Journey From Peppermint Street by Meindert DeJong

Source of Book: I own this (and there is some history - see below.) 

Dutch-American author Meindert de Jong didn’t write that many books, but the ones he did write are absolute classics. 

With suddenly a lot more time at home (and with my wife picking up extra shifts in the ICU right now), I have taken over a lot more of the childcare, schooling (everything is distance learning now), and household duties. I realized that, while I read a lot to the kids when the older ones were younger, I kind of got away from it with the stuff we had to do for homework checking as they got older. Thus, my youngest has not had enough in the way of reading by dad. I decided this needed to be fixed. 

My copy looks a lot like this.

I suggested we read some Meindert de Jong, and the two younger ones picked this book. This was actually my first introduction to De Jong when I was perhaps a bit younger than Lillian - who is the age of the protagonist. We happened to own this book in a cheap paperback from the early 70s - which is still the copy I own, although it is disintegrating. Journey From Peppermint Street is De Jong’s last significant book, as far as I can tell, and I wonder if it might have an autobiographical element. It is set in De Jong’s birthplace, Wierum (Wierom in the book), as is his best known book, The Wheel on the School. The author’s family emigrated to the United States when he was age 8, a year younger than the 9 year old Siebren from the story. 

Journey From Peppermint Street is the story of an epic journey, taken by Siebren. His little brother, Knillis, is ill, has an itchy rash, and his parents are extra busy. So Siebren is stuck entertaining Knillis for hours. But things start to happen. The cap salesman gives Mother a tin of chocolates, which she gives to Siebren for his hard work. Knillis grabs the metal tin, and squeezes it over Siebren’s thumb, causing a deep gash. With blood everywhere, he vomits and faints, with everything a mess, when Grandpa shows up. 

Grandpa says that his sister Anna is deathly ill, so he is walking inland to pick up his other sister Hinka, so they can visit Anna before she passes. He asks if he can take Siebren, who can then meet his great aunt and great uncle - who is huge, and also deaf and dumb. Oh, and they live in an ancient monastery in the middle of a swamp. And they will be walking half the night to get there - and Siebren has never walked further than the next village over. 

Unsurprisingly, this is already epic in Siebren’s mind. Coming on top of a rather traumatic incident, he is already emotional, and everything seems larger than life. 

But things get even crazier before the end of the trip. He meets the kind Aal, who helps him button his pants (he can’t with his thumb.) He gets a giant black ball, which he names Satan, after...well, I guess that requires its own explanation. 

Grandpa, a church leader, has had a simmering feud with the Miller of Nes, over a trifling amount of money. He tells Siebren that the miller is a “handball of Satan,” who acts strangely. Ironically, Grandpa realizes he has been foolish, and makes up with the miller during the trip, but Siebren’s overactive imagination takes over, and he starts to think that he must be a handball of Satan, because his fears and imaginings swirl in his head. One of the fascinating things about this book is the way it peers into the head of a child who feels and thinks deeply. Siebren, between his age and the overwhelming events, swings wildly between fear, disappointment, ecstasy, and longing. His fatigue at the journey, his first night alone in a strange and scary place, his mental picture of people he has never met, and so on contribute to this turbulent state of mind. 

De Jong writes this rather fantastical inner journey in a way that spoke to me at age 8, and was surprising to re-read again for the first time as an adult. I can see why it seemed almost too strong to take at the time. Although I liked it (and re-read it), I ended up liking De Jong’s other books better as a kid. Ironically, although I can remember the basic plots for The Wheel on the School, The House of Sixty Fathers, and Along Came a Dog, I never forgot the emotional landscape of Journey From Peppermint Street. The throbbing thumb. The fear of being left alone in the dark marsh. The bed in the cold giant hall with an indoor well-cistern and a frog, the huge uncle who turns out to be a witty and gentle giant, the tornado which nearly kills him. And, of course, the way the giant black ball becomes a metaphor for Siebren’s inner battles. 

It is fascinating to watch Siebren navigate his feelings about adults. Grandpa, while familiar, is distant - this is Siebren’s first time alone with just him. Grandpa is prickly but kind, encouraging but impatient, and - even by my standards - a bit optimistic about how far and late a small kid can hike. (The kids and I hike ~120 miles a year together, and have since they were little. But never until nearly midnight, and without some training first.) 

Pretty much every other character they meet after leaving Siebren’s home is a stranger to him. Who is kind? Who doesn’t even notice he is there? Is the miller truly malevolent? 

For the most part, the people he meets are just ordinary people. Although Great Aunt Hinka and Great Uncle Siebren are the best possible people - they don’t talk down to him, but expect that he can discuss serious and deep topics. Which is precisely what he needs at the time. It just isn’t the same with parents, particularly ones exhausted by work and a demanding toddler. Siebren finds exactly what he needs at that time. 

There are other fun things in the book which my kids enjoyed just as I had. The bullfrog who lives in the cistern, Vrosk. (Which is really the perfect onomatopoeic name for a frog.) The giant pike with its sharp teeth and tricky bones. The secret passage under the monastery. The swamp at night. The dessicated rat that died years before of hunger and thirst. The giant symbolic ball. 

The book was as good as I remembered it, and I am glad that the kids found it interesting as well. 

***

Interesting historical note:

It had been so long since I had read this, that I had entirely forgotten where it came from. On the first inside page is a stamp, reading, “Harbor House, 2728 E. 10th St., Oakland, CA, 94601.”

