The Summer We Found the Baby by Amy Hest is a realistic fiction novel set in Belle Beach, New York during World War II. The book’s main characters are Julie, age 11, Julie’s little sister, Martha age 6, and their neighbor, Bruno, age 12. The trio finds a baby abandoned on the steps of the Belle Beach Library and Julie decides to keep it as her other little sister. Julie writes “I’m the one who found her. A real, live, baby girl and I saw her first. I saw the basket… I just wanted to hold her awhile. I didn’t mean to take the baby.” (Page 3) The main objective of this story is for the trio to find the mother of the baby and reunite the baby with its family. I found this book to be special because the author writes from several perspectives. The book also depicts how families are coping with loss, and exemplifies how the characters fill gaps in one another’s lives and hearts. Each chapter of this book is written from the perspective of a different person from the trio. As I progressed through the book, my vantage point alternated between Julie, Martha, and Bruno. This is a very engaging style of writing because the story is not filtered through the voice of only one character. Instead, there are multiple points of view, and the reader develops a broader understanding of the other characters’ intentions and feelings. As we cultivate empathy for the people in the book, we understand their emotions better. This makes the book more intriguing and hooks the reader in from the first page. “Six. I’ve been to six of them altogether. Six memorials on the beach. All because of the war,” (Bruno, 109). I found this book absorbing because many characters in the story are struggling with loss of family members and uncertainty about the war and its outcome hovers over the book’s action. For example, the Ben-Eli family worries about their eldest son, Ben, at war in Europe, and they hope each day for a letter from the frontlines. Meanwhile, another family in the community loses their son in battle. In addition, Martha and Julie are continuing to cope with the passing of their mother, who died in childbirth. This attention to loss is intriguing because I learned from the characters’ struggles and better understood how humans confront and persist despite fear and grief. In an effort to cope with their own loss, the characters tend to lean on each other and fill gaps in one another’s lives. For example, Mrs.Ben-Eli sometimes acts like a mother towards Martha, who explains, “Mrs. Ben-Eli said I would get my own library card! I can’t wait to have my own library card!”(148). By receiving a library card, Martha is delighted to have a neighbor that cares for her and nurtures her like a real mother would. Likewise, Mrs. Ben-Eli is desperately missing her son who’s fighting in the war and so she directs her mothering to Julie and Martha as substitute children. The author shows us that in challenging times, a community can come together by creating new bonds. In conclusion, The Summer We Found the Baby by Amy Hest is a book that helps readers understand the difficulties of people facing loss. Empathy is an important part of our hearts and minds and helps us understand others. This characteristic is what makes all of us human, and it is used to develop a strong community. Finding the baby on the steps of the library unites these different characters, and by seeing this event through different perspectives, we as readers come to understand and appreciate each character. I recommend this book for people who either want to learn more about World War II, or who have experienced loss or grief before. The Summer We Found the Baby by Amy Hest. Candlewick Press (MA), 2022. Buy the book here and help support Stone Soup in the process!
