Brilliant splashes of yellow light Spewing all corners of the earth With a radiant glow of scarlet Then darkness A shield of gray Then the rains Pounding relentlessly On the cold Damp Ground The wind Slowly growing With every passing second A clap of thunder Vibrating the water-drenched ground Then peace The storm retreats. Lincoln Hartnett, 10Portsmouth, New Hampshire
The Boarder’s Battle
This would be his last run of the year, and he knew it would be spectacular As the boy dropped down from the icy ski lift and slid down the slope, you could already see the adrenaline pulsing through him like an aura of energy. This would be his last run of the year, and he knew it would be spectacular. As he glided over the snow on his board, he already knew which run he was going to do. With all of the possible choices, his mind was set on one run. The one run he could never do. This run was his enemy, a rival, a foe; he had to overcome the fear. His heart skipped a beat as he whooshed down the slope into the entrance to the run. As he looked down the slope he saw the obstacles, such as trees, rocks, and moguls, that he must overcome. He stopped. There was no going back now, he had to move on. His pulse increased tremendously. His eyes were bigger than his heart. This run was impossible! He had to move on or else he would be stuck on the mountain. He slid down the icy slope. It was getting colder by the second. His toes inside his boots were freezing, his jacket barely protecting him from the chilly winds. Snow started to fall from the sky, the white flakes brushing like a small, soft cloud against the boy’s face. Crystals of frost clouded his goggles, trapping him inside a different world of vision. He gradually picked up speed. The moguls were like jagged mountains shooting out of the ground. The boy slowed down and sliced around them. He was tired, and only halfway done. Fortunately for him, the rest of the slope was decently flat with only a few of the mountain-like moguls along the way. The boy carved and glided through it with extravagant ease. Then on the final stretch the boy wanted a thrill, he was going to try and battle one of the enormous moguls. He had enough speed, he was ready. He crouched down into a jumping position. As he hit the mound he lurched forward and flew three feet off the ground! The boy’s adrenaline surged as he was in the air. He felt free and alone like he had never felt before. It was as if the world had stopped and he kept racing forward. The boy had finished his enemy. He had beaten it. He was satisfied and sad. He started to burst into tears, each drop like a drop of rain falling from his face. He would have to wait another year to feel free and energized. A whole year to challenge the impossible slope again. A whole year, yet he felt satisfied and accomplished that he had met his goal. He stopped crying. The boy said goodbye to the slope and went back into the lodge, ready to head home. Connor Nackley, 12Darien, Connecticut Carly Thaw, 13Charleston, West Virginia
The Joys of Love
The Joys of Love, by Madeleine L’Engle; Farrar, Straus and Giroux: New York, 2008; $16.95 When twenty-year-old Elizabeth is offered a chance to work as an apprentice at a summer theatre, she is overjoyed and feels as if she is experiencing a whole new world. There’s more going on at the theatre than just acting—Elizabeth finds herself in love with the handsome, grown-up, experienced Kurt Cantiz, a director. Suddenly small-town little Liz is whirled up into a turmoil of emotions. I found this book intriguing from the very beginning! Interestingly, The Joys of Love takes place over a period of merely four days. Each day is described in detail and accentuated by flashbacks that slowly reveal the story of Elizabeth’s chaotic childhood. Part of what made the story so interesting to me is Elizabeth is an extremely compelling heroine. She is always seeking to do the right thing, but is constantly questioning what is right. She is a character anyone can empathize with, and she gives the book intrigue. Elizabeth is very naïve about love. Now at the theatre, she is exposed to many different types of relationships. Liz has a friendly connection with easygoing Ben, but while she looks up to and desires Kurt, she feels unsure of his feelings for her. Elizabeth’s inexperienced position is very similar to mine. I’ve spent all my life on the island of Hawaii, in the small town of Kailua-Kona. Our tiny airport consists of Auntie’s Leis, and the only place to eat is an ice-cream stand. The first large airport I ever saw was in San Francisco. I went on every escalator, elevator, and moving walkway I could find! Like Elizabeth in the big world of theatre, I was amazed. As the book progresses, I learned that Elizabeth’s father died when she was thirteen, and she never knew her mother. This made me feel sad for Liz, because my parents are very important to me, and I can’t imagine living without them, especially, like Liz, if it was in a home where I’m barely even tolerated. Elizabeth has never had modeling about what love really is, so she’s confused and overwhelmed by the myriad types of relationships she finds in the theatre. This difficult