As I mentioned when I wrote about There There by Tommy Orange, my late maternal grandparents lived in Oakland until I was about age 8. They ran a ministry of some sort (they were previously missionaries to Mexico, where my mom was born) called Harbor House. My memories of Oakland are both vivid and shaky, because of my age. We used to visit a few times a year from when I was 4, until they retired and moved to Oregon. At first, they lived in part of the upper portion of the “up and down” place at the address above. Then, they lived in the lower portion of a similar house a block or so away. (I thought it was in the 70th St. range, but apparently it was the 10th St. East area instead. Cut me some slack - I was all of 8 at the oldest.) 

Here is the place, as it looked as of the most recent Google Maps picture. Harbor House itself is clearly defunct, as I could not find any trace on the internet, but the house is still there. We used to have church services in Spanish behind that bay window on top, in that big room. I remember Christmas there too, with the ghastly eggnog and ginger ale “punch” they used to make. (The good food all came from my dad’s side of the family - a “Christmas Ham” was literally a canned ham with cloves stuck in it. And dead vegetables.) 

I am guessing that the book was donated to Harbor House for its library for the children of Latino immigrants to borrow. When my grandparents retired, I imagine the library was disbursed, and we got a few books. It was weird to open the book and suddenly have that flood of memories. 

How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents

Source of book: Audiobook from the library

From time to time, I have cases that take me out of our local area. To get through the longer drives - particularly when traffic is involved - I like to bring audiobooks with me. Most of my audiobook listening is with the kids on our vacations, so when I get a drive by myself, I pick books that wouldn’t work for younger people. (Although, as you can tell from our listening list, my kids are a bit different in their tastes.) 

I try to read a variety of books, by a variety of authors, and this includes authors outside of the “old, white, and male” group. I try to read books in translation, books by non-American authors, and books with different perspectives. Latin America is large and diverse, of course, so it is a bit overbroad to use the term “Latin American” to describe a single type of literature. That said, I know that I haven’t read as many books from the various romance-language speaking parts of the Americas as I should. I kept running across How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents on lists of essential works by Latinx authors, so I put it on the list. Our library happened to have an audiobook version when I went at the last minute to find something to listen to. 

How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents is the first novel by Julia Alvarez, written in 1991. She had previously published poetry and a few essays (in addition to her teaching job.) Alvarez was born in the United States of Dominican parents, but moved back to the Domincan Republic when she was an infant. Her parents’ first attempt at immigration didn’t work out for them. Ten years later, however, her father got involved in a failed plot to assassinate the dictator, and they had to flee to the United States. She remained here even after the political situation improved, although she spent many summers in the “old country” visiting relatives who remained there. 

This sense of being of two cultures and yet not of either is central to Alvarez’ writing, and is particularly present in this book, which, while not strictly autobiographical, contains a lot from Alvarez’ own experiences. 

The book isn’t so much a novel as a collection of related short stories. There are fifteen stories in all, told from various perspectives, some in first person, others in third person. It would be unfair to say there is no unifying plot, because there is the story of the Garcia girls, but the incidents do not so much form an arc as they do a mosaic of the themes. 

Not only that, but the story is told in reverse order, starting with the “present day” and working back to the childhoods of the sisters. It is divided into three sections, named after the dates - which are also in reverse order. So, the first part is called “Part One: 1989-1972” and tells five stories of the adult Garcia sisters: Carla, Sandra, Yolanda, and Sofia. The second part tells of the adolescence of the girls after they come to the United States. The third section tells of their childhood and how they came to flee their homeland. Within each section, the stories also take place in reverse chronological order. This is a bit disorienting, as Alvarez foreshadows (or is that aftshadows?) the events we hear about later. I’m not entirely sure I liked the format, but I’m probably a bit OCD about it. 

In the story, as in the author’s life, the girls grow up in wealth and privilege - dad is a doctor, but has an inherited estate, servants, and so on. This is why the family is able to escape to the US: he has connections which allow him to get a visa and practice medicine in New York. The childhood incidents are fascinating, but also a bit disturbingly sexual. In the Dominican Republic, an insane sculptor works naked and appears to be getting off on his works - Sandra sees him accidentally. Later, in the US, Carla is harassed by a pedophile. (The scene where she is interviewed by police officers and struggles with her limited English skills is fantastic.) There is an incident of “playing doctor” with a cousin. A certain sexuality pervades the book throughout, in part because, well, life includes sex, and gives plenty of opportunities for significant emotional entanglements. Yolanda has a relationship with a jerk who keeps wanting to fuck her. (His words - his lack of romance is why he never got it.) Sofia takes a trip to Columbia so she can sleep with her boyfriend (no overnights at her parents’ house!), but ends up breaking up with him, meeting this German guy, and (maybe) getting pregnant. When she returns home, she writes him, and he writes back - with naughty details. Dad, snooping around, finds the letters and comes unglued. Sofia flys to Germany, proposes to Otto, and they get married, with a child following...a barely respectable time after. This is actually one of my favorite stories, because Sofia is such a badass when she faces dad down about his violation of her privacy. (At this point, all the children are adults, so it isn’t a “protect the teens” thing. 

Other themes in the book are identity and assimilation. Yolanda is the central character in that sense. She has many nicknames, and it bothers her. She feels fragmented. One of those is simply Yo. Which is the Spanish word for “me.” It is obvious for other reasons too, but this is solid proof that Yolanda is the stand-in for the author. Yolanda too becomes a poet, teacher, and writer. Yolanda seems to struggle with identity the most; indeed, at the end of the story - the beginning of the book - she appears to be tempted to stay in the Dominican Republic permanently yet struggles to express herself either in Spanish or English. 

