Days of Jubilee by Patricia C. and Fredrick L. McKissack; Scholastic Press: New York, 2003; $18.95 The Declaration of Independence says that all men are created equal, with certain unalienable rights, which are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. At one point in American history, that wasn’t true for millions of African-Americans in bondage throughout America. Scattered throughout the book were first-person narratives, which I greatly enjoyed reading. These stories about slaves and others were mixed with interesting facts about the Civil War. I also liked reading from the slaves’ perspective, and their stories touched my heart. James Forten, a free African-American, was the very first story and it was also the best, in my opinion. I felt his courage inside of me, as he stood listening to the first reading of the Declaration of Independence. He stayed to listen to the reading even though he was bullied by white men. James was overjoyed when he concluded that in this new country, people of color would be free. James eagerly joined the Revolutionary Army to help fight for freedom. I had his hope inside of me, as he believed that now, in this new world, his fellow brethren would have their freedom. And although the book didn’t mention it, I also felt his pain. I knew he would have later, when he learned that his fellow black men would stay in bondage for many more years. I admire him because he stood up for himself and his race. Many years later, Abraham Lincoln also joined the fight for the abolition of slavery. He was the main force behind the emancipation of slaves, but he didn’t start out that way. I was surprised, and almost shocked, to learn that the Great Emancipator had doubts about abolishing slavery at the beginning of the Civil War. Now I see that he changed as the war went on; he made the war not just a fight for reuniting the Union, but also a fight for abolishing slavery. Abraham Lincoln was a great, brave leader, and he’s my hero. Another leader at that time was General William Tecumseh Sherman. I believe General Sherman was a great man, and he shared many traits with Lincoln. Sherman treated the slaves fairly, giving them jobs with the army if they wanted. The newly freed blacks called him the Deliverer, somebody like Moses who came to set the people free. The book was very well written, so well that as I read, I could envision myself celebrating among the freed slaves. I loved reading about the different days they called their Jubilee, such as Juneteenth and Eightamay. I felt their joy, hope, and happiness. I could imagine their delight, and feel their pride as they walked away from their former masters, free once and for all. As I read on, I also felt a sadness welling up inside of me, as I read about that fateful night at Ford’s Theatre, where Abraham Lincoln was shot and killed. My heart mourned with all of the people. I felt the loss that happened so many years ago, and yet was recreated in my head, allowing Lincoln to live and die once again. Days of Jubilee is a very good book. It teaches about a different time, different people, and different lifestyles. It opens you up into a whole new world. Laura Krull, 12Bend, Oregon
September/October 2004
The Lone Straw Hat
The water. It used to be tranquil. A calm, yet dynamic giant, nourishing the life within. Sometimes its surface churned, purging the muddy banks of debris and stirring up the sediment on the bottom. Other times it was as still as a hot day in August. At these times the mud would settle to the bottom, and the turtles would come to bask on the rocks. The children would run to its edge and catch newts and water bugs. Soon their parents would follow and give the nod, confirming that it was time to play in the refreshing water. Cries of joy would fill the air as everyone was assured that life was good. This is what I used to see when I looked through the long, tangled branches to our pond. Three-quarters of an acre in area with a small island slightly off center, our pond was a special place where we would all congregate on warm summer days in June, July, August, and sometimes September. The adults would walk down the rough path with cool drinks in their hands and hearty laughs in their throats, followed by the bare and pattering feet of the children. My two sisters, my brother, and I sometimes spent hours in the pond area, frolicking in the sunshine. Often my five cousins processed to the water’s edge, where we children would begin stripping down to our bathing suits. The adults would make their way for the lawn chairs on the dock from which they kept a watchful eye on all that was happening. I turned to look at where David had been and saw only his small hat in the murky water The first rule at our house was “No matter what, no children may play by the pond without an adult.” We followed this rule faithfully but didn’t let it spoil our fun. With the adults present, we had races, swam laps, practiced our dives and flips, made sandcastles, and pretended we were mermaids. Sometimes we used the pond for a learning opportunity. Papa would make us aware of the feeding patterns of fish or tell us of the life cycle of the newts at the water’s edge. Mama would clear up our uncertainties about sea monsters and whether or not sharks might be lurking in the muddy waters of the deep end of the pond. In the winter we bundled up like Eskimos and tramped down the slippery path to the pond to try out our ice-skating skills. Occasionally there was a bump or a bruise, but no one let that bother them; there were always a loving mother and some hot chocolate. All we had to do was call. My memories of the pond were nothing but joyous, and I relished every moment of my time there. But on that morning in June, the water transformed before my eyes when I looked at it and saw the lone, straw hat floating at the dock’s edge. It was small, hand sewn, with a simple black band encircling the base. The brim? Three-and-a-half inches wide. Carefully cared for, it must have been his Sunday hat. The ripples of water that it made widened quickly, mirroring my fear. Earlier that morning our Amish friends, the Peacheys, arrived at our home in a big fifteen-passenger van. We had been planning to get together for months. They came on Ascension Day, celebrated by Christians for Jesus’ ascent into heaven. For the Amish, this is the only holiday of the year. After lunch and socializing we decided to show the Peacheys our new house. Although it was still being built, it was approaching completion. As we were a big group of people, we went in two carloads. The first group was made up of the men and the older children. As soon as we got to the house, my dad and Mr. Peachey went into the house. Amos wanted a tour. But we children retreated to the sandy beach. There we began building sandcastles and splashing, ankle deep, in the water. It was too cold to go in any deeper. “This is probably David’s first