Photo by Alex Adkins via Creative Commons It rained. Or rather, it poured. Large grey clouds darkened the sky, their heavy droplets collecting in puddles and soaking the ground, wind altering the direction of their descent as gravity pulled them towards the earth. From through the house window, I thought to myself, It sure is dreary out there. But upon further inspection, I found that this might not totally be the case. The wind seemed to be whistling a tune, accompanied by the soft percussion of rain hitting the ground and splashing in puddles. Dancing to that tune were the trees, swaying back and forth, rejoicing in the water that so eagerly rushed down to quench their thirst. The frogs too, could be heard from inside the house, their chorus befitting the scene. And the frogs too, were rejoicing in the long – needed downpour. When one looked up at the sky, one could see the clouds. On this particular occasion, they weren’t just a simple, massive screen of grey, hiding the sun and the bright blue of the atmosphere. For though they were dark and foreboding, they had a certain beauty about them as well. They were fluffy and rounded, and if one could have touched them, they might have felt soft like a chick’s down. I moved to a different window, looking out upon a different part of our yard. The geese frolicked and squawked in the field. A few stragglers had been left behind in the pond, and were rushing to catch up with the rest of the gaggle. Even the horses, soaked as they were, did not seem unhappy. They stood under a tree, tails stock still, for the rain had chased off any flies. Their eyes were bright, as if excited by this storm. The pond sent waves crashing against the shore, sticks and algae being stranded on its gravelly beaches. No fish jumped, but that may have been because of the lone white egret that swam about in the water, daring a silly fish to show itself. If there had been such a silly fish, it didn’t jump out of the water to taunt the bird of prey. And all the while the rain came down, splashing upon the ground. Finally, I decided to don a raincoat and feel what it was like out there for myself. After pulling on my boots, I ran out the door. Immediately, a pleasing smell filled my nose. It was the smell of rain. It was comforting and nice, but not sharp enough to feel like an assault. Along with the sound of the wind and the frogs, I could now fully hear the rain, pattering softly onto the earth and my raincoat. It was cool out there, but pleasantly so, not quite cold, but then leaning more to that side. Underneath my layers, I felt that even if we were to set the thermostat at exactly this temperature, it would not be the same. There was something very vague about the entire feel, but detectable as the soft caress of nature upon my surroundings. I lifted my head to the sky, blinking constantly as water hit my eyes. The water did not hurt at all, rather felt quite nice. I opened my mouth and stretched my tongue out, yearning for a taste of this caress of nature. And it tasted unlike most water. Once again, it had nature’s faint touch to it, like the secret ingredient in a recipe, but this was truly a secret ingredient. I could not place the taste as anything my tongue had experienced before. But it was good. I sighed as my mother called me in for dinner. I thought to myself, Well, I suppose that upon further inspection, the rain may not be so dreary at all. I put my hand on the doorknob, and drank in the last of this beautiful image.
Stone Soup Magazine for young readers, writers, and artists
Saturday Newsletter: March 17, 2018
Stone Soup colleague Jane Levi timing Israeli archeologist David Eitam as he grinds grain in a mortar cut into bedrock 12,500 years ago by people known as the Natufian.March 10th 2018, at at Hruk Musa in the Jordan River valley. Photo by William Rubel. A note from William Rubel My apologies for skipping last week’s Newsletter. My Stone Soup colleague Jane and I were in Israel completely immersed in preparing and carrying out the experimental archeology project we had come for–milling wild barley using mortars and cups cut into bedrock by a people who lived 12,500 years ago (long before agriculture), and then baking bread. There are 70 mortars cut into the rock at the site known to archeologists as Hruk Musa, located in what is now the Occupied Territories controlled by Israel in the Jordan River Valley. The Israeli archeologist we are working with, David Eitam, has used his knowledge and his imagination to answer the question, what are these rock cuts for? He thinks they were for processing wild barley from grain into bread. If he is right, then Hruk Musa is one of the largest and earliest grain processing facilities that has so far been found. As Jane and I were beginning to work with these stone tools, we both started thinking about how the same skills used by story tellers are often employed by archeologists. As there are few written records from this period, and few artifacts, figuring out what objects like these might have been used for, and then how they were actually used, requires some speculation, but the speculation has to be grounded in what makes sense based on all we have been able to learn about the people we are studying. It occurred to us, as we sat pounding and writing notes on that beautiful hill above