I could mention pretty much any of the stories as compelling. Alvarez is a good writer, who is particularly excellent in her use of words. The voices of the different characters are recognizably different, as are the voices of the girls as children compared to their voices as adults. A lot of care went into the writing, and the result is delightfully literary. The choice of the backwards narrative and the way things are often assumed but not explained until later means that you really have to pay attention - and remember details so that they make sense later. I am glad that I listened to this mostly in one day. (I had a quarter of it left which I finished in a few days of driving around town.) 

The audiobook we listened to had multiple narrators, one for each of the four girls and one for the third person stories not from the specific perspective of one of them. I confess I don’t recognize any of them (Blanca Camacho, Annie Henk, Annie Kozuch, Noemi de la Puente, Melanie Martinez), and I have no idea which narrator played which character. However, the quality was good, so I give a thumbs up to the narrators. I think the book is actually a good one to listen to, because the Spanglish and accented characters sound so delightful when done right. 

How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents works either as an immigrant story, a coming-of-age story, an exploration of identity, or as just a compelling human story. I am glad I read it, and intend to read more by Alvarez. 

English Music by Peter Ackroyd

Source of book: I own this.

I have enough books in my library that I can’t always remember where I got them and when. This is such a book. My best guess is that I found it at a library sale at least five years ago. It is a Franklin Library hardback signed by the author - and it matches copies of Jurassic Park and The Lost World by Michael Crichton - so I am pretty sure I found them together. After all, it is hard to pass up a really nice hardback.

What I am less sure of is that I had any idea who Peter Ackroyd was when I got the book. I may have been vaguely aware of him, but he wasn’t on any of my reading lists. In any event, he is still living and writing, and is best known for having a wide variety of subjects and styles, from well respected biographies to fiction spanning a range of genres.

English Music is a somewhat unusual book. One could even argue that it is two books in one and that either part could stand alone.

The odd numbered chapters form one of the parts: they are a first person narrative by the protagonist, Timothy Harcombe, of his life. That part of the story is essentially a coming-of-age story as well as a tale of a boy and his complex relationship with his father. Clement Harcombe is a former circus performer turned faith healer, who has raised Timothy alone since birth - Timothy’s mother died in childbirth. Although the character has all the hallmarks of a charlatan, Clement actually does have the ability to heal - as long as he has Timothy to assist him. (It is never clear to the reader or to the characters exactly how much of the ability belongs to Clement and how much to Timothy - although it does seem that the two of them have to work together.) Timothy is taken from his father to go live with his maternal grandparents - and get a real education and grow up as a normal child. He ends up seeing his father again a few times during childhood and then as an adult - and eventually goes back to working with his father. Their both loving and dysfunctional relationship forms the core of the narrative - and it is clear that Timothy is torn between his two natures: his conventional aristocratic mother, and his self-taught bohemian father. These two natures are represented in a rather metaphorical way by the art which forms the second part of the book. Timothy’s father teaches him during his childhood using English literature. When he goes to live with his grandparents, he discovers his mother’s collection of classical music - primarily English composers. The author combines these traits in Timothy, and literature and music in what he calls “English Music,” which is really the entire art of the English people, from painting to music to literature to poetry.

The second part of the book is rather distinctive. The even numbered chapters represent dreams (or visions or hallucinations) that Timothy has during his unconscious spells which afflict him during times of stress. These dream sequences are told in the third person, who observes Timothy as he interacts with various representatives of “English Music.”

So, for example, in the first one, Timothy finds himself in a world which is a mashup of Pilgrim’s Progress and Lewis Carroll’s Alice In Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. Yes, that is as odd as it sounds. Furthermore, Ackroyd writes these sequences in the style of those stories - and yes, Bunyan and Carroll mixed together does make for a bizarre style.

That is just one example. Other chapters feature Great Expectations, Robinson Crusoe, Morte d’Arthur, and Sherlock Holmes. The poetry of William Blake gets a chapter, as does the gallery of great English painters. William Hogarth gets a chapter to himself - a harrowing vision of Gin Alley and Bedlam. Composer William Byrd gets a chapter as well. There are other authors and books that get at least small references.

Ackroyd has been criticized for his choices in putting together his English pantheon. Women are barely mentioned (just George Eliot and Emily Bronte), and his idea that English art forms a single, coherent narrative is both a stretch and a bit jingoistic. On the other hand, you can tell Ackroyd loves the artists he selects, and is intimately familiar with their works. This isn’t just a greatest hits list, but an exploration of the artists that made Ackroyd who he is. I myself have mixed feelings about this, because I am an Anglophile myself. If I were to pick, I would say that English literature has been the most consistently influential and best written (on average) for the last 500 or so years. But of course, I am biased both because my native language is English, and I grew up immersed in the English language classics. Music and the visual arts, however, are different - England has a few distinguished names, but is hardly a leader in those areas.

