I love it when it’s raining and you’re driving and you pass under a bridge and the rain stops for just a moment. I love it when you walk outside on a wet morning and you can smell damp clay and freshly mown grass under the gray morning light. I love it when it’s nighttime and you’re under a cool blanket of stars and you feel like you should be able to see your breath or taste the air. I love it when you’re at the beach and you let the water stream to your toes and your ankles sink into the sand and the water streams back out again. I love it when you look at someone— just glance at them barely— and you both know that you’re about to burst out in laughter. I love it when it’s snowing outside— just gently, though—and you sit outside in the snow and let the snowflakes fall on you in their quiet, peaceful way. I love it when a spacious room becomes absolutely quiet except for the sound of a clock ticking away the time of silence in the room. I love it when you bite into a perfect apple and you can hear that satisfying crunch that just makes it taste so much better. I love it when a gust of gentle wind streams through the trees so that they rattle and it sounds like water is passing through. I love it when you read the last words of a book and you read them over and then the first words and then the title because you just can’t believe it’s over. I love it when you do that: when you smile like that at me. Do it again; smile like that again at me. Madeline Snigaroff, 11Del Mar, California
July/August 2011
As the Breeze Blows
“Shhh… everything’s going to be OK,” Natalie promised the foal A light breeze tousled Natalie’s long auburn hair as she ran through the woods. The canopy of leaves above shielded Natalie from the sun beating down. Natalie loved the outdoors and was thankful that she had finally finished her chores so she could have fun. “Neigh!” Natalie heard a strange noise. What was a horse doing in the middle of a forest? Cautiously, Natalie walked toward the sound. She peered over a large log that had fallen in a recent storm, and gasped. A chocolate-brown foal with white markings lay on the forest floor. Its back left leg was bent at an angle that couldn’t be good. The foal was struggling to stand up but collapsed in the dirt every time. Natalie tentatively stretched out her hand. The foal squirmed away and started neighing frantically. “Shhh… everything’s going to be OK,” Natalie promised the foal. “Natalie! Where are you? It’s lunchtime!” Natalie’s mother called. “I’ll be right back,” said Natalie. Then she rushed home, hoping that the foal would be there when she returned. * * * The hubbub of normal life at Natalie’s farm made it easy for her to slip outside unnoticed. Quickly stripping a piece of linen from the washing line, Natalie left her home and dashed back to the injured foal. It took her a while to relocate the animal but its distressed wails helped. Once she spotted the horse, Natalie leaned down and wrapped the linen around the foal’s broken leg. The poor creature lashed out with its hooves, trying to dislodge Natalie’s hand from its leg, but Natalie held on tight. She slowly eased the leg back into its right position, then stood back to admire her handiwork. “There, there, little one. It’ll all be OK,” Natalie murmured, stroking the foal’s head softly. Natalie had experience with animals from working on her farm. Her family made their money by raising foals, then selling them once they were old enough. The cow milk and chickens’ eggs also helped rake in money, but the horses were what Natalie’s family was known for. It was clear to Natalie that without help the foal would only survive a few more days. Natalie guessed that it had only recently been weaned from its mother’s milk. A gut feeling told Natalie that she was the one who had to take care of this animal. If her parents knew, they would surely make her get rid of it, for the market was only willing to take in purebreds, which the foal most certainly was not. Natalie would have to sneak food out of the house to give to the animal. If she got caught, there was no telling what would happen. “First things first,” Natalie said aloud. “I have to give you a name.” The trees rustled as the light breeze picked up again. Natalie, of course, had never ridden the foal but could tell by the way it was built that it had a smooth gait. “How about… Runs Like the Breeze?” Natalie suggested. “Breeze for short.” The foal whinnied and Natalie took that as a good sign. In her family, they never named the horses. Her father said that if they did they would just become attached and the day when they had to sell would be harder. Natalie didn’t care. She thought that everything should have a name. Eventually, Natalie walked home. The next morning she would go back to the foal with a blanket and food. That night Natalie dreamt of riding Breeze along the beach, wind whipping through her hair and waves crashing on the shore. * * * “Wow! You sure are hungry. Slow down!” Natalie laughed as Breeze inhaled the apples and hay. Breeze paused for a second and looked up with a piece of hay dangling from his mouth. Natalie wiped it away, giggling. It had been a week since she had found Runs Like the Breeze, and his appetite had really taken off. Natalie loved the horse but a nagging feeling deep