“Seventeen across: ‘Meaning of happiness,’” my dad said, reading out a clue on this morning’s crossword puzzle. “How does that work? Doesn’t everyone have their own unique meaning of happiness?” “I agree with you,” I said. “Leave it blank for now and move on.” We were seated at the kitchen table before breakfast, the golden smell of baking dough wafting throughout the room. My dad was wearing a blue sweatshirt over his red plaid pajama bottoms. His salt-and-pepper hair was sticking out in all directions as he filled out his crossword puzzle. He was also trying to keep one eye on the oven, where this morning’s loaf of pumpkin bread was baking. “Do you want some eggs to go with your bread, Katie?” my dad asked. “Yes please,” I said. He put his pen down and walked over to the fridge. He pulled out two brown eggs, deftly cracked them into a pan, and tossed in some cheese and chopped ham. I love it when my dad cooks because he loves it, and that joy shows on his face. My parents, John and Ada, work together. My dad bakes breads and pastries and my mom travels around selling his creations in farmers’ markets near where we live, in McMinnville, Oregon. As my dad brought our finished omelets to the kitchen table, I inhaled deeply and watched the bread rise through the glass door of the oven. I was pleased that this loaf would stay in our kitchen and not go out to a stall in a market. Sometimes my dad’s too busy baking for the market to make baked goods for our family. “Mom isn’t up yet?” I asked. He shook his head and smiled. “No.” I laughed. “She’s a night owl, for sure.” I swallowed a bite of omelet and watched as my dad worked away silently at his crossword puzzle. I gazed out the window at our backyard. I watched the weeping willows sway ever so slightly in the crisp breeze and listened to the deep coo of the mourning doves on the telephone wire. The rich smell of espresso seeped into the kitchen, mingling with the cheerful smell of bread. The coffee pot began to bubble. My dad hopped up from his chair and poured himself a cup of coffee, then sat back down at the table, sipping it and filling out his crossword puzzle. I was hungry for one of my dad’s stories. “Tell me again how you and Mom met,” I said. “OK,” he said. And here is the story my dad told me. * * * My mom and my dad met at the Portland Farmers’ Market, halfway through March, 1997, on a brisk spring day. The market was outdoors, filled with soft smells and candy wrappers in the gutter, the sun glinting off the myriad canvas stalls. My dad was running a stall there, selling his flaky pastries and succulent chocolate cakes. No one was taking any notice of him because my dad is terrible at selling anything. He’s far too modest to be a good salesman. He eats too much humble pie. My mom was at the farmers’ market solely for the free samples. My dad and I like to joke that every single one of Mom’s teeth is a sweet tooth. It was about noon that my dad noticed her, standing outside his stall, checking something on her cell phone. The market didn’t close until two, but he wasn’t selling anything. He was frustrated, and he wanted to give up and go home. After a minute or two, my mom put the phone back in her purse and glanced up at my dad. They locked eyes and watched each other for a while. My dad said she looked smart and mysterious, in a red trench coat, with her brown hair in a long ponytail. “Listen,” she said, striding up to him, “you see that booth over there, the one selling cinnamon bread?” He looked over at the booth. It was run by a small Russian woman with a wispy blond bun. There was a group of people clustered around it, eating free samples and buying armfuls of cinnamon bread. The woman was grinning. Her pockets were filling up with cash with every loaf of bread she sold. “Now, you know why there’s a demand for her cinnamon bread?” asked my mother, leaning on the table in my dad’s stall. “It’s because she’s not afraid to tell people her bread’s good.” “OK…” said my dad. For the first time since he started a stall at the market, my dad smiled “I’ve got a proposal for you,” said my mom. “Anything you can bake, I can sell. I know what people who go to farmers’ markets like, and I know how to sell to them. I’m not afraid to tell people that your cakes are rich and moist, and that your pastries are golden and flaky.” For the first time since he started a stall at the market, my dad smiled. A shy little smile, but it was there. He stuck out a hand. “John Cooper.” She shook it vigorously, grinning. “Ada Smith. Glad to be in business with you.” They hit it off and dated for several months. They became best friends, trading secrets and slices of shoo-fly pie. On my mom’s thirty-first birthday, my dad got down on one knee in the middle of the farmers’ market, right on the spot where they first met. He held out a small blue cake box to my mom, and inside was a tiny ring made of sugar-coated pastry. “Will you marry me, Ada Smith,” he said, “and be my wife through sickness and through failed crumpet recipes?” “Yes, John Cooper, I will marry you!” My dad slipped the little pastry on her ring finger. He never bought her a real ring. They both believed bonds of bread, and not bonds of gold, were what brought them together and would keep them together.