As for the book itself, I thought it was good, but not great. The writing is excellent of course - Ackroyd is a craftsman of words. The dream interludes were quite interesting, whether or not you agree with his theory. I would go so far as to say that his ability to write “in the style of” is quite impressive - the poetry in particular is spot on. Where I felt it fell a bit flat was in the basic concept. The faith healing just feels kind of weird, as it is never given an explanation or a reason for existing. The book isn’t written like Magical Realism, and it has no other supernatural elements - or even the acknowledgement of any. We are just to assume that within an otherwise realistic book that two characters can heal people without knowing how they do it, or with any natural or supernatural explanation suggested. I also found Timothy to be annoyingly directionless. He never does seem to have any idea what he wants to do with his life. And that includes even in his old age. He never really does find himself or get beyond his tendency to expect that others will give his life direction. For that reason, it was difficult to warm up to him as a protagonist. I kept waiting for him to grow or discover something about himself. But it never really happens.

I am rather curious to read some more Ackroyd, however, because he is clearly a skilled writer, and his other books are apparently quite different from this one and from each other.

***

So, a few things from the book:

A number of paintings become part of the story. Here is one I particularly like, “Landscape With A Castle” by John Martin. 

William Byrd wrote nearly 500 works - a prodigious output to be sure - and also taught extensively. He is one of the few of his time to live long enough to see his works go out of style. In recent times, his music has been rediscovered. Here is a taste of his skill:

Although it doesn’t make it into the book, I figure I might link one of my favorite English composers, Ralph Vaughn Williams. This work is a bit more obscure, but it is one I have played - and it is quite fun.

A Winter's Love by Madeleine L'Engle

Source of book: Borrowed from the library.

I doubt I would ever have discovered this book if it had not been for a law school classmate who read it and liked it. To be honest, we have both swapped book ideas enough that we each can whine that our book lists - too long already - have been impacted by the other.

I have, however, read other books by Madeleine L’Engle - her young adult science fiction series. You can read my thoughts on A Wrinkle In Time and A Wind in the Door if you like. A Winter’s Love, in contrast, is neither science fiction nor aimed at children or young adults. It is a straightforward, realistic, literary novel for adults.

L’Engle actually started out by writing books for adults. These did not sell all that well, however, and she had determined that if she didn’t have a real success, she would quit writing at age 40. Soon after making this decision, she had the idea for A Wrinkle In Time, managed to talk a publisher into giving it a shot, and had a bestseller on her hands.

That was in 1959. Two years prior, she wrote A Winter’s Love. After reading her basic biographical information, it is clear that this book contained some elements taken from L’Engle’s childhood. Her father suffered from some combination of damage from mustard gas in World War One and alcoholism (much like one of my great-grandfathers); a condition which led to them living for a time in the French Alps. 

A Winter’s Love is set in the aftermath of World War Two, rather later than the time period L’Engle would live in the French Alps. Rather than an illness, the reason for the winter sabbatical is that the father, Courtney, has lost his job as a professor at a New York university. He has essentially been forced out by the new guy, a trendy writer who finds Courtney to be too old fashioned. The sabbatical had been planned, but now it isn’t fun, but one where the future is doubtful, and the family greatly strained.

The mother, Emily, is the main focus of the story. She met and married Courtney when she was his student. They had two daughters together, but the younger one died at age 8, a tragedy that caused Courtney to withdraw inside himself for a time. Later, they would have another child together unexpectedly, leaving them with a teenager and a youngish child. Now, with the lost job, Courtney has withdrawn again, and is trying desperately to regain his sense of manhood. Emily is devastated by the loss of connection, and unsure what she wants from life.

The older daughter, Virginia, is close friends with Mimi Oppenheimer, a friend who has been essentially adopted by Virginia’s family. (This parallels the adoption of Maria by L’Engle and her husband after Maria’s parents died.) The youngest child, Connie, is a pretty typical - that is to say demanding - little kid.

Already, the setup is stressful: living in a cheap chateau, with a busybody (and kind of nasty) landlady, Mimi’s tales of her parents’ free-love lifestyle, and the tubercular and alcoholic Gertrude living down the street with her mountain guide boyfriend Kaarlo.

But then, an old friend of Emily and Courtney turns up. Abe is now a widower (and later divorcee) with a teen son, Sam. There is a mild love triangle there, as Virginia is smitten with Sam, who prefers Mimi. There is some harmless frisson here, but everyone is young and decent, so nothing worse than a little angst. Much more serious is the fact that Abe and Emily have been in love for a long time, even though neither of them admitted it even to themselves before. But Abe makes the move, and Emily responds.

It is fair to say that they have an affair. It isn’t fully physical, even though at different points they want it to be. (Just not exactly at the same time.) It is, however, emotional and passionate, with a bit of mild touching and kissing. It is also morally troubling to Emily in particular, and much of the book is devoted to her own struggle to choose a path, and reconcile that path with her values.

A subplot in the book revolves around anti-semitism. Gertrude met Kaarlo when both were in the French Resistance against the Nazis. Gertrude has a past and a good story to tell, but she is also badly damaged by her experiences. Her late husband haunts her, and she feels guilty that the uber-healthy and strong Kaarlo is “wasting” himself on tubercular her. The landlady, in contrast, collaborated with the Nazis, and takes out some of her guilt on others by causing trouble and being nasty.

Anti-semitism rears its head first, however, at a dance. Sam invites his friend “Beanie” along, so that there will be a guy for Virginia - and so Mimi and Sam can be a couple. Beanie drops a casually anti-semitic comment about Mimi to Virginia (while Sam and Virginia are dancing), which causes Virginia to stalk out on him. Later, Virginia and Mimi catch sight of Abe and Emily kissing, which basically finishes the job of tearing Virginia’s world apart. And yet, she will not tell her parents what she saw.