time in a pond,” said Sarah, the oldest Peachey child, referring to her younger brother. I replied, “Really? How old is he?” “Six,” came the response. Modest not only in dress but also in speech, Sarah did not elaborate. Just six years of age, I thought. This meant he had just started school. He only had one year of English under his belt. No wonder he didn’t respond when I called, “Let’s go rinse off our feet at the dock and then head up to the house.” Once at the dock, David sat down next to me as we all began kicking in the water. Laughter filled the air. But it all stopped when, after just a few minutes (or was it seconds?), I felt a splash on my leg. Oh, this certainly wasn’t the first; we had been splashing the whole time. But this splash was different; it wasn’t small and staccato like the rest; it was more like a small wall of water . . . followed by a silence. Instinctively, I turned to look at where David had been and saw only his small hat in the murky water. “Papa! David fell in the water!” My cry echoed from the hillside. Immediately my dad responded by bounding out of the house with Amos at his heels. As we watched Papa dive without hesitation from the bank into the water, Sarah and I gathered up the other children. I realized that I didn’t have any time to waste. I had to do something to help. Just then I saw Papa’s head emerge.”Call 911,” he said and then, catching a breath, he went back under. I was relieved to have some instructions, but I was also feeling frantic. This big task of calling for help was now on my shoulders. Running up to the porch, I saw Mama run
Water All Around
The sun rose as usual that morning, but no one saw it. There was no shortage of watchers; the two fishermen on Bell Island were up mending their nets, watching the horizon for the glow that would tell them it was time to set out, and the beady-eyed gulls were watching in their wary way from nests on shore and seats on the ocean’s broad back, and their favorite vantage point, the sky. The quiet old lady on Middle Island was awake, gazing at the eastern sky and dreaming of sunrises long ago when she bustled about making breakfast for her children, and wondering if any of them ever stopped to watch the sunrise, and the little girl in the little white house next door was just getting out of bed, not because she had to, but because she always woke up with the sun and there was really no reason to stay in bed. It was not the watchers that were missing, it was the sun. The little girl—she was not really so very little, but was more a little girl than anything else—was the only one to think it strange. The fishermen, when they had waited long enough, simply smiled at each other and started the motor of their boat, and the old woman too knew the Nova Scotia fog well. But to the girl, as she stepped out of the door into the misty dawn, it was like waking to a whole new world. The surrounding islands, near enough to swim to the day before, had vanished, replaced by swirling clouds of thick fog that wetted her skin and hair but without the striking feeling of rain. It was like being on a ship miles from anywhere, she thought. All she could see was water. Water and fog. She sat down in the grass then, tousle-haired and dreamy-eyed, hugging her knees and breathing in the mystery. The surrounding islands had vanished, replaced by swirling clouds of thick fog The fog had not lifted when the little girl’s mother called her name. It was their last day on the island and it was time to pack up and leave, to drive to the ferry and return to civilization. And the little girl remembered that she was not really a captain’s daughter on a three-masted schooner off the coast of Scotland, but was a little girl named Miranda who was starting algebra and Latin in the fall and was going to lead the poetry club. So she went inside and drank the hot chocolate her mother had made for her, and put her cup in a suitcase, and then remembered to say good morning, and wrung out her nightgown, which was very wet with sitting on the dew-soaked grass. When the packing, which should only be lived through once, was over, and the suitcases were all piled on the red motor boat, Miranda’s mother went to wake the baby. Miranda slipped out the door and set off on the path around the island to say goodbye to her friends. It was still at most two hours past sunrise, but she knew everyone would be awake, because where there are no electric lights or other such extravagances (as on any proper island), daylight hours are precious and no one wastes them in bed. So she said her goodbyes and returned to a wailing baby and distracted mother, and in time things fell into place, and they clambered into the boat and scrabbled perches amongst the luggage, and Mother pulled the cord on the outboard motor and as it stuttered to life they set off into the fog. Miranda’s mother knew the way from island to shore, and could steer straight despite the fog, but wind and tide conspired against them, and pushed the boat off course, so that a rock came up to starboard that they had not knowingly steered toward, and the trip which had been an adventure turned frightening. All they could see was water and fog. They could have been heading out to sea, or straight at a reef, or anywhere. The fog seemed menacing now, and the excitement was gone. The spray flung at them by the wind had turned cold, not cool, and the wind itself was harsher. Miranda took the tiller while her mother hunted frantically for the compass, but it was packed deep in some unknown bag. One arm around baby and the other hand on the tiller, Miranda could not reach up to brush her wind-tossed hair out of her eyes, so she shook her head, then suddenly released baby and felt her hair with her hand. She stared at the waves for a long moment, then cried over the growl of the motor, “The wind! It was coming from the north, from the mainland! Steer into the wind!” Mother nodded, and said something, but the wind carried away her words. Then Miranda remembered that she was steering, and swung the tiller around so that the little boat faced the wind. It blew her hair back for her but she freed her hand anyway to take off her salt-encrusted spectacles to rake the horizon with her eyes for any sign of land. Baby crept over to Mother, looking for a sheltering arm, and the three huddled down in the boat as the wind and spray hit them, and presently there came a shadow in the fog, and it grew clearer until it became a wooded promontory and a weathered dock, and presently the little girl found herself climbing up the ladder, and that her heart was no longer pounding, and that her cheeks were wet with something more than mist and spray. And she blinked her eyes as she pulled baby up with her cold hands, and she fumbled with her glasses one-handed as she hauled bag after bag up the hill to the car, and she finally had the glasses on when they drove away. And presently she came to