childhood also contributes to Elizabeth’s lovable character. She has had a hard life, but won’t let anything stop her in pursuing her goals. Elizabeth is passionate about theatre, similar to how I feel about writing. I write because it’s something I love, and, as in Elizabeth’s case, persistence will make me better. This is also true for the author of the book, Madeleine L’Engle. For years L’Engle poured out many novels that weren’t published, The Joys of Love among them. Finally, in the 1960s, several successes transformed her into a world-famous writer. Now, a year after her death, The Joys of Love is out, a testament to L’Engle’s diligence, and a lesson for Elizabeth, me, and everyone. In the end of the book, Kurt betrays Elizabeth’s trust, and she also realizes that there’s more to love than simply looking up to someone. She comprehends that Kurt always needs to have relationships with girls because he is actually insecure and needs to feel appreciated. Elizabeth finds true friendship with Ben, and they decide to stay in touch. The Joys of Love is a story about love, self-image, and coming of age. It is a delicately woven drama that I enjoyed immensely and would suggest to any reader! Zoe Sims, 12Kailua-Kona, Hawaii
Where My Family Is
I sat alone in the dark, feeling the boat rock from side to side. The hollow sounds the boat made as the waves hit it told me how deep the water was beneath us. “Creaak, Creaak.” What was that noise? “It’s nothing,” I told myself. “It’s nothing.” But it is something: the sound of a woman, starving in the hills, begging by the road for a coffin for her dead child. The sound of a man pulling blackened potatoes from the ground. No, that was in Ireland. We weren’t in Ireland anymore. We were thousands of miles away, in the middle of the ocean. Ireland was where Ma, Da, and Nealy were. They were definitely not here. “Creaak, Creaak.” Ireland was where there was no food, where people were starving. I shifted slightly. Where my family is, I thought. I got up on my knees. “Good God, help me, I’m so hungry.” I grabbed my empty dinner plate and threw up into it. The boat swayed violently back and forth and I leaned back against the hull, feeling my stomach twist like a blade of grass in the wind. “Oh,” I moaned. I threw up again, this time on the floor. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. I remembered when I ate grass once. It was on the way to the boat when I had been so hungry. I had taken a handful of grass and shoved it into my mouth, trying to push it down my throat. As I chewed, I was crying. If I had been home I would have eaten potatoes around the fire with my family. We would never have eaten grass. “Hush,” I said, “hush, everything will be all right” But that was gone now. The potatoes had died and Ma, Da, and Nealy were buried in the empty harvest field outside the house. My brothers were gone, too. They had left for America before me and I didn’t know exactly where they were. “I miss them,” I whispered. “I wish they were here.” I left Ma, Da, and Nealy behind when I closed the door to the house. I walked along the path, past fields of dead potatoes, past families taking refuge in the shadow of stones and dirt dugouts. I began to cry. I remembered how this had all started the night the potatoes had died, how the wind moaned softly through the fields as we all got down on our knees to start an early harvest. * * * “Maggie, wake up,” Da said. “What’s going on?” I wrapped my blanket around my shoulders. “Nothing; nothing at all. We are just going to have an early harvest this year.” Ma waited outside quietly. “Come children, get down here with me.” “What’s going on?” Nealy asked. “Hush, Nealy. Please help me.” Nealy and I had pulled up potatoes while Da, Barrin, and Cahan collected them in their baskets. We worked hard until slowly the sun began to rise over the hills. “Smell your hands,” Nealy told me. “They smell horrible.” “Keep quiet,” I whispered. “We were told not to talk.” Inside the house Da dumped his potatoes on the ground. “Get me a knife,” he said. One by one he opened each potato. “No,” he would say, “no, this one is not good either.” Cahan picked up one of them. “Look,” he whispered as he ran his hands through the slit, “it’s black.” Da looked up. “Yes,” he said. He put down his knife. “They are black. They are rotten.” * * * I remembered it was then that Da first went out to ask for food. He walked everywhere, to every house in Killala Bay, asking if they had any potatoes left. Some did have a few and some were like us and had lost their whole harvest this year. Those who did were unwilling to part with the potatoes they had, so Da came home empty-handed each day. I dried my eyes. Now, I thought, even those who had potatoes before have lost them. They are all starving now. Somebody coughed. I could hear a few more creaks as people stretched along the floorboards of the ship. It smelled horrible in steerage, like waste and death. Yes, death has a smell. I had smelled it before when I had taken care of Nealy that night she had been sick and when Da and I had buried Ma. Every night I would fall asleep in the ship, lying in someone else’s filth, and every morning I