Obviously, things are a mess at this point, and they get worse. But L’Engle forces her characters to work through their problems and find a way. It is obvious from the start that the affair is doomed. It is clear enough that Courtney cannot succeed as an academic writer, and so he will have to take a less prestigious job in Indiana, thus taking Emily away from the world she knows - and Abe. It is also pretty obvious that Emily will not be willing to leave Courtney or take his children from him. So this obviously cannot be more than a temporary fling - a winter’s love, so to speak.

So much for the plot. What drives this book is the characterization. It is filled with flawed, imperfect, complex people. It is difficult to either love or hate anyone in it. Okay, except perhaps for Sam and Mimi, who are endearingly sweet in a teenaged way. They too will part after the winter, but one can hold out hope that they might end up together in the long run. And if not, they will part friends.

I myself sympathised with Courtney. I too have had the stress of an uncertain financial future. It wasn’t always easy finding a sense of manhood in a marriage where my wife’s job has always been our source of health insurance - and thus less expendible than mine. She never resented it, but I felt from time to time that I was somehow failing as a man. She didn’t feel that way, but I expected her to. That was a learning process. I also have Courtney’s unfortunate tendency to withdraw when I feel like a failure. So I got how he felt.

Emily too is interesting. She is upright to the point of rigidity, appearing perfect to everyone except herself (and her family, perhaps), which is why she struggles so much to discover she isn’t nearly as good as she wants to think she is. She also is discovering that her black and white world isn’t working for her. L’Engle never really resolves Emily’s feelings either. There is no epiphany, no happy ending for Emily. She will lose something no matter what choice she makes. But L’Engle also doesn’t make this a catastrophe. It is an event. An affair. A winter’s love. It is part of Emily, and who she is. Part of the dynamic here is that Courtney knows even if he doesn’t know the details. He too has a decision, and he admits that if she cheated, it won’t be the end of him - or his love for her. I can very much understand this in the emotional sense. (Not that I have personal experience here or anything.)

The handling of Virginia is interesting as well. She has her teen moments, and they ring true. Again, complexity. Virginia is furious at the discovery that her parents aren’t perfect, and yet she can’t truly hate them either. The relationship dynamics are fascinating - and better written than many books involving teens and parents.

I could go on with more, but I’ll end with that. I found it a compelling read because of the psychological complexity.

I do want to mention a few quotes, however, that I found interesting. Emily and Courtney are what we might call “liberal” or “progressive” by today’s standards. That is, they are opposed to racism, well read and educated, urban, sophisticated, and so on. I mention “today’s standards” because in a bygone era (perhaps even my childhood), this wasn’t a “liberal” thing at all - it was still to be found on the Right. In the setting of the book, however, there is definitely a gap between the “liberals” like Courtney and Emily, and the casual anti-semites, which are linked to racists in America.

I bring this up in part because some of the more fascinating conversations in the book are between Virginia and various adults on the topic of racism. Virginia is in a tough situation, because she kind of likes some things about Beanie, and she doesn’t want to just exclude him from all activities (which makes it hard on Sam, and there are only a few young people anyway, so you get what you get.) One of these conversations is between Emily and Virginia, but references prior conversations with Courtney as well. One question is exactly what Jews are. Being “Jewish” isn’t really being a race (particularly by 1950s definitions), but it isn’t merely a religion either. So what is it about being a “minority” of some sort? How does that happen. Courtney makes the observation that all prejudice against minorities is similar. It isn’t about who the minority is, but about the prejudice of those who are prejudiced. Courtney himself feels in a minority because he cares about “education and books and music and things,” as Virginia puts it. I kind of agree with that. I certainly feel part of a minority for that reason. I feel it particularly acutely living in a town with a lot of people who do not care about those things. (To be fair, there are many that do.) But also, that was one reason that I felt out of sync with my own religion for so long. There is an increasing hostility toward education and thought and reading and music and art and the whole thing - we are painted as “elitists” now, for valuing those things.

Later in the book, Virginia discusses Beanie with Gertrude. A very interesting exchange occurs:

“He’s still pretty young, isn’t he, Vee?”

“Oh no. I think he’s a couple of years older than I am.”

Gertrude smiled again. “Quite grown-up, then. But I think he’s still young enough to change, don’t you?”

“Are people apt to?”

“You know, Virginia,” Gertrude said, suddenly serious, “before the war I was quite thoughtlessly anti-Semitic in a casual way.”

“You, Madame de Croisnois??

“Yes. Of the ‘some of my best friends are Jews’ school.”

I wasn’t expecting that. I somehow thought that “some of my best friends are [black, gay, etc.]” was a more modern term - even if the sentiment likely wasn’t. But there it is. And as true then as now.

One final quote is worth mentioning. Virginia and Emily end up in a conversation about poetry (Virginia writes it), and it veers in an interesting direction.

“We’ve been studying atoms in chemistry this year, too,” Virginia said, “and they kind of fascinate me. And God. God is so tremendously exciting, mother. He’s so much bigger, so much more -- more enormous -- than most churches let Him be. When you look at the mountains -- or when you look at the stars and think how many of them probably have planets with life on them -- and maybe life entirely different from ours --- Mother, why do people all the time try to pull God down so He’s small enough to be understood?”

Emily stood up and put her hands on Virginia’s shoulders. “I suppose because most people are afraid of what they can’t understand.”