inside of her kept on asking, “Won’t they notice the food is disappearing?” Natalie pushed the feeling away and continued talking and laughing with the foal. Finally, Breeze stopped eating and snuggled into the blankets that Natalie had laid out in a hollow log. Breeze’s leg was healing quickly and Natalie was happy about that. Still, she worried about what she would do once Breeze was all better. Breeze had really grown attached to Natalie and would never run off without her. Natalie was glad but she kept on wondering if it was really fair. Once Breeze became a full-grown horse he shouldn’t have to be cooped up. Just looking at Breeze told Natalie that he was a wild horse. Would he really enjoy having an owner? Breeze’s breathing became slower and steadier so Natalie knew he was asleep. She sat for a while, stroking Breeze’s flank and listening to the birds. As the dusk shadows fell she stood up and started for home. “Where have you been?” Natalie’s mother, Mrs. Merriman, exclaimed. “Mama’s been worried sick,” said Natalie’s sister, Maybel. “I was just taking a walk,” Natalie replied. “Well, tell me before you go,” Mrs. Merriman said and walked away. When she was gone Maybel said, “I know you’re hiding something, Natalie.” Natalie was shocked. Maybel couldn’t find out about Breeze! “No, I’m not!” Natalie protested. “Fine, but I’m watching you,” Maybel said and stalked off. Natalie couldn’t believe it. Only a week had passed and she had almost lost Breeze. * * * “Come on, Breeze. It’s time to go,” Natalie said, leading Breeze deeper into the forest. His leg was healed completely as if there had never been an injury in the first place. Maybel had followed Natalie one day while she was visiting Breeze. It was only a matter of time before Natalie’s secret leaked out to her whole family. Once they got a hold
The Crimson Cap
The Crimson Cap, by Ellen Howard; Holiday House Books for Young People: New York, 2009; $16.95 Growing up is something we all do at one time or another. I just stumbled upon Pierre Talon when he was in the middle of the process. He looked at me with sad, intense eyes surrounded by tattooed charcoal dots and crowned with a fraying crimson cap. He introduced himself as I read the covers of Ellen Howard’s The Crimson Cap. His “voice” was dry and humorless. Through it I heard traces of French, Hasinai Indian, and Spanish languages that he had picked up one-by-one throughout the book. Why did I take this book home in the first place? The little French woven into the excerpt on the back of the book caught my full attention. Because I speak a good bit of French, the wonderful job the author does at using a tiny salting of it had a magnetic pull on me. Then I discovered, with the delight of a historian who has just found an ancient prize, that the book was based on a true story! At once I snuggled down with glee (I love historical fiction) to read my newest book. Pierre Talon, a French boy in the expedition of Monsieur de La Salle, must leave his family in the French settlement when he’s only eight years old. Then, in six years, his life takes many strange (and alarming!) turns. His crimson cap stands for the time that passes and the changes he faces. Every time he takes it off it’s a fainter shade of red. He is continually shocked by how different it has become—how different he has become. He then looks at what has happened in his life and has a choice to make: to despair, or rejoice. Should he stay with the Hasinai Indians? Is there any reason to go back and search for his siblings? I am a born-and-raised American. I also have grown up in a wonderful, loving home in the twenty-first century. So I was surprised to find, no matter how vastly different our lives are, that Pierre and I are very much alike. In a way, I have a “crimson cap” too. On a hill off our front yard, there’s a beautiful box elder tree that’s been there since I knew what a tree was. If I think as far back in my memory as I can reach, the tree was a sapling with a thin trunk, spindly branches and very light green leaves. But over the years, it has grown thick and tall and a richer shade of green has replaced the old lime hue. I’m continually shocked by how different it has become—how different I have become. And I face that same choice: to despair, or rejoice. In The Crimson Cap, Pierre is forced to dwell among teens and grown-ups from the time he’s only eight years old. Having two older sisters, I’m a lot like Pierre. Growing up is a doubly challenging process when, like me and Pierre, you’re raised in a more mature, experienced setting. Sometimes I find myself feeling small and young, and other times I feel very grown up. Pierre says to his sister in the book that he and she are branded by their sufferings, not by any marks they wear on their face. I believe that everyone is branded in some way: their own history, or their family’s. I am branded by the family and friends I love, who have left their mark on my biggest crimson cap—my memory—by the ways they have loved me. Love and suffering are the two noblest brands anyone can ever have. As you can see by now, this book has made me think very hard about my life. It’s a potent read that no thinker and French speaker, like me (and like the main character), should pass up! Beth Demske, 12Lawrence, Michigan
