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A Hectic Flush

May 27, 2012 by Melissa

Earlier this spring, I joined a young adult book club.  Based on the blog, Forever Young Adult (which isn’t one of my regular spots on the internet), I am thrilled to finally find some locals that also read young adult novels.

The Fault in Our StarsAt my very first meeting, several members raved about the books of John Green, someone who I had heard of but not read.  For the next month, the book was The Fault in Our Stars.  I didn’t know much about it–kids with cancer was really all I needed to know.  It was getting great reviews, but it wasn’t super high on my to-read list.  Sometimes, a girl needs fluff in her books and kids with cancer didn’t strike me as fluffy.

But like any good book club member, I bought it.  And then I devoured it.  It has been a very, very long time since I’ve read an entire book in one day.  As workmen replaced the carpet in my home, I sat on the back patio and sniffled my way through.  I really, really loved it and instantly became a huge fan of John Green.  It is quite possibly one of the best books I’ve read this year.  So many wonderful moments that shoot straight to heart with wisdom and grace and humor.  Like this:

“Without pain, how could we know joy?’ This is an old argument in the field of thinking about suffering and its stupidity and lack of sophistication could be plumbed for centuries but suffice it to say that the existence of broccoli does not, in any way, affect the taste of chocolate.”

Or this (which totally illustrates the dark humor of this book, which is part of what makes it not like most books about sick kids):

“It’s just that most really good-looking people are stupid, so I exceed expectations.’
‘Right, it’s primarily his hotness,’ I said.
‘It can be sort of blinding,’ he said.
‘It actually did blind our friend Isaac,’ I said.
‘Terrible tragedy, that. But can I help my own deadly beauty?’
‘You cannot.’
‘It is my burden, this beautiful face.’
‘Not to mention your body.’
‘Seriously, don’t even get me started on my hot bod. You don’t want to see me naked, Dave. Seeing me naked actually took Hazel Grace’s breath away,’ he said, nodding toward the oxygen tank.”

When we discussed the book, one of the discussion questions was about how these characters compared to other fictional characters with cancer.  Part of the reason why I loved this book so much was because the characters were complicated–they were teenagers first.  You completely fall in love with Hazel and Gus.  Hazel’s parents are amazing.  There were no saintly folks, but real people struggling with all the emotions that come with a life-threatening illness.  I found myself talking about Susan Sontag’s book Illness as Metaphor and the literary types associated with consumption and how she brought that comparison forward with a discussion of AIDS.  And that maybe, just maybe, John Green was breaking cancer literary stereotypes with this book.  All of a sudden, my full history nerdiness was on display.  I shut up.  After all, these people didn’t really know me and should I really be going on about 19th century literary stereotypes of consumption?

Then, we watched the DVD extras that go with the audio book.  It was a series of short videos of John Green talking about the book.  One of those was titled “The Hectic Glow,”  and suddenly John Green was talking about literary types and consumption.   It took all of my energy not to literally smack my forehead.  Everyone turned to me in disbelief.  Apparently my history lesson wasn’t completely off-topic.  Though they were pretty impressed with me, I felt a faint hectic flush glow on my cheeks.  You see, “The Hectic Glow” is the name of Gus and Hazel’s favorite band.  And I had COMPLETELY MISSED THE REFERENCE.

This is even more embarrassing when you consider that my one serious publication on the topic of kidlit history is entitled “The Hectic Flush: The Fiction and Reality of Consumption in L. M. Montgomery’s Life.”  My only defense, and it is a weak one, is that I read The Fault in Our Stars so quickly that the reference just flew over my head.

Even though I missed this rather obvious homage to Green’s literary predecessors, the experience was a lovely reminder  that being familiar with older classics can make modern novels richer.  Hazel and Gus are only the most recent in a long line of fictional characters dealing with serious illness or disability: Beth March, Mary Ingalls, Pollyanna and anyone in a book by Lurlene McDaniel.  In most cases, these characters are far too good and sweet to feel real.  Hazel and Gus are like a breath of fresh air with their sarcasm, confusion, and anger.  I don’t think I would have loved Hazel and Gus as much if I wasn’t so familiar with the saintly characteristics of most ill characters in fiction for children.