Damn. Mic drop. This is a huge reason why I am not comfortable in my church tradition any longer. Their concept of God has to be reduced to an 19th Century theological dogma based on a particular approach to a beautiful but complicated and messy ancient text. It has to be perfectly clear, perfectly rigid, and completely understood by them. Anything bigger than that has to be crushed. This passage also ties in with both Emily and Virginia struggling with the reality of shades of grey that are intruding on their black and white conception of the world, people, and morality.

I wasn’t sure whether I was going to like this book - but I trust my classmate’s judgment in certain things. I was not disappointed. This was a better than average book, and I find I am still thinking about it after finishing it.

A Single Shard by Linda Sue Park

Source of book: Audiobook from the library

This book is part of our rather unsystematic exploration of Newbery award winners and honorable mentions. A Single Shard won the Newbery award in 2002. 

A Single Shard is set in 12th Century Korea. A young orphan, Tree-ear, lives with the disabled man who took him in, Crane-man. One day, while secretly watching master potter Min work, he accidentally breaks an item. He offers to pay for it with his work, which eventually leads to employment. As a result, Tree-ear eventually is tasked with taking a sample to the Emperor’s pottery master in an effort to gain a royal commission.

The pottery in question is Celadon pottery, which has a lustrous green finish, somewhat like jade. The book is set at a transition point, where carved single color designs gave way to intricate inlaid work. This transition forms a major plot point, as Min is asked to submit what for him is a new technique. The epilogue to the book mentions a specific work as one of the finest from this period, and implies that (artistic license here…) Tree-ear eventually creates this work. (The actual potter is unknown, but the workmanship is astounding. I used the description to find what I believe is the vase referred to in the book. 

The amazing thing about this is that the black and white colors are not painted. Rather, minute grooves are cut from the partially dried vase, and contrasting clay is carefully inlaid. A clear glaze is applied before firing. The hundreds (thousands?) of hours necessary to create a masterpiece like this - it is amazing and worthy of great respect.

This book is fairly short - just over three hours on audiobook. It is well focused, with every detail important to either the atmosphere, character development, or plot. With a minimum of words, Park brings an old, unfamiliar culture to life, but also makes Tree-ear’s world seem familiar and relatable. There are really only four main characters. Tree-ear, of course, is the protagonist, and the story is from his perspective. Crane-man is delightful, as the elderly man who has lived a very hard life, surviving mostly by gathering food from the forest or rubbish heaps around town. And yet, despite this desperate poverty, he takes in the infant Tree-ear and raises him well. Both are united in that they are considered “unlucky” and therefore essentially untouchable in their culture.

Min is cantankerous and cold, yet passionately devoted to his craft. He also hides a secret tragedy that has, in contrast to Crane-man, made him bitter. Min’s wife (who asks that she be called the equivalent of “auntie” rather than “the honorable potter’s wife,” as Tree-ear calls her at first) is a gracious woman, who befriends Tree-ear in her own quiet way.

It is the interaction of these four that give depth to the fairly conventional story. Park slowly introduces the elements of the culture and manners of the time and place to the story, and the interactions are always carefully ritualized. The courtesies are mandatory, and serve to allow dignity to all. I was reminded of some of the social courtesies from Filipino culture that my dad (who grew up there as a missionary kid) taught me. Culture varies, and rituals vary and change over time. None are truly right or wrong, but the differences can cause misunderstandings. The worst, perhaps, is the “ugly American” tendency to run roughshod over the culture of others, and display an arrogant attitude about it. This is one reason I think books like this are great for kids (and adults.) A little education never hurt, and neither did a reminder to treat others with respect, listen, and learn how to bridge these gaps.

A Single Shard is a good read. The plot may be a bit predictable, but that isn’t the point. Some stories are told and retold countless times, but only gain from a new variation, and this is one of them. The audiobook was read by Graeme Malcolm; I have no complaints about his reading, which was fine.

One Year In Coal Harbor by Polly Horvath

Source of book: Audiobook from the library

One Year In Coal Harbor is the sequel to Everything On A Waffle, which we listened to back in 2015.

Since first discovering Canadian author Polly Horvath a number of years ago (my daughters introduced me to the books featuring the ludicrously absurd Mr. and Mrs. Bunny books), we have listened to a few others. While Northward to the Moon was a disappointment, the others have been enjoyable. Anyway, here is the complete list of Horvath books I have reviewed on this blog:

Everything on a Waffle

Lord and Lady Bunny: Almost Royalty

Mr. and Mrs. Bunny, Detectives Extraordinaire

Northward to the Moon

This book continues the story of Primrose after the miraculous return of her parents from being lost at sea. Without that drama, Primrose ends up having to create her own, mostly by trying to play matchmaker between Miss Bowser (the owner of the restaurant featured in the previous book) and Uncle Jack. She is not, shall we say, particularly skilled at that task.

However, two additional outside events bring drama to Coal Harbor - and to Primrose’s life. Her former foster parents, the lovably eccentric Bert and Evie, take in another foster kid, Ked, who ends up being Primrose’s best friend. And a logging company attempts to clear-cut Mendolay Mountain, leading to protests and civil disobedience from locals and out-of-town environmentalists.

As in the previous book (and Horvath generally), the strength of the book is the complexity of the emotions and the situations. Horvath doesn’t sugar coat stuff, and she avoids easy answers. The characters are realistic, with both strengths and weaknesses - no villains or saints to be found here. Just mostly decent people with their own flaws. And that includes the adults.  Horvath examines the aftereffects of trauma, drug abuse, mental illness, and bullying in this book.

