​I am looking at an old, faded black and white picture of my father taken seven years before I was born, and at least one year before he married my mother. They may have been dating already, being love-at-first-sight for both, it was not a long courtship.

He is standing in front of his brother’s 1937 Lasalle, and the only remaining landmark is the highway behind him, but I know exactly where he is, the highway being Rt. 66 where we would live when I was two years old. The photographer, possibly my grandmother, is standing with her back to her house; it’s past noon, a warm, dusty wind burns the nostrils with the exhaust of cars roaring past, and trains in the distance are a constant hum and clackity-clack.

His hair is bleached blonde from two years in Panama, and though the photo has lightened with age, I know his skin is tanned and he looks like how I always imagined The Boy from Ipanema* might look, oblivious of all the broken hearts strewn in his wake. By the time I met him he wore a crew cut that he would keep until the day he died.

I was born on his 30th birthday, but if I had met him on this day, at the age of 23, something in his bearing would have convinced me right away that I knew him. I would have crawled, toddled, or rolled up to him, climbed into his lap and claimed one of his big bear hugs while he planted kisses on my wind-tangled hair. I would have known without a question that he was to be my dad, that he was to be the man who loved me like no other, that he was to be my home, my refuge, security, identity; safety net, surety, and if necessary, my hiding place. He was a super-hero without a cape, judge without a gavel, a soldier without a gun.

There was no place on earth that didn’t feel safe if he was there: flying down the highway in our yellow dragon, huddled under a tent listening to sounds in the night, or standing on some stoney outcrop for a dizzying photo-op, he was home and he was safety, and he had my complete trust—a trust that was never betrayed, could never have been betrayed because it wasn’t in his nature to harm those entrusted to him.

He was a man made perfect in our eyes by his love, though imperfect in his human shell, but his shortcomings were hard to detect and easily overlooked because, far be it from me to put him on par with others insomuch as no one’s father compared, even when I tried to see him in my own eyes as viewed by others.

Our home was impregnable whether he was there or not, demanding a sort of deference to his indenture that repelled the bogies but entertained angels unaware, although this was a time when even crooks had the sense to know it. But an education awaited the ignorant as I discovered once when a young man grabbed me from behind and was swiftly corrected. It would be a long time before he even thought of bothering another.

As the father of three daughters, our dates applied monikers in whispered tones like “Igor” or “Impact Wrench”, which I assumed was felt in the handshake. There was never any trouble. As I got older, the notion crept over me that I would always carry this home inside me, though his aegis would extend only so far into the distance that would grow in increments over time. I understood that I would need to, instead, protect him from the uncertainties of my own folly; knowledge of situations in which his arm could not reach, and that I held a debt of respect to the legacy of this fortress that was my native home.

When I was three, we moved off our Rt. 66 home into a new, pink stucco house that he would live in for the rest of his life. To this day, I can’t think of one without the other, the two being inseparable in my mind. Though the house lost its pinkness and evolved to our needs, he remained the same, unchanging as a rock; the bulwark that anchored and protected us, sometimes from each other. Even his aging went unnoticed, disguised behind his 6’2” frame, a year-round tan, and his signature crew cut, so it was a shock when it was finally time for him to go.

His house, the very seat of our history that once sheltered us, became sad and forgetful, as though it too had to let go.  Much like a tree that reaches maturity, it bore the concentric lines of lore that rooted our homestead, but made it increasingly hard to hide its own gnarled decrepitude. It began to suffer the slow bleed-out of possessions and memories, and then a ruthless stripping of decades of curated life. Objects that once charmed, passed with stunned silence into the hands of others who cannot know, until the very echo of us stretched and dissipated over time and space. A pyre would have been a more humane ending for it, but almost to our shame we lacked the resolve to strike the match.

Of all the places I have lived, and live now, they are merely stick and brick construction compared to the sanctuary of that home that was my father. His visits brought Home with him, and I notably slept sounder when he was there. When he left, Home departed with him, and I, being sensible of the impression left behind, could never shake a jarring awareness of my life beyond that pale.

Oddly, I should feel homeless now that he’s left this earth. But I know where he is, I know that he waits for us with the One whom he embodied, and I know that Home will always exist here because of his staunch regard over his family, notching an indelible imprint on the lintel of heart and soul; a guidepost to all who walk this way. This is an authentic Truth that cannot be lost, cannot be sold, or given away, or even diminished with time, nor can thieves steal it, nor fire or rust destroy it. It is simply one of those treasures that will outlast all the fortunes and upheavals of this present world, and what remains in that cold, empty place is my warmest gratitude.

​
*The Boy from Ipanema, by Antonio Carlos Jobim                                    

This post first appeared in the Fall 2024 SCBWI Highlighter

​I’ll bet you’ve never called anyone an idiom. Or maybe a doppelganger? A bandersnatch? A solipsist? How about a pixilated peduncular pandowdy? If you have, chances are you were a kid becoming acquainted with big words that sounded hilarious when used for the first time. There was no need for real accuracy, just the feel of them in your mouth made you laugh uproariously when you called your cohort an idiom.