Now, the chances of today’s teens catching the “hectic glow” reference are pretty small.  But maybe, just maybe these teens read Anne of the Island and remember Ruby Gillis’ death.  And maybe, just maybe they remember they’ll remember this description of Ruby:

“She was even handsomer than ever; but her blue eyes were too bright and lustrous, and the color of her cheeks was hectically brilliant.”

And they’ll feel totally cool because they got John Green’s little nod to other fictional characters living under the shadow of death.  I just felt like a complete idiot.

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Library Break

April 11, 2012 by Melissa

Last week, I had carpet replaced in about half of my house.  The good news: I didn’t have to move all of my books.  But I did have to move quite a few books.  I never really think about how many books I have until I move them somewhere, and then it suddenly becomes painfully obvious.

One of the shelves that got moved was my “to read” shelf–all the books that I’ve bought and never read.  It didn’t seem like that many books until they were stacked vertically.  I know it could be worse–heck, I have friends who have much bigger piles than I do.  But in a way, it stresses me out. 

And then I read this article, a review on NPR of Elizabeth’s German Garden.  I bought this book years ago (maybe 10?) and have never cracked the cover.  Of course, I must also confess that I only bought it because this book was one of L. M. Montgomery’s very favorite books and is where she borrowed that immortal phrase “kindred spirits.”  I bought it as a curiousity, never thinking that it might actually be a book I enjoy.  And based on this review, I think I might really like it.  I started feeling really guilty about all the books in my house that were interesting enough to buy, but haven’t yet been read.

Over the last year or so, the vast majority of books I’ve read have come from the library.  Which is a great and wonderful thing, and it’s not like I’m going to abandon the library.  But I have decided this: as soon as I finish the two books that I currently have checked out, I’m going to only read books that presently reside in my house for one month.  It’s a break from the library, as magical as it is. 

And though I’m not one of those bloggers that inspires challenges and such, I do invite you to join me in a library break and tackle your own to-read stack.  There’s no telling what we might discover on on our own shelves.

So, what should I read first?

 

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An abundance of dandelions

April 3, 2012 by Melissa

Timing can be a funny thing.  Dandelion Cottage by Carroll Watson Rankin is one of those books I’ve heard mentioned with love and reverent tones on a book e-list I’m on.  A few months ago, friends announced with glee that it was now available digitally.  First published in 1904, it’s been out of print for a very long time and copies are hard to find.  Well, it was only $1, so I downloaded it on a whim. (Note: you can also get it from Project Gutenberg, but I think the formatting is better in this other version)

And this is where I will briefly digress to say that though I will never read everything on my Nook, digitization is a great way to make smaller, lesser known (and older!) works accessible.  So I love Real Books and I love my Nook, and gosh darn it, I hope both exist happily together for many years to come.

I didn’t actually begin reading it until early March.  And it didn’t take me long to fall in love and start giggling.  And if I had read this any other spring, I would not have laughed as hard.

You see, four little girls are in need of a playhouse.  And a tiny vacant house is available, but “nowhere else were there such mammoth dandelions or such prickly burrs.”  Their rent?  “If you pull up every weed in this place before the end of next week you shall have the use of the cottage for all the rest of the summer in return for your services.”

This spring has been the worst for weeds ever.  My yard has always had weed issues, but it’s much, much worse this year.  Between the drought and heat of last summer, and the rain this winter, there’s not enough grass to hold the weeds back.  My only comfort is that my yard is not the worst on the block.  I’ve seen some absolutely insane weeds everywhere, including this beauty, which was in front of my office.

I’ve never seen a dandelion so big before–well over 3 feet tall before it was cut down.  So, as I read of the four girls tackling those weeds, I kinda wished I could bribe some kids to tackle my yard.  Check out this scene of weed digging:

“I’m a soldier,” said Marjory, brandishing a trowel, “vanquishing my enemies.  You know in books the hero always battles single-handed with about a million foes and always kills hem all and everybody lives hapy ever after–zip!  There goes one!”

“I”m a pioneer,” said Jean, slashing away at a huge tough burdock.  “I’m chopping down the forest primeval to make a potato patch.  The dandelions are skulking Indians, and I’m capturing them to put in my bushel-basket prison.”