I particularly enjoyed the fact that Bert and Evie are front and center in much of the book. They came off as a bit clueless in the first book. Good hearted, but not great at listening. Which is mostly still true. But they are more lovable in this book, in part because Primrose (who is a horribly unreliable narrator) is able to see them more objectively when it comes to their care for Ked, rather than herself. Evie’s obsession with putting mini marshmallows in everything (clam chowder, anyone?) is hilarious - my kids and I joked about it all weekend.

Also enjoyable in this book are Miss Bowser (the one adult that listened to Primrose in the first book) and Uncle Jack, who is just a great character. He isn’t a stupid adult, as he could have been written. He is a bit bumbling at times, but he has his own insights which help Primrose grow over the course of the book. You really want Jack to succeed because he is a likeable, realistic, and decent guy.

I also appreciated that Horvath didn’t try to make Ked into a saint. He got to be a normal kid who had a hard life, and has been wounded by it.

Like Everything on a Waffle, this book ends each chapter with relevant recipes. Some are amusing - anything from Evie, certainly.

One thing to keep in mind throughout the book is that Primrose is flawed too. She isn’t always nice, she doesn’t tell the story in anything resembling an objective way, and she lets us watch her messy growth process up close. Some reviewers (see: Amazon user reviews), complain about the specifics of this issue, calling the characters “unlikeable,” the descriptions “harsh,” and so on. I disagree with both of those. Primrose isn’t particularly charitable in her assessments of other people - particularly on first acquaintance. So you get her uncensored thoughts, rather than clear truth about people. You have to look past Primrose’s voice to see people as they are.

I found this book to be a worthy sequel to the first one. The kids enjoyed it as well. Horvath’s books seem to be a mixed bag, but her good ones are quite good.

The audiobook, like that of Everything on a Waffle, was read by Kathleen McInerney, who is an audiobook veteran. I have no complaints about the job she does on these books - she’s a pro.

Into the River by Ted Dawe

Source of book: Borrowed from the library.

This book was my selection for Banned Books Week. Which happened to coincide with multiple Symphony concerts with crazy-difficult music. So I took a while to finish it.

Just as a reminder, I use the week to read books which have been banned, which means that a government has outlawed sale, publication, or possession of the book. I do not count challenged books - those which citizens or parents have sought to keep out of school curricula or libraries. This isn’t because I think challenges are interesting, but because I wanted to focus my once a year project on those where the power of the state was employed in censorship. I believe that is a different level from a challenge. After all, any library has limited space and budget, and decisions must be made. (Personally, I would have preferred an extra - and local - copy of The Rest is Noise rather than one of the 20ish copies of Eat, Pray, Love.) Likewise, students can only study so many books, and the choice of which to study is a judgment call.

Here are my past selections, plus the introduction to Banned Books Week.

Thoughts on Banned Books Week

Areopagitica by John Milton (2011)

Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe (2012)

The Quest for Christa T. by Christa Wolf (2013)

Palace Walk by Naguib Mahfouz (2014)

All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque (2015)

July’s People by Nadine Gordimer (2016)

This year, I chose Into the River by Ted Dawe, which is unusual in two respects. First, most of my other selections were banned (at least in part) for political reasons. (Palace Walk was banned in part for its sexual content as well.) This one was banned for sexual content and language. The other difference is that Into the River was banned by a modern democracy very recently.

Say what?

Yes indeed. This book was banned for sale to minors under age 14 in New Zealand in 2014. So basically, it was behind the counter with the porno mags and cigarettes, and younger teens needed a parent to buy the book or even check it out from the library.

Fortunately, this ban was short lived. The library association challenged the ban, and it was overturned, despite loud squawking from the Culture War type groups. Yes, the Culture Wars™ extend beyond the borders of the United States - although they tend to have less power elsewhere.

So, I picked this book for those reasons, and also because our local library had it on the shelf.

I think this book is an example a very interesting Culture War phenomenon: works which otherwise would probably have faded into obscurity are given inordinate attention after some fundamentalist group decides to start a crusade against it. The example from my childhood is the protest against The Last Temptation of Christ, which was by just about any account, a laughably terrible movie. The only reason it had an audience was because of the protests.

Into the River isn’t a bad book. But it isn’t, in my opinion, a great book. It is okay. It has some interesting points and observations. Some descriptions and scenes are quite compelling. And others are pretty much “meh.”

The plot is this (some spoilers): Te Arepa is a Maori boy who wins a scholarship to a prestigious boarding high school for boys. In order to fit in with a mostly wealthy and white culture, he must submerge his identity. The school has problems just below the surface in the form of sanctioned bullying, drug use, and a professor who trades for sexual favors from the boys. Te Arepa has to decide if the cost is worth it, or whether he will, like his legendary ancestor Diego, choose freedom.

Along the way, the book explores some other subcultures, from the Maori culture of Te Arepa’s family, to the upper crust of his friends Steph, to the lower class car culture of Mitch and his probably-not-entirely-within-the-law junkyard father, to the casually racist farming culture of “Wingnut” and his family.

This last one really sounded familiar - just substitute “Native American” for “Maori,” and Wingnut’s grandfather sounds a lot like many here in the US.