The kids I’ve known never shied away from the challenge of big words, they embraced it. Big and unusual words are the icing on the cake of literacy, a reward for sticking it out and finding that reading can be fun and entertaining; that there’s more to books than lessons and facts. Suddenly, at the ripe old age of eight, they’re impressing their teachers, their parents, and their parents’ friends with words like, borborygmus or tintinnabulate. Where do they find words like these in children’s books? Good question: Someone has to write them. And many authors do sprinkle their stories with unusual words, usually defining them on the spot, and sometimes including a glossary.

Such words take children way beyond the onomatopoeia of ZAP! POW! SOCK! A kid could now ask his parents if they are not being too pragmatic about cleanliness; tell them that he’d never prevaricate about snacking, and that he’d only eaten a quantum of cookies before lunch. This has a stunning effect on the listener, sucking the air from their lungs and expunging their own prosaic retort, leaving them to perpend not just the words, but the wunderkind that stands before them.

Vocabulary empowers one with confidence as the user suddenly has the weapon of words in his quiver to lay low any bully or insult, or deflect any cockamamie idea that comes down the pike. We tell children to use their words, rather than punches, and then often shield them from the most powerful. A well-placed idiom like “cease and desist” is much more than “Stop it!” It’s, “Stop, never do it again, and remove yourself from this place, or I will bring all authority to bear and you will rue the day!”

Now when the teacher lays her hairy eyeball on this intrepid kid, he can say, “Really, I wasn’t plagiarizing, I simply appropriated the sections of her story that were not of her lived experience, but of mine.”

Suddenly they have agency to speak on their own behalf, because there is nothing a kid with a thesaurus cannot do. Even the very misuse of words, that will happen from time to time, draws the attention of adults who will dig deep to recall the definition, and who may be forced to overlook the error, lacking the confidence to correct the cheeky little sophism.  Anyway, it’s better to misspeak at eight than twenty-eight. Armed with a treasure trove of words and a non-stop memory, your young sesquipedalian is captain of his own debate team, master of his IQ!

So those were my thoughts when I hatched MR. BANDERSNATCH, a story about minding your p’s and q’s, and loaded with words beginning with q’s and p’s, and naturally, back-loaded with a glossary of unusual words and idioms. It was wrought some time ago—just for fun, because I’ve known so many kids who enjoyed unusual sounding words. And they’re not always the nerds. Every child is trying desperately to engage with and decode the language he’s been given. Teach a kid one new word and he’ll ingest it: give him a vocabulary and stand back--Formidable!

This short (really short) story was sitting on my shredder because, it seems I was very short-sighted, and had no idea what to do with it. One reason, as I mentioned, it’s short: 2,737 words, including said glossary. And secondly, I worried something so weird and quirky would be off-putting, and might say a little too much about the author. But I was tired of running across the thing, so one morning, in a spasm of decluttering, I gave due process short shrift, delivered a hasty verdict, and laid MR. BANDERSNATCH with other doomed detritus atop the Fellows®, whom I can always count on for a swift execution, skillfully grinding evidence, guilt, and any further moral obligation into dust.

But wait! A short story contest seemed a better death for this perplexing piece of work; this manifestation of momentary derangement. I could humiliate myself and MR. BANDERSNATCH, and allow a third party to kill him off in a coup de grâce, sending him quietly into the Sea of Syncope and possibly a burning pyre. And then I could grind him up with a clear conscience. With nothing to lose, I packed him up with a few more p’s and q’s, loaded him into the template, and hit Send. Then, like a forlorn parent shipping her eldest off to camp, I mooned around the house for days reminiscing about all the reasons I had created him in the first place.

By and by, Next Generation Short Story Awards announced the winners for 2024, and I was stupefied to learn MR. BANDERSNATCH had won the category for General Fiction. Mr. Bandersnatch? I never imagined any of the judges getting past the first sentence of a middle-grade story that begins with difficult words only later defined in a glossary. I had grossly miscalculated the perspicacity of the esteemed judges who sit on these panels, wading tirelessly through hundreds, if not thousands of stories, and hardest of all, agreeing on a winner. I owe them an apology. And so I do apologize. Beg pardon, in fact. Most sincerely and unaffectedly. Additionally, out of an abundance of gratitude, I add my full-throated appreciation and warmest THANK YOU!!!
​
Alrighty, then, I said to myself. It seems he has been granted a reprieve, and I escorted MR. BANDERSNATCH away from the gallows (that’s right—back off, fellah!). Mr. B. is now lovingly 3-hole punched, sandwiched between Davey board, and sits upon a climate controlled shelf with other remarkable characters enjoying his new lease on life. We can all look for him in NG’s Anthology of Winners coming in July, filled with all the wining stories, and also the names and titles of the short-listed contestants, who are probably, like me, scratching their heads over the unlikely and now oddly outstanding, Mr. Bandersnatch.