November/December 2010
Sources of Light
Sources of Light, by Margaret McMullan; Houghton Mifflin Books for Children: New York, 2010; $16 Have you ever felt a little out of place in the world? Maybe you have felt like you didn’t belong, just like fourteen-year-old Sam (Samantha) feels in Sources of Light, by Margaret McMullan. Head back in time to the 1960s as you venture on a captivating journey through Sam’s world. After Sam’s father dies, she and her mother move to Jackson, Mississippi. It was a bad place to be in 1962. Sam doesn’t like that her African-American housekeeper and her Indian friend, Ears, are treated so differently from her. Black people and white people aren’t allowed to sit at the same table at any restaurants! Black people have to shop at separate stores from white people. They even have to drink from a different water fountain! Besides dealing with segregation, Sam has other problems to overcome. For one thing, Sam is extremely shy. Throughout the story, Sam has to learn to be more outgoing. Another challenge that Sam deals with is that her mother is dating a man named Perry. He’s a photographer, and he gives Sam a camera of her own. With this camera, Sam catches some very important evidence. A fight breaks out in a fast-food restaurant because some black college students are sitting with some white college students. Sam snaps pictures of lots of people talking to the students. She takes photos of a mob bursting into the restaurant and beating all of the black students. Just when Sam becomes more outgoing and starts to forget the whole mob scene, Perry is beaten. He starts to recover, but just a few days later, he dies. A few days after Perry’s cruel death, Sam begins to learn to accept things in her life. She becomes much more outgoing and starts to make her own friends. Sam finally becomes comfortable in the changing world around her. I am like Sam in a couple of ways. For a long time, I was as shy as Sam. Like Sam, I only let those who I knew best see that I was not really as shy as I seemed. I, too, have a great love for taking pictures. I never took pictures of a mob scene like Sam did, though. I think that Sam believed that people can say what they want to, but a picture does not lie. It only captures the truth. I believe that as well. A photo is always the best evidence of something. Although this is fiction, many of these events actually happened. This story helped me understand what happened around 1962. Every year in history class, I read about segregation and black people being treated differently from white people. I was always aware that things like this used to happen, but I had no idea that things like this happened in the 1960s! I was shocked to know these things went on just ten years before my parents were born! I don’t like that people were treated differently just because of their color. I am so glad that we don’t have to deal with much of that now! The author describes this in a way that shocks you as you turn each page. I thought this was a great novel and fun to read. In fact, I could not stop reading this book! The day that I got it, I didn’t even go outside because then I couldn’t read! After school I ran to grab Sources of Light. Every chance I got, I would sneak off to read just one more page. I couldn’t wait to find out how the story would end! Mara Cobb, 12Dunmor, Kentucky
Ghost Horse
Thunder roared. Lightning split the sky. Leeto’s mane flapped in the harsh wind. The man’s silver arrow glimmered every time lightning struck. He shot at Leeto. The arrow struck Leeto’s leg. At the same time, lightning struck Leeto’s hide. Leeto’s eyes widened. Leeto was a special horse. All horses with his blood were called ghost horses. Ghost horses were magical. They were the only animals—or living creatures—to become ghosts after death. But there were only two ways for a ghost horse to die. One was for two ghost horses to fight, which was rare. But even rarer was the other way—for a ghost horse to be struck by an arrow and lightning at the same time. Right now, Leeto’s life was fading away. * * * Leah yawned and made her way downstairs. A bowl of oatmeal and juice were waiting for her. Leah sat down and took a big sip of juice. Suddenly, she heard a sound—something like hooves against metal. Leah ran outside. A pure-black horse was standing next to the shed. Gasping, Leah drank in the sight. The horse’s coat was silkier than any she had ever seen. His