what used to be a lake, wild flowers everywhere, birds of prey circling on the lookout for small creatures, that to do the best work we had to try as hard as we could to get into the minds of the Natufian people were were studying: as much as possible, to become Natufians. In other words, to be effective archeologists we had to think like novelists. Whether you end up being a writer, a doctor, an archeologist, a scientist, or a host of other professions, the skills you develop imagining characters and setting them alive on the page are skills that you will find useful. I would like you to write a short story in which place and time are important. The Natufian people that we were studying in Israel had tools made of rock, bone, and wood. They made string and knew how to weave fine baskets and also fine cloth, but they didn’t have pottery. They could walk places, and traveled distances so they could trade for goods. They left behind combs, and needles, and small sculptures, like those of little birds. But what they ate was mostly a mystery, and it is what they ate that we are studying. Last week, sitting on rocks surrounded by mortars feeling the gentle spring wind on our faces we tried to imagine ourselves as them–and that is what I would like you to do with a scenario of your own. Create a space for your characters, then place them in that space, and set them free with your imagination. I am in London this morning. I’ll be back in California tomorrow night. The wind is howling outside the window and it is snowing. Until next week, William “Hush,” I said, “hush, everything will be all right” From Stone Soup January/February 2009 Where my Family Is Written and illustrated by Jessye Holmgren-Sidell, 13 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. 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
Welcome to Nowhere, Reviewed by Nandini Sai Krishnan, age 13
Imagine having to leave the place you grew up, the only place you’ve known and only finding out a day before? That’s what happens to twelve year old Omar, in Elizabeth Laird’s Welcome to Nowhere, which sheds light on the ongoing civil war in Syria. The story starts in the beautiful city of Bosra in Syria, where Omar lives with his mom, dad, older sister Eman, older brother Musa (who has cerebral palsy), younger brother Fuad and baby sister Nadia. He works at work tourist shop for Rasoul, who he dreams of becoming like when he grows up. But his life is turned upside down when he finds out that he is moving to Daraa in three weeks, the place where all his troubles begin… His family moves into his grandmother’s house. At school, Musa befriends a group of popular kids who conspire against the government. Soon there are demonstrations against the government on the street and open firing. Things escalate quickly, unleashing a full scale civil war; Bombings and shootings become common and electricity is cut, leaving Omar in the darkness, without lights and with no contact to the outside world. Things continue like this and one day, as city faces terrible shell attacks, Omar is shot on the streets, but those are the least of his concerns when a shell lands on his house. Luckily, his family escapes unscathed, but in an instant, his home and everything he owns has been destroyed, and once again, his family is displaced and move to the countryside. Omar’s family moves in with his mom’s sister and his whole family is forced to live in a tiny storeroom. Everything is calm and placid, but mundane as Omar begins to work in the farm. The dark shadow of the war slowly grows larger and soon it extends into every inch of Syria leaving Omar with nowhere to go. His family is forced to leave on a dangerous journey to a foreign land. The travails of the journey and what lies ahead for Omar’s future form the rest of the story. Even though I am almost the same age as Omar and can barely imagine all the things he has to go through and all the difficult decisions he is forced to make, and what makes it even worse is that this is happening in Syria right now. This book makes a very complicated issue, easy to understand for readers. With the word refugee constantly popping up in the news, it’s hard to unwrap all the complication that come with it, but this book changed my understanding and ignited a passion in me to create change. If you are looking for a book to broaden your thinking or understand the political situation in Syria then this is a must read. In fact, I think any middle schooler should read this book, just to understand what is happening in the world currently or to learn more about refugees. My favourite part of the book was when Eman stands up for herself and fights for her rights despite living in a largely patriarchal society. As I read the book, I found myself chuckling at Musa’s quick wits, smiling at Omar’s optimism, but mostly lamenting reading about all the terrible things that were happening in Syria right now. Overall, this book is about a serious issue, but communicates its message to younger readers very effectively and transports readers into a different, but very real world. Welcome to Nowhere by Elizabeth Laird. Macmillan Children’s Books, 2017. Buy the book here and support Children’s Art Foundation-Stone Soup in the process! Have you read this book? Or do you plan on reading it? If so, comment below!