* Note: This post also appears on Liza's Goodreads Account

In Dave Eggers’ new middle-grade animal protagonist tale, The Eyes and the Impossible, he makes a disclaimer at the onset: This is a work of fiction. No places are real places. No animals are real animals. And, most crucially, no animals symbolize people. . . .”

Hmmm. The animals may or may not be based on the personality of one person, but certainly an author pulls together traits—quirks, strengths, and flaws when creating a character, and those traits come together to form the whole, if the character is to be at all relatable. And yes, we recognize those traits as familiar because they’re not uncommon. Mr. Eggers may have had his tongue in his cheek when he wrote this, so let me just say, “Ha-ha-hoooo!”

I dare you to not anthropomorphize. Close your eyes and do not imagine putting yourself in the skin (hide, fur, scales, feathers, or—er—exoskeleton) of Babe, Mrs. Frisby, Nemo, Soren, or Charlotte. Or Moby Dick, for that matter. Think of anything else, but under no circumstances are you to see yourself as the main character of the animal book you are reading. What’s that? You can’t help it? Well, before anyone accuses you of being a treacle-loving simpleton, be assured that you are not alone!

But I get it—for some it’s like dawning the Harvey bunny suit. We like what we like and will not be shoe-horned into a genre we have no tolerance for. Though it cannot be overstated how many children do like this type of story simply because they can imagine animal characters as a human of any ethnicity, any age, or vocation. Relatable regardless of integument.

They’re easy to recognize because of their frailties and flaws, and they stand in for real-life families, friends, and foes. Children easily see the symbolism of animal stories and assert themselves into roles safely removed from reality. That doesn’t mean we don’t cry when Bambi’s mom is shot by the “He”, because the parallel is all too real. We ask children to consider the unthinkable, but from an alternate world and the safety of a book they can close if things get too intense.

It would be difficult to trace the origin of animal stories given their place in old and ancient fables and fairytales used to convey a moral message—the very pap that E.T.A. Hoffmann tried to remedy when he wrested storytelling away from moralizers he believed too utilitarian.

Jack Zipes writes the forward for the Penguin Classics edition (2007) which includes the dual versions of Hoffmann’s Nutcracker and Mouse king, and Alexandre Dumas’ The Tale of the Nutcracker. He describes the resistance to Hoffmann’s avant-garde approach to the arts raised by those Hoffmann himself termed as “philistines”, or those “who had a narrow if not uninformed appreciation of the arts.” Though Hoffmann had nothing to do with the Russian ballet, clearly those who chose the libretto appreciated,

“His concepts of insanity, genius, music, hypnotism, dream, and reality [that] formed a modern aesthetic theory, and he explored these unique ideas in other worlds that, he insisted, could be found in everyone’s imagination . . . Hoffman was a man ahead of his time . . .”

In other words, those who cannot imagine these alternate realities are to be pitied.

Fables and folklore have their place. Every adult that is tested in perseverance will recall Tortoise and Hare. Every person who has felt different or an outcast will remember The Ugly Duckling, and we learn to judge character by a story of a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Who can doubt that animals provide a subtle, and usually humorous way to introduce themes to the reader? They quickly gain our sympathy, or our fear of being devoured (sorry Red), and we would do well to see persons who mean us harm in that same skin.

Yet authors continually run into resistance in the publishing world when it comes to an animal story, leaving those of us who think up such tales to cast about for a reason, wretched in our limbo, hugging our heads in fits of self-examination. And so we sputter:

                                       Please don't ask why. No one quite knows the reason,
               Why they’d deny young tots these tales in due season.
                                                     It could be they fear they’re not so commercial,
                                                                 And worry too much about financial reversal.
                                   Whatever the reason, big bucks or small,
           They stand on their principle hating them all!

Then, there are the gate-keepers who back them up by eschewing even the very donations to their collections. Growing up, did these same people not love, Wind in the Willows? Rabbit Hill? Charlotte’s Web? Watership Down? Were they not raised on Aesop? Mother Goose? Beatrix Potter, Rudyard Kipling, Helen Dean Fish, C.S. Lewis, Robert Lawson, Robert C. O’Brien, Brian Jacques? What about all the more recent successes like Tale of Despereaux? Pax? Applegate’s One and Only Ivan/Bob/Ruby? Or Dick King Smith’s Babe: The Gallant Pig? Avi’s Poppy books, Michael Morpurgo’s War Horse (Joey!!!).

Huh—and there are others, too! All sold well, and many were made into movies. And not because they were treacle; please do not call it treacle! They sold because of their fully-fleshed, complicated, relatable characters and plots: Mrs. Frisby, a single mother who must provide for her children; Ivan, magnanimous in captivity; Johannes yearns for true freedom; Pax must find his boy, from whom he was ruthlessly separated; Babe, who comes face to face with his mortality (thanks to that mean cat). And then there’s the consummate sacrifice of Aslan.