mane and tail were longer than she knew possible. The horse was a gorgeous sight. “You beautiful thing,” Leah whispered, stroking his velvet nose. “Where’d you come from?” Slowly, Leah walked toward the horse. She grabbed a rope from the shed and looped it around his neck. “You beautiful thing,” Leah whispered, stroking his velvet nose. “Where’d you come from?” At that moment, Leah was very glad that no one else was home. * * * “Come on, boy,” Leah urged. “Get in.” She held the door to the shed in the woods open and finally got the horse to step inside. Then she noticed it. Right on the stallion’s forehead was a white marking, shaped like an arrow. “I guess that settles it, then,” Leah said in a low voice. “Your name is Arrow.” * * * “How was school today, Leah?” Mrs. Koble asked at dinner. “Um, fine,” Leah said. “We learned four-digit division.” Mr. Koble laughed. “I remember the good old fours. Did you have any problems?” Leah stared at her beans. “No… Mr. Jacobs said I was best in the class.” “We-ell!” Mr. Koble rang out. “Good for you, Leah!” Leah smiled. “Pass the potatoes, please.” Mrs. Koble slid the bowl her way. “Tell me, sweetie, what did you learn in history class?” Leah groaned silently. She wanted to keep quiet so that she could have room to think about Arrow. “Uh, about the defeat of the Spanish Armada… I think,” Leah replied. “Quite interesting that was,” Mr. Koble approved, cutting off a piece of pork chop. “I loved reading about that so much when I was a kid, I went searching the libraries just so I could learn more about it.” “That’s interesting, Dad,” Leah said. Personally, she didn’t know how anything about the Spanish Armada could be interesting. “Um, may I be excused?” Mrs. Koble nodded. “Yes, dear.” Leah jumped up and grabbed an apple from the fridge. “Heavens!” Mrs. Koble exclaimed. “You’ve just eaten a hearty meal. Whatever do you need an apple for?” “Uh, a science project,” Leah lied, bursting out the door before anyone could object. Once outside, Leah breathed a sigh of relief and headed to the woods. * * * “Hello, my beautiful one!” Leah greeted Arrow. She held out the apple, and the horse gobbled it up greedily. Leah sighed. “I’m going to have to find you some real food if you’re going to stay here,” she announced. Suddenly, Leah heard a distant voice calling her name. Leah groaned. “That’s my mom. I have to work on a death trap called homework.” She gave him a kiss on the nose. * * * Leah woke to a strange sound. She heard a shotgun going off outside. A sick feeling washed over her. What if somebody was shooting at Arrow? Had he escaped? Alarmed, she jumped out of bed and pulled on a pair of sneakers. Then she ran outside into the dark night. “Dad!” she called to the dark figure standing by the shed. “Dad, what’s going on?” “There’s a horse,” Mr. Koble replied grimly. “Black as night. Shot at it.” Leah held her breath. “Why?” “It was trying to kick the shed down.” His voice was tight. Leah’s heart skipped a beat. “What happened?” “Bullet seemed to run right through him.” Mr. Koble sounded confused. “Leah, that horse was a ghost.” Leah had to grasp onto her father’s arm to keep from falling. “But, Dad,” she said, “a ghost?” Mr. Koble pushed her back. “Get down!” he yelled, focusing his gun. Then Leah saw it. A pitch-black, yet transparent horse stood before them. Mr. Koble held up his gun. “Dad, no!” Leah screamed. But Mr. Koble shot. Just like he said before, the bullet went straight through the ghostly figure. The horse was unfazed. * * * “Several people have reported a ‘ghost horse’ to have shown up in their yard,” the news lady announced. “It seems unbelievable, but it’s true. In fact, we even have some pictures.” Leah recognized the horse on the TV screen. No doubt, it was Arrow. The white marking on his foreheard was unmistakable. But Leah wondered how this could be. Yesterday, Arrow was normal. Leah jumped up. “Where are you going, honey?” Mrs. Koble asked. “Outside!” Leah answered. She grabbed a bag of stale bread and a carrot and ran outside. Leah ran as fast as she could into the woods. She ran until she could see the shed looming ahead of her. Panting, she burst through the door. “Arrow!” she gasped. “You’re here!” Arrow looked at her in surprise. “How did you do that, boy?” Leah sighed. She opened the bread and held out a piece. Arrow ate heartily. “It’s not much,” Leah said, sitting on the floor, “but it’s food.” She dumped the bag out on