“I’m just digging weeds,” said prosaic Mabel, “and I don’t like it.”

Of course, they conquer the weeds, and then there’s that truly wonderful part about setting up house.  I don’t know when I started enjoying these domestic tales so much, but I’ve always loved stories of people putting together a home.  Since this is “just” a playhouse, the girls are at first consigned to cast-offs from their homes.  Which they totally realized and joke about:

“We might call this “The House of Tickless Clocks,” suggested Jean.

“Or of the grindless coffee-mill,” giggled Marjory.

“Or of the talkless telephone,” added Mabel.

Eventually, they make things so nice that they end up with a lovely boarder (another great example of a fabulous adult in children’s fiction that aren’t family, but are awesome) and some mean neighbors that try to steal their house.

And it was during that little scene, in which Mabel sends a telegram asking for help, that I giggled more than most people would.  You see, the same week I was reading this, we had a series of activities at the museum relating to communication over 100 years ago.  Somehow, most days, I ended up with our reproduction telegraph.  Over and over again, I explained to children about how telegraph messages had to be short and to the point, since you were charged by the word.  I made comparisons to early text messaging.  I had my spiel down pat.  And then I read about Mable carefully composing the telegram for help.  When she hands it over to the clerk, the following occurs:

The clerk opened the envelope–Mabel considered this decidedly rude of him–and proceeded to read the message.  It took him a long time.  Then he looked from Mabel’s flushed cheeks and eager eyes to the little collection of nickels and dimes she had placed on the counter.  Mabel wondered why he chewed the ends of his sandy mustache so vigorously.  . . .

“It’ll be all right, Miss Mabel,” said he at last.  “It’s a pretty good fifty-five cents worth; but I guess Mr. Black won’t object to that.”

I won’t spoil the message, but I will say that when Mr. Black received the telegram he had to pay a few more dollars to the Western Union man.

Dandelion Cottageis truly a charming little book, and one I highly recommend.  It’s sweet and funny, and you can’t help but fall in love with these little girls.  But honestly, I think half of my enjoyment of this book was the timing–it wouldn’t have been near as amusing and fun if I had read it before this incredibly weird spring.  I would have liked it, but part of my love is purely based on the abundance of dandelions throughout North Texas this year.

The cottage itself is a “real” place, located in Marquette, Michigan.  Several years ago, a wonderful piece was written by the current owner of the home, which gives a brief overview of its history–and what it’s like to live in a literary home. 

And because I can’t resist, here’s a picture of the “real” cottage.  What a magical playhouse!

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For better or worse, these are my people

February 12, 2012 by Melissa

Past Perfect Some books are a pretty easy sell for me.  A YA romance set in a living history museum?  The only shock here is that it was published last fall, and I’m just now getting to it.  Leila Sales’ Past Perfect is absolutely delightful.  Now, it might not be as funny to non-history nerds, but I was laughing hysterically by page 2 and giggling throughout.

One of my favorite parts of my job is the junior historian program.  Right now, I have around 30 kids, ages 11 to 18, that are choosing to spend their spare time hanging out with me at the Village.  This book is all about the teen junior interpreters, who happen to be at war with the other living history museum across the street.  They are colonials, and those other guys are Civil War re-enactors.  Of course, there’s also forbidden romance, some museum politics, and ice cream.  Lots of ice cream. 

Chelsea, the main character, doesn’t want to admit that she’s totally hooked on all of this (she would have rather spent the summer working at the mall, in air conditioning), but history is part of her blood.  My favorite parts, obviously, are the parts about working at a museum.  I’ve known tourists (called moderners here-the one part of the book that just felt odd to me) exactly like the ones portrayed.  I kept thinking about my kids while I was reading about these fictional kids.  To the best of my knowledge, we haven’t had any actual romances at the Village, but there have been some crushes.  We definitely have some kids that are classic history nerds, some that really just want to dress up and create a character, and some that have been raised in the living history world.  But all my kids are there because they want to be, and that’s one of the things I liked most about this book–all the characters loved what they did (even if they did it for different reasons), and they were proud of what they did.  There was no shame in spending your summer in colonial dress. 