It is easy enough to see why certain groups got all up in arms. There is some sex, and it is reasonably graphic. There are drugs. And there is language. But there are also racial issues presented, which is why the book won several awards in New Zealand. I would also say that it has some subversive ideas - particularly a distrust of institutions, of adults, and of class and race based social structures. From my experience in Fundamentalism, I would say that it was probably was these subversive ideas and exposure of racism that proved to be the unspoken motivations for the campaign against this book. Sex (like magic) is often a pretext for keeping challenges to authority and white hegemony out of the hands of the kiddos.

I thought that the opening of the book, with its insight into Maori culture, was pretty strong, as was the scene on the farm. Dawe writes well and efficiently in these moments, and makes the settings come alive. I didn’t like the way the book ended, mostly because it seems more of a cliffhanger than anything. We know Te Arepa’s choice, but nothing of his plans - or lack thereof. We are left to guess at his future in kind of a “lady or the tiger” way. I’m not a fan of that approach at all, I’m afraid. Just my preference.

I also felt that the alienation was a bit extreme. One would like to think that Te Arepa would have someone who doesn’t let him down in a big way in his life somewhere. The world isn’t quite that dark and friendless - although I guess it is easier to feel that way at a certain age. It just made the book - and its ending - feel unmoored.

It was an interesting read, and worth the time, but not one of the best I have read this year. I am glad I explored the history, however, as it sheds light on our instinct toward censorship in our modern era.

***

From PBS, this article on what causes books to be challenged here in the United States is interesting. Primarily genitals and racial issues.

The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate by Jacqueline Kelly

Source of book: Audiobook from the Library

This is another book in our not-particularly-methodical trek through the Newbery award books. This one missed out on the award, which went to When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead, which we listened to earlier this year, but it did get an honorable mention. It could easily have won, in my opinion. (2010 was a good year. We also enjoyed Where the Mountain Meets the Moon by Grace Lin.) 

The book is historical fiction, set at the turn of the 20th Century, in post-Civil War Texas. Calpurnia is an 11 year old tomboy in an upper-middle class family. You know, the kind that has a cook and a housekeeper. But she definitely doesn’t fit in well. Her mother missed out on the debutante experience due to the war, and is determined that Calpurnia “come out” and eventually get married. But Calpurnia isn’t into that sort of thing at all, and finds the domestic arts to be dreadfully dull. It is hard to blame her, in some ways, though. After all, why learn to cook and sew when neither of her parents do? Learning those crafts just to show off for a beau - and to other females - when it is expected you will have the help do those tasks anyway just seems silly. (Calpurnia does eventually understand some of her privilege, to her credit, but she does assume a lot of things based on her life as she knows it.)

But that isn’t really where this book goes. Instead, Calpurnia has a burning desire to know things. In particular, she wants to know about nature and the world around her. As her parents are not particularly helpful, she attempts to request The Origin of Species from the library, only to be humiliated by a prudish librarian. She decides to be brave and approach her crusty and remote grandfather in his library. He is a Confederate veteran who moonlighted as a naturalist even while building a cotton gin business. Now retired, he spends his days collecting specimens and attempting to make whiskey from pecans. She knocks, he responds with “enter, if you must,” and thus begins an unexpected relationship. Calpurnia learns to collect and observe and record. And she gains a scientific education that her school will not provide.

Each chapter is headed by a quote from Darwin’s book, and Calpurnia’s journey is one from childhood to an adult world of scientific rigor, spiced with wonder and humor. The relationship between her and her grandfather is the true heart of the story, as is their quest to prove they have discovered a new species of vetch. Along the way, she has to navigate the changes that come with time. Her oldest brother (and best friend) falls in love, and Calpurnia makes some horrible missteps out of her jealousy. Three of her other brothers (there are six total…) fall in love with the same girl, and she tries to stay out of the middle of that mess. Progress is on the horizon, with the new motor cars and society is changing. Some people are not taking the shift well, while others, like Grandfather, embrace the long-awaited changes.

I liked that Calpurnia is a complicated character, never too sweet or too sure of herself. Coming of age is never easy, and her successes and failures seem realistic. Kelly also writes realistic supporting characters, although it is occasionally difficult to distinguish all of the brothers. (And really, Grandfather can’t tell them apart either...) But three definitely stand out. Harry, the oldest son, is Calpurnia’s confidant, and nearly grown up. Lamar is rude and entitled, and perhaps represents the old-style male. Travis is the sensitive animal lover. The others are more anonymous.

The book is more episodic than not, and Calpurnia’s problems never really resolve. After all, just turning 12 and flipping to the new century doesn’t change the basic dynamics of the family. However, it is easy to imagine that she will manage somehow to get into the university, and change the trajectory her parents have for her. After all, she has discovered knowledge, and there will be no turning back for her.

This book kept my kids’ attention well, with enough humorous bits for the younger kids, and themes that resonated well with my older daughters, who are themselves beginning to plan for their futures. More than 100 years later, their choices are definitely different. It is assumed that all my kids will go to college, and it is also assumed that they will have domestic skills - and yes that includes the boys. No servants for them, which is a good thing. But also, there is no black and white choice between domesticity and education, which really is one of the ways that our current century is better than the past.

I’ll also add that I appreciated that the science in this book passes two important tests. First, it is accurate, which is not always a given in children’s books. Second, it is matched to its setting. The state of science in the book is what it would have been at that time.

This book is considered “Young Adult,” probably because of an amusing underaged drinking incident and some oblique references to sex. (How do you discuss evolution without it?) Nothing I found objectionable, even for my youngest.

The audiobook was read by Natalie Ross. I particularly appreciated the fact that there were tracks roughly every minute, which made finding our place after stops much easier.