would wake up to darkness. I no longer strived to keep myself alive; now I just wanted to get off the ship There were long days that I spent sitting alone, listening to the sounds of people getting sick. I could feel myself get weaker and weaker, slowly fading into the other hundred people who were crammed below deck. I no longer strived to keep myself alive; now I just wanted to get off the ship. I wish it would sink, I thought, then I would hold onto a piece of driftwood and float to America. Or back to Ireland. I could feel my stomach start to churn again. My mind went back to the third week Da could not find any food. * * * “We can live off the remaining potatoes from last harvest,” he said. “It will pull us through the winter.” “But what about after that?” Ma asked. “What will we eat then?” Da looked at the ground. “We’ve lost everything,” said Ma. “What will we do?” “I have asked everyone; nobody is willing to spare any potatoes.” Da put his hands up to the fire. “People have suffered losses, too. There is no harvest this year.” We sat around the hearth, all six of us. The hollow silence seemed to echo through the room. There was no harvest; there was no food. “What will we sell?” asked Nealy. “How will we earn money?” “Hush.” Mama ripped
The Forgotten Fort
“But you’ll be home to visit?” Ken looked hopefully at his brother, Tim. Tim hugged Ken thoughtfully. “’Course I will,” he said. “College won’t be so much fun that I won’t want to come back from time to time.” “I’m proud of you, son,” said their father. “It’s time for you to see the real world. Gain some independence, too.” Tim hugged his dad. “Thanks, Dad. I’ll miss you.” Unlike their dad, who was broad-shouldered, lean, and stood with the best posture out of anyone they knew, Tim and Ken’s mother was slightly shorter. However, she made up for it with her steely composure and deadly glare. Tim, who was once on the receiving end of many disapproving glances, was now wrapped in a kind, tearful hug. “Now don’t you get into any trouble,” chastised their mom. “I don’t want to hear any horror stories of late-night beer parties.” Tim made a face behind her back and Ken laughed. “He’ll be fine,” boomed their dad. “Let the boy be. He can take care of himself.” Tim had his luggage close by. A backpack, one large compartment bag and a smaller suitcase with wheels. Tim had decided to “travel light,” as their father had said, leaving many of his possessions to a grateful Ken. The scene went silent for a moment, each person lost in their own thoughts of the coming departure. Suddenly, as the faint whistle of the train pierced through the air, Ken felt an over- whelming emotion overcome him. He and his brother had been through so much together. So many happy memories still lingered in his mind. Now his heart was giving way at the prospect of losing one of the closest people in his life. The train gathered speed as it left the station The train creaked to a stop, and passengers stood up to board the train. Tim gave one last family hug and walked bravely away, not daring to look back at the tear-stained group behind him. The door slammed shut with an angry hiss, and the well-greased wheels of the train slowly began to turn. Tim’s smiling features were plastered to the window, as his face was slowly carried away. Their mother began calling frantically to the half-open window. “Be good, you hear! “Make sure to go to bed early! “Don’t forget your homework!” The train gathered speed as it left the station. Tim had time for one last wave before he disappeared from view. And that was it. Ken was left with a strange sense of loneliness, as if he had just lost his best friend. What would life be like now without Tim? He trudged wearily back to the van and climbed in. A light shower of rain was beginning to start up outside. The pitter-patter of the rain banged playfully against the car window, the streaming water distorting the image of Ken’s face. It was a long ride home. * * * The morning air was fresh and cool, carrying with it a faint trace of pine. Ken awoke sleepily, murmuring contentedly in bed as the chilly breezes blew in from his open window. The night before, Ken had cried himself to sleep. It had felt as if he had been swallowed in a pit of sadness and regret. The morning came as a shock for Ken, and he felt as if he was losing his brother all over again. No one was there to fight for the bathrooms, no one was there for their mom to yell at, no one to have their sleep-deprived face blink tiredly at the breakfast table. Ken had always been an early riser, and he climbed out of bed long before his parents had stirred in the bedroom down the hall. He walked outside into the brilliant morning. The dewy grass brushed against his naked ankles, but Ken didn’t care. The morning air was exquisite, and Ken breathed deeply, thankful to be alive on such a perfect day. With no particular motive, Ken shuffled across his backyard with his Nike flip-flops. He gradually walked into the woods that he had spent so many years exploring with his brother. Familiar trees and half-built forts revealed themselves to Ken, dew hanging from the leaves like the tears on his own face. Ken cried openly in