There are so many passages I want to share with you, enough that I worry about copyright infringement or something along those lines.  But I still have to share a few bits.

From the very beginning, when Chelsea is describing the types of people that work at places like Colonial Essex Village

Type one: history nerds.  People who memorized all the battles of the Revolutionary War by age ten; who can, and will, tell you how many casualties were sustained at Bunker Hill; who hotly debate the virtures of bayonets over pistols.  They are mostly pale-skinned, reedy, acne-scarred boys in glasses (unless they can’t find a pair of historically accurate glasses and are forced to get contacts).  I don’t know if they were born so unappealing, and turned to history for companionship because they realized they were too grotesque to attract real-life friends or if their love of history came first, and maybe they could have turned out hot, but invested all their energy in watching twelve-hour documentaries about battleships.  It’s a chicken-or-egg type of question.

Or this, on the top questions from visitors:

1.  “Where’s the bathroom?”

This is far and away the most common question.  You don’t actually need any sort of historical knowledge to work at Essex.  You just have to know where the nearest toilet is.

And then later, in that same chapter:

These are pretty much the only questions people ask Colonials.  If they want you to tell them anything else, just make it up.  They will believe you, because you are wearing a costume.

This is not a book that will change your life, but I’m still recommending it to just about everyone I know.  It’s so rare for history museums to be portrayed in popular culture, much less living history museums.  And it’s pretty accurate–from the employees and volunteers that are obsessed with historic details to the weird questions visitors ask.  I have met, at one time or another, every single character in this book.  Of course, they have a much, much larger staff than we do and there are no conversations about budget cuts and declining visitation.  But I can live with that–and most teens wouldn’t know anything about budgets anyway.  It’s a book that’s funny without being mean–she makes jokes about this crazy world, but they were al jokes we’ve made before.  And though Chelsea does something very damaging to the museum across the street, well, it’s the kind of scandal that does happen in the museum world.

The author biography on the back flap mentions that Sales spent some time as an interpreter on Boston’s Freedom Trail.  It shows, and I think that’s part of the reason this book works so well.  Sales has been a part of this world, but she can also separate herself enough to find the humor in all of it.  Because let’s face it: little about my workplace is ordinary.

Bonus: after checking the author’s website, I discovered that you can read Past Perfect online for free through the end of February.  Go!  Enjoy!

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Orphan Stories

January 16, 2012 by Melissa

Quick, how many kidlit orphans can you name?  Go ahead–I’ll be here after you finish your list.

 

 

 

A lot, right?  Anne Shirley (and just about all of Montgomery’s heroines), Sara Crewe, Mary Lennox, Rebecca (of Sunnybrook Farm), Pollyanna, Judy from Daddy-Long-Legs and on and on.  Then, throw in the kids that have a parent absent for all or most of the book–the March sisters, the Melendys, the Five Little Peppers and on and on.  Suddenly, it seems like a household with two parents is rare indeed in this fictional world.

I can certainly see the appeal for an author–no parents really opens up the dramatic possibilities for a character.  I remember being completely enchanted with The Boxcar Children–setting up house in a boxcar?  And it’s not like this is a plot device that has faded in recent years.  Harry Potter might possibly be the most famous orphan ever.

But for children living in the 19th century, losing a parent to death was a very real possibility.  In 1900, the average life expectancy was 48 (lower if you weren’t white.).  About half of all young people lost at least one parent before they reached 21.    Leading causes of death included influenza, pneumonia, and tuberculosis.  And for women, childbirth was up there as well.  Anne Shirley’s story may have hit really close to home for her first readers, and yet she was immediately a best-seller.  Many of these stories endure, even though today children are far more likely to lose a parent to divorce than death.  In some ways, this doesn’t make sense–the idea of losing a parent is terrifying.  Why would anyone want to read about such a thing for fun?

Perhaps part of the appeal of these orphan stories is that most of these stories have happy endings.  The kids find homes, whether with long-lost relatives or strangers.  They have sparkling personalities that makes them lovable.  They have adventures that readers with a secure home can barely imagine.