Maybe this isn’t a good time to mention Russell Hoban's The Marzipan Pig, but in spite of his sugary composition the story still has something important to say about how each life touches another in ways we can’t possibly know. Even if this last example might be too hard to swallow, all of these are arguably affairs of the human condition, and themes that throb through all that live and breathe, and each, in its own way, offers an antidote for a harsher reality.

Lately, agents and publishers are bemoaning the lack of readership at the middle-grade level. “Sales have slumped”, they say, “Kids are just not interested in books”, they confirm. “There’s no remedy for the ever-shortening attention span!” Poppycock!

Back in April 19 of 2022, Leonard S. Marcus, writing in Publishers Weekly (Making Room for Children’s Books), discussed how publishers sometimes get it wrong. Basically, they lose touch with a particular demographic, in this case, middle-graders. In the 1990’s they came to believe that fantasy was passé, and that readership had dropped off because of tech-happy kids who couldn’t be bothered with books. There was no competing with cell phones, Nintendos and the like, so they threw up their hands and focused on other things.

Enter J.K. Rowling. Even amid lamentations that her books were a “dumbing down” Marcus wrote,

But as the series swept the globe, countless other, more sympathetic observers noted the extraordinary impact the books were having on children’s reading habits and felt compelled to rethink the common wisdom on the subject. Tech-enamored preteens, Potter-mania revealed, still read books avidly when the right books came into their hands. Fantasy fiction, far from being passé, still had broad appeal—for boys as well as girls. In a time of supposedly shrinking attention spans, a long book was not an automatic nonstarter and might even be welcomed as a wizard-worthy challenge.

Could it be that everything old is new again? Especially the part about “[they] still read books avidly when the right books came into their hands.” This is an age group for which I have the utmost respect when it comes to judging a book’s quality. They know what they like, and will not be snookered into reading what amounts to a waste of their time. Sales do not need to slump. There is no attention-span boogeyman. Let’s stop force-feeding them and give them what they want: good stories that don’t preach or hew to a lackluster narrative. It happens just as in the 18th century, Hoffmann “detested the utilitarian nature of the philistines” (ibid.). And like then, we just need to fix the dearth of digestible books aimed at these kids and the money spigot will once again magically spew . . . well, money!

Maybe not all readers love wings, scales, fur, and feathers. But it would be a mistake to assume, or to write, that those with such are not capable of feelings that are profound, with motives sometimes pure or sometimes adulterated, days that are good or bad, grace offered when not deserved (Toad, this means you!), or tolerance granted in hopes the same will be offered in return, because sometimes, flawed individuals go along to get along.

While we are on the subject of commonalities, both human and animal share an array of emotions and instincts (for better or worse), such as herd mentality, a need for cooperation, fight-or-flight, hygiene, adaptation, maternal/paternal instinct, vocalizations. These all work seamlessly into a story arc when animals stand in our place. Look no further than YouTube for examples that show the extent of animal humor, grief, joy, or altruism. Or meanness, crankiness, and selfishness. That should bring any number of people to mind. Animals offer the perfect parallel existence in which to explore and learn about ourselves.

Writers cultivate empathy in young readers and enrich a reading foundation by giving them fantastical plots and characters. An animal protagonist possesses a perspective close to the earth and sees, smells, hears, and tastes things that are not so accessible to us in our controlled environments. What we view as cute or beautiful, scary or gross, is all a matter of utility to an animal. Perspective is everything, and this can’t fail to make a fun and interesting POV.

 When authors do their job, any hero or heroine should be one that readers slip easily into the skin of. If not, they’ve written a flop worthy of all the one and two star reviews. Because most important of all, a reader should be able to see themselves and grow emotionally from the experience of a story. Animal stories offer non-biased role models and give examples of behaviors to avoid. As young readers observe the character’s growth, both emotional and physical, it gives meaning to their own experience—those in their past, and those they suspect are yet to come, namely, death and change, hope and purpose, all of which give context to the life they’ve been given. And it is possible, as Mary Poppins might say, that “A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down” after all.
 
 

I hope you won't mind if I toot my horn, but I nearly had a heart attack (in a good way) when I read this review of The Caroler. That the reviewer, Cristina Prescott, was a careful reader, focused on detail and nuance, made it even more rewarding. That she had some really nice things to say about the writing, was a truly humbling experience for me. But I'll toot anyway and share it with the world:

The Caroler by Liza Martini is a brilliant retelling of the tale of the Nutcracker, intelligently executed with lovable characters and strong plot points, bringing about a denouement that couldn’t be more satisfying.

Having been in a dark basement all along, Nutcracker no longer believes he can live any other way than the wooden manikin. That is until he awakens in his excelsior crate to discover other figurines, Carol and Glory, staring at him. When the Grace Light animates toys and dolls that have human likeness, Nutcracker finds it hard to reconnect to the person he once was, cursed and condemned to a life he abhors. But thanks to the patient prodding of Carol, who slowly touches his heart and moves him to step beyond the shell into which he has imprisoned himself.  Can he ever find redemption and the goodness that once possessed his heart?