the woods, a place of solitude where he had his own privacy. Finally, he rubbed his eyes and ducked beneath some vines hanging at the entrance to one of the long-forgotten forts. Three large rocks sat resolutely in the center, while the area was fenced off by fallen branches and dead sticks. Branches of pine needles were woven between neighboring trees to obscure the view and make it impenetrable to unwanted invaders. The dirt floor was ground neatly and removed of any tough roots, pebbles, or pinecones. Ken ran his hands over the smooth rocks, remembering the laughter that used to emanate from the clearing, the countless hours that he and his brother had spent carefully plotting the fort. Their sweat was as much part of the fort as the trees themselves. But somehow, the air was stiller than usual, quiet without his brother’s voice to accompany his thoughts and feelings. Ken carefully picked up the fledgling in his palms, taking care not to cause it any more pain Ken was filled with grief, knowing that his brother would never come back to play with him in the fort that they had made together. He suddenly missed his brother so much that his heart ached with a longing for just one more day to spend with his brother. He realized that there was still so much he didn’t know about his brother, and questions that he wished he had asked. Ken took his walking stick that was still propped up against the rock and looked around for the knife. Carefully, he started to shave the stick of its bark, trying to complete his walking stick so that it would gleam
Hanging the Laundry
Sunlight Dapples the long white laundry line. Holding the plastic basket On my sore hip I lift a battered, hand-knitted Cream-colored dishcloth And hang it on the line. A monarch butterfly flits about the yard And a daring mourning dove Tries to settle herself On the laundry line. I watch the line Swaying in the cool breeze. The sun dances across The towels And splatters them with color Like an artist’s palette Dotted with creamy-yellow paint. Hanging the last towel I step back to survey my work. Isabel Sutter, 12Houston, Texas
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
An Indian Monsoon
“In a few minutes, we will be landing at Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport in Mumbai. Please fasten your seat belts. Thank you for flying Air India and hope you have a wonderful stay in Mumbai,” the pilot’s voice echoed. As the plane descended under the clouds, I looked out of the window and got my first glimpse of Mumbai. My family had decided to return to India after living in the U.S. for twelve years. As I thought of white and fuzzy snow falling into my hands, a few scattered lights twinkled in an island of darkness. This was so different from Chicago. There the city had glowed like a Christmas tree! Coming out of the airplane, the first thing I noticed was the large number of people. Hundreds of baggage handlers, policemen, officials and many hangers-on were running back and forth like a swarm of bees. The air was also very hot and humid. My father had told me this happened because of the monsoon. He explained to me about these rising winds from the Arabian Sea that brought much relief from intense heat and were essential for Indian farmers. But this year, the monsoon was different. The city was facing its worst flooding in a century and as we drove to Pune (100 miles from Mumbai), our destination, I saw the havoc that the rains had caused. There was water everywhere, dogs and cows lying on the streets, destroyed shantytowns and millions of people living in squalor. It seemed, on that day, the most wanted thing in Mumbai was a dry place to sleep! In Pune, my aunt came over to meet us and brought tea and samosas After that horrible view of Mumbai, we were now on an expressway to Pune that seemed to pop out of a U.S. travel book. My father was beaming. “Wow! We never had roads like these when I was growing up in India. This is better than Chicago!” he exclaimed. The driver was talking on his cell phone—I had not expected that in India. As the early morning sun came (we had landed at two am), I saw the most beautiful scenery that I could imagine. It was green everywhere, rolling hills of the Sahyadri range surrounded us on both sides and there were hundreds of seasonal rivulets that were flowing down. I felt that I was in Hawaii! In Pune, my aunt came over to meet us and brought tea and samosas. Although I had never met her before, she seemed to know everything about me. In a week, I started at an International School in Pune. Its name was (believe me, this is going to be funny) the Mercedes-Benz International School. There were children and teachers from over twenty countries, and during our breaks we played baseball, cricket, soccer and “dog and the bone.” I was happy that my class teacher was an American—Mr. Winch, from Cambridge, Massachusetts. At least I wasn’t the only new one. He was a superb teacher and I learned well in his class. I also taught him a few words of Hindi! After fourth grade, my parents moved me to an Indian school. It was a world apart from my school in Chicago or the International School. There were many kids in my class and