I recently met another beloved orphan in Adopted Jane by Helen Fern Daringer.  This is a book that I hadn’t heard of but came highly recommended.  When I added it to my goodreads shelf, there were all sorts of people that said “Oh, I love this book!”  Jane is an older orphan (you know the type–a good girl, but no longer young and no longer cute and less likely to be adopted).  She has a remarkable summer where she gets to visit two different homes–her first experience in a “real” home.  And then, both families offer to adopt her and she gets to choose a forever home. 

Jane is delightful.  She’s a hard worker and desperate to be polite and do the right thing.  She’s not one of those orphans that gets into constant trouble; rather, she’s a little girl that people just naturally love.  And she learns to love too.  One of my favorite little exchanges in the book is this bit at the end:

“You must write a letter to thank Mr. and Mrs. Scott for their kind offer.”

“Oh, and to say I love them.”  In all her life Jane had never spoken out loud about loving anybody, but now the word sounded right and natural.

Adopted Jane is a classic orphan tale.  Jane is convinced that this is her only chance to see what the world is like outside of the James Ballard Home.  And she sees so much–parties, friends, an elopement.  And she realizes that maybe she should try to go to college.  When she returns to the orphanage, it’s with new eyes.  But she’s still afraid to hope for the best.  She asks to be allowed to earn so money.  The matron says:

“You’re a sensible girl, Jane.  You wouldn’t squander the money like some.”

“Oh, no, ma’am,” Jane agreed eagerly.  “I want to save it for–” She checked herself just in time.  She had almost said for college.  Matron would not approve of college; she would call it “highfalutin folderol.

At this point, the happy ending hasn’t come yet.  Jane is still an orphan, though now she has dreams.  With that perfect happy ending, the reader is assured that Jane will get everything her heart desires.

I don’t anticipate orphan tales–or tales of absent parents–will ever go away.  As kids grow, they want to stretch their boundaries.  What would I do if I just had me?  Could I make my way?  But these stories are safe.  By the time the book is closed, they are no longer alone in the world.  And that is satisfying indeed.

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From my archive. . .

January 7, 2012 by Melissa

Over the last few months, I’ve been going through my old blog and converting it into a readable word document.  It’s a huge project, and perhaps silly, but I’m a historian so I want to preserve this bit of my own history.  At any rate, tonight I ran across the following post about a top-notch Christmas gift:

Thinking of you (2005-12-23)

My favorite introduction for a Christmas gift: I saw this and instantly thought of you! That’s when I know, almost without a doubt, that it’s going to be good. It’s also a phrase that I rarely hear from my family. . .

 Anyway, one of my coworkers said this to me the other day, and sure enough, this is the best Christmas gift so far! It’s a children’s picture book: The Boy Who Looked Like Lincoln, written by Mike Reiss, a writer for the Simpsons. It’s all about a little boy who (surprise!) looks like Lincoln and the fact that he gets teased all the time. Until he goes to Camp What-Cha-Ma-Call-It, filled with other kids who also look like odd things.

 My favorite part: at the end, the school bullies say “Hey, Lincoln, whatcha thinkin?” And he says “I’m thinking how lucky I am to look like Abe Lincoln, our greatest president, who freed the slaves and won the Civil War and kept our country together and the capital of Nebraska is named after him!” Of course, that little sentence is written in progressively larger letters.

 It’s a giggle worthy book, definitely worth reading in the aisle of your favorite book store (or buying the book (that could be good too).

Folks, I still adore this book.  A few years ago, we did an exhibit on the 1860 election and I picked this book for our preschool story-time.  Reading this to a group of kids and their parents was so much fun!  I don’t talk about picture books very often here, but this is a great one to nurture a love of Lincoln in a little one.  That, and a sense of humor.

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Story first, history second

January 2, 2012 by Melissa

Perhaps I was a wee bit prejudiced as I started reading.  Friends that I trusted had very mixed reviews, but I didn’t quite believe them.  After all, the book had won the 2011 Newbery award.  And it was set in 1936, flashing back to 1917 and 1918.  Quite possibly one of my favorite time periods.  I should have loved Moon Over Manifest, but generally speaking, the friends were right.  I became annoyed within the first 50 pages, and downright upset not long after.  And I continue to be puzzled as to how this book rose to the top of children’s fiction in 2011.