The Caroler is a beautiful tale that is filled with religious symbolism, a tale of light overcoming darkness, and a story of the triumph of goodness. The characters are stunningly imagined and written in a fascinating context. Liza Martini builds a strong plot while exploring Nutcracker’s backstory with ingenuity, allowing his background to influence the way he relates to other characters.

In the end, it is an extraordinary work of art and beauty. The atmospheric writing presents a detailed and expertly executed setting, with sounds, smells, and feel of things intelligently captured, from the heavy air after the rainfall, the smells of exhaust and pond water mixed with the steamy scent of popcorn to the warm summer feel at the opening pages of the tale. The suspense is strong and the readers are enthralled as they want to know what happens to Colonel Christoph Zacharias Drosselmeier, “Nutcracker” and if he can remember how to break the curse. While the humor is exacting, the writing is infused with magical realism and a unique sense of humanity. The story is peppered with lyrics that augment the poetic quality of the writing while creating a unique music to the ear. It is, indeed, a delightful read.

         (sniffle)

​When I met Carol, I felt as if I had always know her, there in her winter furs on the table at a summer tent sale, in the middle of July. She was a stoic little figurine, caught in a pose of perpetual song. But as a singer myself, I could see that she had excellent technique: her breathing and posture were correct, her lips shaped to the vowel, while here jaw was dropped and relaxed. She held her book up and out, allowing for less tension in her neck, and of course, to better see the choir director. By listening carefully I could just hear her sweet soprano voice. But not wanting to alarm the other shoppers I simply snapped off her picture and took it home, where I set her to my desktop, and there she remained for a year or two, until I could not NOT write her story. As for Colonel Drosselmeier, he already resided on my desk next to my laptop, and as I began to write Carol, he became more and more insistent that his story be included.

But back to the lovely Carol. She was a young lady of the nineteenth century—very Victorian, and participating in what had become a beloved tradition. If you can imagine that gritty setting in newly industrialized England, with all its dirty air, foul smells, noisy machinery, and add to that the poverty that sudden economic change brings, that would be Carol’s setting. So then imagine, a group of carolers passing through the crowded streets of London, spreading cheer and hope with their light-hearted songs and Christmas hymns. But where, exactly, did Christmas caroling come from? How did it begin?

In its earliest form a carol was a circle dance, which is why so many of the surviving songs have a rhythm and tempo that lilt and jump and keep the toe tapping.  Think of songs like, I Saw Three Ships, God Rest Ye, Patapan, In Dulci Jubilo, The Holly and the Ivy, or a Wassail song. It would be impossible to talk about caroling without first mentioning Wassail (the more bawdy parent of caroling), which meant, “be well” in Old Norse, and was common as far back as 1200 A.D. People would walk the streets shouting or singing words of cheer. These were secular sentiments for the most part—religious songs and hymns were not sung outside the church, and then mostly only chanted by choirs. Wassail chants were often humorous, and maybe even a little off-color. In spite of its ribald reputation, words such as, Love and Joy Come to You,” were common and often rewarded with a spicy beverage that eventually took on the name Wassail. Once the behavior and treat were firmly linked, the reciters would boldly announce, “Here We Come a-Wassailing”.

The “Love and Joy” theme was not just a Christian echo of the Apostle Paul’s words, but a common theme throughout folk music. If life was short, difficult, fraught with upheavals and reversals, you were happy to receive a blessing when it was offered. There can be no joy without the very real proximity to suffering; it exists apart from suffering and has little to do with happiness, and more to do with Hope. Love and Joy, then, are more of a reminder to us that we can have them if we will.

So, as a circle dance, with mostly secular lyrics, it was very much a folk activity. That said, there seems to be a connection with the earliest tradition of caroling and hymn singing to St. Francis of Assisi in the very early 13th century. By imposing Christian texts onto simple folk melodies they were able to create something new: the Christmas hymn or carol. St Francis encouraged people to include music in the church services, and especially Christmas observances.  Soon, the parishioners took these beyond the church walls to enjoy, and the carol, as we know it, began its slow evolution. But, the form was still reputed to have its roots in the secular wassail, and so not wholly endorsed by the Church. Still, the tunes and the lyrics were beginning to separate themselves from the somewhat gloomy chants and plainsong of the Middle Ages, making them gain in popularity. 

It wasn’t till the 15th century that caroling came into its own. Now came the development of the Mystery Play, or plays about the birth of Christ or doings of saints.  They naturally needed songs with melodies that would appeal, such as the folk tunes, free from puritanical restraints. This gave momentum to the ballad, which also began as a dance and developed into the narrative song we know it to be. From ballad came the word, ball. Music of this sort quickly became very popular. Now people went about at Christmas time singing carols and ballads about the story of the miraculous birth of Christ, but they also sang secular songs as well. Any song that brought blessing to the season and warmed the listener was welcomed. The music was fresh, exciting, and accessible—a winning combination meant there was no holding back. As with classic stories, classic songs never die, and as a result, we have so many songs from that era. Genius, inspiration, and talent come together only occasionally to give us such a trove of timeless treasures. In the period for which Carol was created, many of the songs included in her song book were already considered much-loved and long-established Christmas hymns.