the classrooms were not air-conditioned. The teachers were very strict and we had tests very frequently. The class had a broken ceiling—the facilities in the school were a little run-down. The best part was that, within a week, I had made new friends But the best part was that, within a week, I had made new friends—Sheerja, Disha, Laxmi, Akansha, Meghna, Simran and Parinaz. They would break out in loud laughter when I would read “z” as “zee” instead of saying “zed” or spell “color” instead of using the Indian English spelling of “colour.” But that was just a little fun part. They also had many questions about America. “Is everybody rich there?” “Is it very cold in Chicago?” “How is baseball different from cricket?” or “Do you miss your friends from Chicago?” I answered that America was a big country—pretty, rich and a lot of fun. Time was flying by and I started to adjust to all the things that make India special—family, friends, festivals, food and my friend Sheerja. But my father was having second thoughts. He would often say, “India is still very poor,” “America has the best universities,” and “Can I make an honest living here?” I did not fully understand all the discussions that he had with my mother, but soon I found out that he had found a job in California and that we were moving to Menlo Park. The only thing I knew about California was that it was called the Golden State and it was not as cold as Chicago. I was sad that I would be leaving my new friends in India—we exchanged e-mail addresses and promised to keep in touch. A long flight and a stopover in Chicago and soon I was at a school in Menlo Park. It was a beautiful day when I started at my new school in Menlo Park. The teacher asked me to introduce myself to the class. After I said a few lines, the teacher thanked me and said, “Oh, what a beautiful day, Jana has brought an Indian summer to California.” I touched my lips; I did not want to tell her about the Indian monsoon! Sanjana Saxena, 11Menlo Park, California Aditi Laddha, 12Indore, Madhya Pradesh, India
Summer Ball
Summer Ball, by Mike Lupica; Philomel Books: New York, 2007; $17.99 Have you ever read the sequel to a book that you loved and felt utterly disappointed or, even worse, robbed? If you read Travel Team, by Mike Lupica, which was reviewed by Zach Hoffman in the May/June 2007 edition of Stone Soup, and decide to read Summer Ball, you will feel anything but robbed. Summer Ball is an amazing book written by the best sportswriter in the business. In the book, Danny Walker is coming off leading his team, the Middletown Warriors, to a travel team championship. His dad, a former NBA player, Richie Walker, decides that Danny will go to a famous basketball camp in Maine, the Right Way Basketball Camp. Even though Danny’s two best friends, Ty Ross and Will Stoddard, are going, Danny is worried about attending camp because he fears not being good enough or tall enough to compete well against some of the other campers, the best players his age in the country. When he arrives, his fears are realized. A player that played against Danny in the travel team championship game, Rasheed Hill, hates him and is attending camp. He is put on the same team as Danny, and their coach wants Rasheed to be the star of the team. When Danny visits the coach, the coach suggests that Danny try soccer. Danny is able to fight through all of these hardships and make it to the championship game, while standing up for his new friend, Zach Fox, in a fight with one of the best players in camp, Lamar Parrish. When Danny first arrives at camp, he realizes that he isn’t one of the best players there. One time, when I was eight, I went to a basketball camp. The camp was divided into two divisions. According to my age, I belonged in the top division. But after a few minutes of practice, I was demoted to the lower division, even though I felt like I was doing fine. But, just like Danny, I continued trying and I was promoted. My favorite part of the book is when Rasheed stood up for Danny during the championship game. Throughout the book, Rasheed and Danny slowly gain respect for each other and become friends. Because Coach Powers wouldn’t play Danny, Rasheed told Coach Powers that if Danny didn’t play, he wouldn’t play. When Coach put Danny back in, he led a huge comeback. Another one of my favorite parts was when the ref called a technical foul on Lamar. In my basketball league, there was one team that was very dirty. They were never called for a technical foul. In the book, the campers could cheer for whatever team they wanted. We got revenge on the dirty team by attending the league play-off game they were in and cheering loudly for the other team. One thing the author does extremely well is dialogue. Even though the camp is in Maine, it attracts players from all over the country. One of the friends Danny meets, Tarik, is from New York City, so he has a different vocabulary than the kids from Long Island. This is kind of funny because he uses terms that Danny (and I) don’t know. I definitely recommend this book about basketball, friendship, and teamwork. Once you pick it up, it is hard to put down. Aidan Quigley, 12Trumbull, Connecticut