Young Bloggers
Poetry Soup Ep. 12 – “An Ox Looks at Man” by Carlos Drummond de Andrade
Poetry Soup – Ep. 12: “An Ox Looks at Man” by Carlos Drummond de Andrade Transcript: Hello, and welcome to Poetry Soup! I’m your host, Emma Catherine Hoff. Today I’ll be talking about the poem, “An Ox Looks at Man,” by Carlos Drummond de Andrade, which inspired my own poem. Carlos Drummond de Andrade was born on October 31, 1902 in Itabira, Minas Gerais, Brazil. He went to a school of pharmacy, but did not enjoy it. Rather than a pharmacist, de Andrade was a civil servant. As well as writing poetry, de Andrade became director of history for the National Historical and Artistic Heritage Service of Brazil and, later, during World War II, started editing the official newspaper of the Brazilian Communist Party, Tribuna Popular, for a short while. The famous poet Mark Strand (who is one of my favorite poets!), translated a lot of de Andrade’s poetry, and his first English language translator was Elizabeth Bishop, whose villanelle, “One Art,” is featured in Poetry Soup. De Andrade wrote poems on many subjects, but every one of his poems exudes the same gracefulness and beauty. They are more delicate even than shrubs and they run and run from one side to the other, always forgetting something. Surely they lack I don’t know what basic ingredient, though they present themselves as noble or serious, at times. Oh, terribly serious, even tragic. Poor things, one would say that they hear neither the song of the air nor the secrets of hay; likewise they seem not to see what is visible and common to each of us, in space. And they are sad, and in the wake of sadness they come to cruelty. All their expression lives in their eyes–and loses itself to a simple lowering of lids, to a shadow. And since there is little of the mountain about them – nothing in the hair or in the terribly fragile limbs but coldness and secrecy — it is impossible for them to settle themselves into forms that are calm, lasting and necessary. They have, perhaps, a kind of melancholy grace (one minute) and with this they allow themselves to forget the problems and translucent inner emptiness that make them so poor and so lacking when it comes to uttering silly and painful sounds: desire, love, jealousy (what do we know?) – sounds that scatter and fall in the field like troubled stones and burn the herbs and the water, and after this it is hard to keep chewing away at our truth. Rather than writing a poem from the point of view of a human being, Carlos Drummond de Andrade instead writes his from the point of view of an ox looking at humans (referred to as “man” in the title of the poem). The ox seems to feel pity for the humans because they feel so much (“desire, love, jealousy”), and therefore suffer so much. Though the ox can somehow name these feelings, it does not truly know them – “(what do we know?)” The ox thinks humans are fragile and pathetic, that they are lacking in something because they are not strong, because they don’t always get along, because they have feelings that are depressing. But the ox does not know of bravery or friendship, other traits among humans. It only sees sadness, because it cannot really imagine happiness. It has never been happy, trapped in the same daily routine. And so it sees humans as a way of showing itself that its life is not so bad. This is the result of a life without true meaning. The ox does not only comment on itself, however, as de Andrade’s main point is to critique humans. Man to man, there are things we do not see – no matter what things we do, we still think of ourselves as the superior race. But we can counter these feelings in the way de Andrade does – through the eyes of a different animal, such as an ox. The ox says, for example, that “little of the mountain is about them,” showing that humans are somewhat abstracted from their environment. While other animals live in peace with nature, we sometimes even destroy it. This poem shows us that because humanity is so complex, looking at it almost disturbs the ox’s calm demeanor. The ox is not used to this level of intricacy. I wrote my own poem based on “An Ox Looks at Man,” from the point of view of a horse. It goes like this: What the Horse Saw They lack hooves, and they have straw falling from their heads. They have cast a spell to make it soft, like my mane, but not as elegant. I gallop gracefully, and they crouch down, panting, calling me. The beauty of my ballet is countered only by the humor of their jig, which they dance so insistently. They stand there only to make me laugh. I respond to no name. Not the name of the horse, not the name of the animal. They tried to give me a name, and they called me by it, but it was all a part of their play, where they doubled over, running off their grassy stage after me. They made my escape more pleasurable than I thought it would be. Now I have only bushes to talk to, and they make bad companions. They think my eyes are small, that because I do not recognize red, I do not recognize them. My laughs stay secret and joyous, like my leap from the stable to the world. The flies stayed inside, and I became free. They called my name. I respond to no name. Maybe if they named me for my beauty, if they named me for my laughter. If they named me for my feelings or for my color, I might yield. But they gave me someone else’s name. I know the horse they called Onyx, a blank canvas, but black,
“Adagio in A Minor” by Tejo Madhavarapu, 12
From the composer: “‘In Adagio in A Minor,’ the rhythm keeps changing under the same time signature of 9/8, with very few common features between different bars. This piece does not maintain a standard rhythm or use lots of closely related ones, so it sounds mostly free-flowing.” The featured artwork is “Keys of Wandering Souls” (iPhone 11 Pro) by Sabrina Lu, 13. It appeared in the February 2023 issue of Stone Soup. You can also listen to Tejo’s other composition, “Vivace in F Major,” here.
