I climb to another branch in this Sequoia giant many times older than me. It has stood through day and night, through rain and wind and lightning, yet stands alone strong and tall. I see a view so stunning from my high perch way up here, the valley and the mountains, with mist pouring over the ridges shining silver with sunlight in the early morning sky. My family owns a tree farm and this tree is one of ours. We may fell many others and send them to the mill, but we’ll never cut this tree for it’s ancient and special. I watch an osprey soaring over our emerald forest, over a shaded streamlet and then, catching a thermal, the big osprey drifts away leaving me just a feather. I catch the feather floating and set it in my hair. I smile and write some more in my book of poetry that I keep here in this tree to hold magical moments. Jean Hope Sack, 12Eureka, California
March/April 2005
My City
As the snow season ends, about two months late, I look out my window and see my beloved city. It is late at night, and still the bustle of the city sounds as alive as the day, more alive possibly. Streetlights shine in a line and light up the darkness. Buildings flicker on and off as the city that never sleeps settles and dims. I love my city. My mother loved her city. San Francisco was her home and she always dreamt of going back to it. More space, more nature, more family, where it is so beautiful with trees and gardens that fill the country with fragrant smells and colorful flowers. I suppose that she missed the silence that greeted her as she drifted off to sleep there. Each time we drove by a house for sale, she would have to pull over and check it out. There is beauty when you look out my bedroom window; you just have to find it I have to admit, it is nice to be there, so close to my family, more space, my own room! And recently, I am considering more the life in California, rather than in New York, where in my two-bedroom apartment, I can’t run outside to my backyard, or take my dog for a walk (a dog would not like living in my house). But this city is my home, and even though it might not be the most perfect place, with the best smells, or weather, I enjoy the presence of it. I like the busy streets, and the feeling that I get on a spring day walking down the sidewalk, the freedom engulfs me and I love it. Or so I thought. Now it doesn’t seem as big of a deal to me. My two opinions bicker and fight over which place I should belong to. But I know that there are different kinds of beauty in the world. There is the natural beauty, that one can’t help but recognize, and there is the beauty that you grow to love and live with. The kind that settles in your heart, never to leave. Once you have seen a different place, once you have been a city girl, nothing will ever be the same. It’s like when you go to Japan, and when you get back, no sushi can satisfy you because you’ve had the very best. My loyal city is always there. Every night as I lie in bed, I watch my city move, and listen to my city’s honking sounds. The sounds ring like the anxious chattering in the schoolroom on a warm spring day. A home is a place that you love, that you go to after everywhere else, and it greets you with a sense of belonging that you can’t get anywhere else. There is beauty when you look out my bedroom window; you just have to find it. Maya Vilaplana, 11New York, New York Camille Wang Mai Dayis, 11Palo Alto, California
The Wanderer
The Wanderer by Sharon Creech; HarperCollins: New York, 20oo; $16.99 About a year ago, my friend recommended The Wanderer to the girls in my Mother-Daughter book club. When she described it to us, I knew right away that it would be the perfect book for me—that I just had to read it. A few months later, when I was on a trip to London for February vacation, we were browsing around Foyles bookstore, and I saw The Wanderer on a shelf. I added it to the stack of books accumulating in my arms and bought them all. The day after I got back, I sat down on the couch with The Wanderer. I was absorbed from the first page, and didn’t move until I finished. One of the reasons I found it so gripping was because of Sophie, the thirteen-year-old protagonist. Like all the main characters in Sharon Creech’s novels (I have read four others), Sophie was so vividly portrayed and well developed that I felt like I was her—soaring across the wide Atlantic with my uncles and cousins on a sailboat, answering the call of the ocean that had captivated me every year—forever optimistic about finally meeting my grandfather who was waiting for me in England. She also made me feel haunted by the shadow of her parents’ death creeping back into her memory and stepping in and out of her dreams. I enjoyed every minute of this imaginary voyage because I associate the ocean with adventure, freedom and peaceful consolation, all as endless as time, just as Sophie does. I remember when I went on a whale-watching boat last summer, looking forward to the moment when the thin line of land behind me would disappear below the horizon and I would be surrounded by the wide ocean, stretching away in every direction. I thought of how Sophie eagerly anticipated getting underway and onto the sea. The most emotionally effective part of the book for me was when Sophie finally met her grandfather, Bompie, and retold stories from his childhood to him as a means of comforting him when he was sick. She also told him the tale that she had pushed aside for so many years, of her parents’ death by drowning, only to have it painfully emerge from the fog of forgotten memories and into her consciousness. The way she told this story, mingling it with Bompie’s stories, provided insight into her feelings in the moment as she finally discovered the true nature of her own past. This is a wonderful book for anyone who enjoys a deep analysis into what it means to survive a tragedy that claims someone you love. Even though I have never lost a loved relative or friend, after reading this book I feel as if I know what it would be like because the character of Sophie was so sophisticated and convincingly written. This book changed my perspective on death and helped me understand what was previously so incomprehensible in the way only an outstanding book can do. Charlotte Kugler, 12Concord, Massachusetts