And the tradition continues each year with a throng of new songs; most will not make it into the canon. I remind myself that, because of the popularity of the singer, there are some who find warmth and  good cheer in the rendition of the song, and maybe their Christmas will be a little brighter because of it. But only the best will rise to the top and be available for generations to come.

The sources used for this history come from The Oxford Book of Carols, Oxford University Press, Oxford, Percy Dreamer, R. Vaughan Williams, Martin Shaw, eds. (1964); Acadia Publishing; and Wikipedia.

PS--If you would like to Review The Caroler, please follow the link to purchase eBook or hardcopy.

Six years ago to the date, or November 23, 2014, I squirreled away a Washington Post newspaper article entitled, A GMO rescue for America’s iconic chestnut tree? By Tamar Haspel. Ms. Haspel was actually reviewing a book by Susan Freinkel called, American Chestnut: The Life, Death, and Rebirth of a Perfect Tree. What an odd coincidence that I should rediscover this story exactly six years later.  But then, maybe not.  It is fall, after all—the time when we start seeing chestnuts in the grocery stores or from vendors on city streets.  Maybe I just could not get them out of my head.

It was this article that inspired me to write Squirrels of Vienna Farms, now in development.  It begins with the Great Chestnut Blight, which forms the background folklore for the story. Large and varied squirrel families, who have lived in the forest for generations are forced to emigrate when the chestnut forest becomes sickened with blight and the trees start to die off. In my research I learned how adept squirrels are at staying ahead of such catastrophe.  They actually do emigrate in mass, and can often accomplish great distances from the treetops when there are enough of them, causing the forest to shudder and shake under their vast numbers.

In my story, the squirrels end up settling in farmland surrounded by forests and are quite happy there. But before long the farmland is paved over, houses are built and the squirrels, rather than emigrate, simply adapt. That is how the story begins. In order to adapt to their changing surroundings, they will need to remember who they are and find strength and courage in the lore that has been handed down to them for generations.

But back to the American Chestnut: this much-loved tree, so much a part of life in the eastern and northeastern Americas, developed a spore sickness around 1904 and all but disappeared. No more yummy, highly nutritious nuts for humans, animals, and livestock, or wood for furniture and houses, or konkers for games. Not to mention its medicinal properties that the natives used. That’s a big claim: food, shelter, medicine and entertainment all in one tree. Adding to that, you could even call it a money tree; people would return to the forest year after year to collect the nuts to sell. A tradition and a way of life evaporated with these majestic trees—three to four billion of them! It’s hard to imagine how this continent looked with its pristine forests, but the American Chestnut was a prominent and much-needed presence among them.

It is comforting to think that the chestnut was on the menu when pilgrims sat down to dine and give thanks with the Wampanoag Indians, considering how close they came to starvation after their first year. Despite all their difficulty in finding and starting subsistence crops, discovering the forests knee-deep in food surely brought another pilgrimage to their mind when God sent manna from heaven. This straight-grained, hardwood tree was nearly one hundred feet tall, and often ten to twelve feet in diameter. Prolific and fast growing, it began producing nuts at seven or eight years old, and one tree could produce as much as one thousand pounds in one year and live anywhere from two to eight hundred years. That’s a lot of food!

There are currently nine species of chestnuts in the northern hemisphere, but the most common are the European, Chinese, Japanese, and American.  A self-fertilizing tree, the leaves contain nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium, insuring a constant supply of these nutrients in the soil. In the spring the catkins (tree flowers) form on the trees and look like great clouds. Then as now, they are a favorite of honeybees and other pollen-loving insects.

It seems hyperbolic to say the chestnut tree has been around for 50 million years, but its discovery (in many places on the earth) through various excavations proves its presence for the last tens of thousands at least, by some estimates. If it was beleaguered by climate or catastrophe it resolutely marched off in a different direction. So it bogles the mind that a tree so able and ready to adapt could be so stymied by a little sickness.

The spore that infected The American Chestnut was brought over with an imported Asian chestnut tree in the late eighteen hundreds, and at a time when the hazard of such things was not understood. Within fifty years, the American variety was devastated. This new tree was smaller and could not come close to producing the quantity of nuts that one American tree could generate in a year. Nor could it cover vast tracts of land claiming exclusivity and dominance. Sadly, the infecting spore still exists today, but it cannot live in the ground, so it doesn’t affect the root of the tree.  It simply kills the upper portion—everything above the infected area. It is possible to find the American Chestnuts growing in the forest, but it is extremely unlikely they will ever reach maturity because they soon fall victim to the same spore.