Moon Over ManifestFor those not familiar with the book, it’s the story of a 12 year old girl, sent to a small town in Kansas in 1936.  During her summer there, she uncovers the town’s past, with frequent shifts in narrative to 1917 and 1918.    Abilene is a lovely little girl, but she doesn’t have as strong a voice as many other narrators in similar books.  But this wasn’t what bothered me.  What bothered me was the history.

I’ve talked before about the historical fiction trap that so many modern writers fall into: that habit of trying to pull as many historical threads into a story as possible.  You know, to teach children about the past.  It very, very rarely works, and usually annoys folks that have any knowledge about the period in question (The Hope Chest springs to mind).  But very, very rarely does a book inspire me to scurry over to google to check facts in the middle of a chapter.  Here’s the sentence that did that: “Alcohol was against the law then as much as it was in 1917, but folks could usually get a bottle of the stuff here or there.”  Now, I had just finished Ken Burns’ new documentary, Prohibition, and I was pretty sure that the 18th Amendment wasn’t passed until 1920, but FDR had repealed it in 1933.  Some quick checking revealed that Kansas didn’t repeal until 1948.  Plus, prohibition laws got started in Kansas in the 1880s, and the “Bone Dry Act” passed in 1917.  In going back through the book before starting this post, I did see a mention of the Bone Dry Act that I had forgotten about that occurred earlier in the book than the above sentence.  Technically, everything Vanderpool wrote is perfectly correct.  But it clashed with everything in my fairly well-educated historical head, and I just couldn’t get over it.  And I don’t recall anything being said that might have explained that Kansas was different from other states.  And the prohibition thread is a pretty important one for the story.  We’re not talking about a minor, nit-picky detail.

So what does it matter?  After all, the target market for this book isn’t public historians in their 30s.  It’s kids that have probably never heard of prohibition.  They’re not going to be confused by the timeline the way that I was.  I guess my annoyance happens on a couple of different levels.  First, this confusion could very easily have been solved.  Abilene had traveled throughout the country and was new to Kansas.  Couldn’t she have made a comment or asked a question about Shady and his still?  A brief explanation, and the story continues.  Problem solved!  And yet, not even the author’s note (which is quite possibly one of the weirdest author notes ever) mentions the fact that Kansas was one of the last states to repeal prohibition.  I just don’t know how that wasn’t mentioned somewhere. 

But my real issue is this: generally speaking, we as a society are not very well educated about the past.  Whenever I ponder historical accuracy issues in films or books, I tend to look at the big picture.  If the big ideas–the things that people will actually remember a few months after they’ve read the book or seen the movie–are correct, I’m okay.  If people won’t be completely confused if they look something up later, I’m okay.  But I don’t think that tenet holds true for this book.  I must have looked up Kansas liquor laws three or four times while I read this book.  Kind of interrupts the narrative flow, don’t you think?  And can you imagine trying to teach this book?

My other issue with this book is that it seems to have taken every big historical headline from 1917/1918 and made sure the issue happens in that tiny town.  The immigration stuff totally made sense, and I was happy to the stuff about the relationship between the town and its people.  (It made me think of Thurber, TX, a very similiar town).  But throwing in the KKK?  Technically, the KKK did revive itself in 1915, but it wasn’t a huge thing again until after WWI–the whole soldiers coming back and wanting a better life thing caused a bit of strife.  And I don’t think this small incident did anything to move the story along.

And of course, there’s WWI drama, a brief visit from Woodrow Wilson, war deaths, and the big 1918 flu epidemic is foreshadowed for almost the whole book and then barely discussed.  It’s just all a very strange mish-mash of history.

Honestly, I think this would have been a stronger, tighter book if the flashback portions of the book were set in the 1920s.  Yes, much of the WWI stuff would be left out, but the flow of the narrative would have worked better.  And timeline issues would have been solved. 

The best historical fiction are the works that put the story first and history second.  And yes, I’m saying this as a historian.  But I’m saying this as a historian that wants people to like history and get wrapped up in it, and books like this just won’t do it.  The narrative is the important thing, and the history behind it just deepens the story.  In this book–and there’s nothing I’ve found either in the author’s note or on her website to contradict this–she found some cool tidbits about the past and then built a story around it.  And it just doesn’t work for me at all.

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