silent Grandpa seemed here to stay. As I went to bed, I made a wish that the old Grandpa would come back. The next morning, we were working on the boat bright and early. Around eleven o’clock, Grandpa was using the lathe to make the mast, and the wood molded perfectly under his chisel. When the mast was complete, he turned the lathe off and took the wood off of the spikes that held it in place. He started talking, loudly enough for me to hear but not looking directly at me. “What shall we call her?” He looked up after a moment and I grasped that he was asking me. I thought for a moment and then stated, “The Seadog, the dreaded ship of Pirate Captain Wilson.” “And don’t forget his loyal first mate, the swashbuckling Peg Leg Peter,” he added, showing a seemingly uncharacteristic smile. “They sail the high seas, robbing rich merchant ships and giving to the poor.” Grandpa seemed to have let a bit of himself out and I realized that Grandpa wasn’t the boring old man he seemed to be. Just then, Grandma called down that lunch was ready and we headed upstairs for our midday repast. After a delicious meal of grilled cheese with juicy tomatoes and smoked ham, we were back at work. Now Grandpa seemed to be more open, although he didn’t say a word. While fitting a miniature royal yard to the main mast, he spoke excitedly. “The Seadog is the fastest, most maneuverable, best crewed ship on the high seas.” “ “Wish her luck,” smiled Grandpa, setting our beloved model into the water And its crew is wanted by all the merchants in the known world,” I continued. “Why she once fought the Endeavor, flagship of the East India Tea Company, and came out victorious,” Grandpa explained authoritatively. “The freedom-fighting duo of Captain Wilson and Peg Leg Peter boarded and captured Blackbeard’s ship single-handedly.” As he spoke, he fit rigging to the already be-sailed masts. “Recently, though,” continued Grandpa, “the Seadog was forced to fight an entire column of British ship-of-the-line led by the HMS Victory herself. The Seadog suffered grievous losses but she will sail again someday.” At first it seemed as if his story was done, but as he attached a miniature pirate flag to the flagstaff, he made as if to say one more thing. “I believe, that day is today!” He picked up the finished boat and impishly motioned for me to follow him as he bore our precious cargo to the brook. I peered into the gurgling waters and worried for the Seadog on her maiden voyage. “Wish her luck,” smiled Grandpa, setting our beloved model into the water. As she floated and bobbed along, we
I Taste the Sky
We fly like falcons over sheets of soft snow Listening to the distant kinks and grinds of steel against rails The scent of snow cools my mind And I taste the blueness of the sky Isaac Kamgar, 11Laguna Beach, California