But take heart—many efforts have been underway to restore this tree since the mid 1940’s.  Natural selection was unsuccessful, and scientists tried breeding it with the Asian chestnut, but that alone was also ineffectual. But in the 1980’s and 90’s, using nascent GMO technology, they began to inject the tree embryo with a gene that was resistant to the spore. Initial efforts were a failure, and the first trees died within a few years, but through trial and error they are now finally beginning to see results. This is a very slow and painstaking process and will, no doubt, require a careful curating to keep the trees viable until they are strong enough to exist on their own once again. Cross breeding with Chinese chestnut and gene therapy will hopefully create the resistance this tree needs in order to make a comeback. Our grandchildren and great-grandchildren will benefit from all these efforts, not to mention all the animal life that it will once again feed and support.

This history now becomes part of our own lore. Something to teach our children as Wize Mel taught Chister and his friends in Squirrels of Speedwell Farms: “Wize Mel reminded Chister that squirrels had a knack for surviving disaster, and that not only would they endure this mystery, but solve it, remedy the problem, and somehow use it for their own purpose to benefit all Squirreldom.” I think we can learn a lot from squirrels.

​This morning, I ran across (more) research comparing digital reading vs. print, and I must say I lightly scanned the online article because my eyes were tired, so I may have missed a few things.

As much as I adore children’s books in the hardcopy, I do find my Kindle easier to read, and more accommodating in the evening, when I prefer to linger outside after sunset with my cats and a few mosquito sticks. If I want to read in bed, it’s not necessary to turn on the light.  I love the electronic ink and find it perfect for all my pleasure reading. But when we read for information, hard copy, print books are hard to beat. We page back and forth leaving tabs, highlighting certain texts, penciling in the margin, dog-ear the pages, spill soda on the page with the most interesting pictures, etc.  A good non-fiction book lends itself to a breadcrumb trail so we can find our way back.

The research in the article stresses the differences in the two formats and brings out the weak points of both.  In a nutshell, online information encourages cursory scanning, multitasking (of things other than study), and it’s hard on the eyes.  We read screens differently than we read print.  We absorb information differently, so even when our digital textbook has proper headings, chances are we didn’t read all the text – or at least not well, so we have difficulty finding the item for review.

There is also some emotional psychology that goes with the picking-up of a book.  When you pull out your math book, your history book, or your science book, you change hats.  You switch gears, and the book tells you it’s time to think critically on the subject at hand. When you pick up your pleasure reading you get a little brain tickle. But maybe that’s just me. The point is, when you are tied to a screen for your entire education, what are you to do? Switch laptops for each subject – each bearing colorful stickers of math, history, science, etc.? I should mention that none of this is in the study. It’s purely mine.
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I’m glad to know that I am not just another Luddite griping about technology that will someday take over and dominate humanity. People DO seem to enjoy being moored to something; the heft of the book, the smell of the paper, the sound of a turning page. Oh, and the smell of the paper.

There may be some evidence that digital is more suitable for non-fiction topics, which makes sense, given that exposition and analysis are easily scan-able for key words.  However, depending on the subject, academic classes consist mostly of non-fiction.  But that may also depend on the institution.

Sadly, while students from 4 years to 40 are forced into virtual courses right now, this debate rages on in a timely fashion.  There are a few things you can do to mitigate that ball-and-chain relationship with all your devices. Where possible, print out what you can.  Of course, not everyone has a printer, and these days, who can afford the paper? If a PDF is not offered, cut and paste to a Word document (and delete all the other nonsense). Yes, I am proposing you create your own textbook, so please be respectful of copyright, and be sure to credit the author. Short of that, make your study time as focused as possible – fewer distractions, slower reading, note-taking – anything you can do to enhance your digital learning will help you get the most from the text.
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For a more scholarly look at this topic, join The Conversation and read, Do Students Lose Depth in Digital Reading? But, may I recommend the PDF.

Are you COVID weary? Has the pandemic turned you into a germaphobe leaving little hope that things will ever go back to normal? One thing remains the same:  We can always escape to good books.  Run away and find a sunny spot, a cozy corner, or a patch of grass on which to spread a blanket.  Thank heavens for the [predominantly] nice weather we have been afforded to make this time more bearable.

I imagine, that as the long summer stretches out before us, many of you have found routines that work for your family. I hope that those routines include books and story time.  It is never too early to read to a child as I learned with my own baby.  They love the sound of your voice, the closeness, and the excitement of hearing a story. If reading is a part of your daily routine, you’ve learned that you can choose a longer story and finish it over two or three days.  It builds anticipation and accommodates shorter attention span. One of the most important things you can do is model book reading to your children.

It's no surprise that books for little ones about germs and viruses are hitting the market now.  While I would caution against overwhelming children with scary facts, we can sensibly teach them how illnesses work, how we cope with them, and most importantly, how we can do our best to avoid them.  It is strongly recommended that you always read a book first before sharing it to make sure it's a good fit for your child. Check out some of the recently-added titles on the Preschool-2nd grade page.  I will be adding titles as I find them.

With the closure of libraries and retail stores, you can still find plenty of classics in public domain. Gutenberg Project has been digitizing media since 1995, and you can have access to over 60,000 books free of charge.  Readable on your internet browser, or electronic device, the children’s stories often carry the oldest illustrations, so make sure your device can display them well. Here is the link to the Children’s Bookshelf.

Goodreads offers a few titles, and Gateway to the Classics is a source for stories that are still loved today. Library of Congress copies original publications, and these can be printed or simply viewed online. If your search query leads you to an edu extension, you may have tapped into a university’s treasure trove of cultural fairytales, like The Story of Hard Nut, from Nutcracker and Mouseking.

Have you read a good book that you would like to see on the lists?  I invite you to email me and tell me what you liked most about your recommendation.

​I recently enrolled in an Early Literacy Predictors class presented by a delightful former kindergarten teacher, and sponsored by the county in which I reside. We have just completed the first session and I look forward to four more weeks of valuable and insightful information about how young children, ages 3-5, learn vocabulary and increase their success for literacy and comprehension. While the material we are using can red-flag learning disorders that might slow or prevent a child from hearing, speaking, or making the necessary associations required for literacy, our first session revolved around best practices in the classroom and at home for children on a normal developmental path.
 
It should be no surprise to most people (and I was so pleased to hear it) that enriching conversations, respect for the child’s level of skill, and great stories (and lots of them), are absolutely key to building vocabulary and laying the foundation of not only literacy, but of fostering a lifetime relationship with books. I may be coming at this topic with a bit of bias, but that’s only because when I sit in a corner of a classroom and open a book children flock to my side like bees to pollen in anticipation of a story. But it doesn’t stop there: before I finish one book, they’ve chosen another, and then another. They are developmentally primed to hunger for the empowerment of language that reading stories offers them. Repetition of a book tunes their ears to sounds and meanings of the words.  If there was something they didn’t understand the first time, a second (or third, or fourth) reading gives them a chance to hear it again or maybe ask a question.  Recreating objects and characters with crayons, clay, or blocks strengthens their associative abilities, and play acting increases the who-what-why comprehension of the story.
 
Conversation can never be underestimated when it comes to strengthening the language skills that are fundamental to reading and comprehension. Enriching exchanges (that go beyond instruction) can help a child realize he is his own person – apart from the adults in his life. But these moments with children in this age group can be hit-or-miss, particularly with a 3-year old. You need to be ready to listen when they are ready to talk.  However, asking questions will encourage them to think and speak about an activity, story, or concern. Simple questions allow the child and adult the back-and-forth, or give-and-take convention of conversation. Open-ended questions, where there is more than one possible answer encourages imaginative thought.  Closed-ended questions have only one correct answer and force a child to consider the facts of the story you’ve just read, or something discussed. Of these two, open-ended questions can be the most challenging for parent and teacher. Our instructor recommended that we keep a repertoire of Who, Where, How, and What Would Happen If” questions that can be useful conversational tools to have at hand. Also, making simple statements and observations about an activity can be an occasion to introduce a new word into their vocabulary: “Feel the tension on the rope you are pulling.” Or, “You’ve made an impression of your hand in the mud.”
 
Wordless books are a fabulous way to combine the two. One that we considered in class, It Looks Like Spilt Milk, by Charles G. Shaw, offers the intimacy of story time, with the opportunity for conversation, discussion, and imaginative thinking. There is no limit on the words you can use to describe objects and themes found there. As children become familiar with all the phonological, semantic, and syntactic mechanics of language they gain confidence and are propelled to the next level. They are now excited about writing their own letters and drawing pictures that tell their own stories. A large, early vocabulary with a firm knowledge of the alphabet, the ability to rapidly recite the letters and their corresponding sounds is an indication that they are ready to begin reading and writing words; forming sentences.
 
Giving children this strong foundation begins at home, is furthered and enhanced in school, and reinforced by everyday conversations around them.  Our instructor presented a study from the National Early Literacy Panel which discovered a large “Word Gap” in children of differing backgrounds. For various reasons, economic or cultural, some kids start school with as many as 30,000 fewer words at their disposal.  If sheer number of words indicates academic readiness, this appears to be a blatant handicap. But to say he will not catch up reasonably fast is to underestimate human ability and determination. From an anecdotal perspective, I have known of instances where children from highly disadvantaged homes were driven to books and reading for the escape that it offered.  Of course, this may be the exception, but children have such facility for language, such resilience for living and learning, and a gut-wrenching need to fit in with their peers, that I believe there is so much we can do to mitigate those lesser circumstances.  Children who are at-risk may have residual problems for a lifetime, but language, and the love of reading, does not necessarily have to be one of them. A strong handle on language is very empowering. Equipping young ones with strong vocabulary allows them to engage with their culture, their faith, and the world in general.
 
I’m looking forward to our next session: Print Motivation and Awareness.
Liza