The Little Bookroom

the child is father to the man

Charlotte Pomerantz, Posy. Illustrated Catherine Stock. (New York: Greenwillow, 1983).

This is a book of four stories, each a reminiscence shared, a memory built with words, between Posy and her father, as Posy prepares for bed. They recall the time that Posy’s father ordered sheets, all pink, because Posy told him to; the time Posy learned where her parents go at night when they go out, and what they do when they come home; the day Posy’s mother gave her a pocketbook and three dimes that she and her father spent on her first chocolate bar; and the wishing game Posy played in the country, wishing for three grandmas and a hundred balloons. It’s a lovely book, with soft drawings, in which Posy’s father serves to support Posy’s memories of herself, recalling her into the present moment, parenting her with little reference to his own life outside of hers—a book, in other words, that is true to a child’s existence, egocentric in the most satisfying way, for what parent has an existence without a child—the child makes the parent, and this truth is one rarely reflected in stories of fathers, who are forever busy with their own lives. “Of course,” said Posy. “I just needed to be reminded.”

one hundred years at least

Tony Johnston, The Barn Owls. Illustrated by Deborah Kogan Ray. Watertown, MA: Charlesbridge Publishing, 2000.

This is such a quiet book. "The barn has stood in the wheat field one hundred years at least." It shelters the barn owls, who wake by day and by night, who call and are answered or not answered, who hunt and hatch their eggs, among the mice and spiders and snakes who share the barn with them, as they have always done. Like other great nonfiction books for preschoolers, The Barn Owls is precise and poetic in its language, and powerful in its images--one painting of an owl in flight prompted a three-year-old reader to observe that it looked like a woman wearing a white cape stretching out her arms. And it is in this way that young children's interest in the world around them, especially the unseen world of the night (or, for many children, the world of the countryside), is sustained--not with the multiplicity of facts that enthrall the oldest elementary school children, nor even anthropomorphic narratives that charm those just beginning school, but rather with this steady gaze, this rhythmic repetition, this linking of time and nature, of owls and mice, of barns and animals.

one angry mother

Jill Murphy, Five Minutes Peace. New York: Penguin Putnam, 1986.

In case you hadn't realized, I'm looking at books about mothers this week, in anticipation of Mother's Day. This is one of my favorites.

Mothers in children's fiction tend towards the angelic--either ever-present and ever-helpful, or actually dead and gone, but much appreciated nonetheless. And when my kids were little, I thought, where are the real mothers?! You know, the ones who get tired and cranky, and are really really mad about the mud on the bathroom floor--those mothers. Me. Well, guess what? Here they are. And they're great company.

"The children were having breakfast. This was not a pleasant sight." Indeed not. Mrs. Large (an elephant in her robe and curlers) looks with dismay at her three children: the baby has turned his bowl of cereal into his head, while his older sister and brother scatter milk and cereal flakes among the musical instruments, cutlery, and books on the floor. Without a word to them, she prepares a lovely breakfast tray for herself, and departs the kitchen for the cleaner and quieter climes of the bathroom. But, "'Where are you going with that tray, Mom?' asked Laura." And caught in the act, Mrs. Large confesses--she wants five minutes peace "from all of you." But some things are not meant to be. The children pursue her into the bathroom, to lay their instruments for her, to read to her, to share their toys, to climb into the tub with her...The loving exuberance of children and the adult desire for a quiet moment alone are a familiar conflict in many homes--this book makes everyone feel good about that charged reality.

What is really extraordinary about this book is that it doesn't upset the children--in fact, they even understand and sympathize with Mrs. Large's desire--which is not always the case with books dealing with maternal frustration. While my daughter didn't much like Janet Wong's Grump, and truly hated Mem Fox's Harriet, You'll Drive Me Wild (so much so that she only let me read it with her once, and never again), even though reading each of them also relieved my feelings enormously, Five Minutes Peace was and has remained a great favorite--funny and true, sad and enlightening, a book to cherish and remember in difficult moments.

being brave

My Four Lions. By Bernice Gold. Illustrated by Joanne Stanbridge. Toronto: Annick Press, 1999.

My Four Lions celebrates the power of the imagination to sustain us through the challenges of every day. On the title page, a boy prepares to leave his classroom, his backpack on his back, and a beautiful picture of a lion that he has drawn half-rolled in his hand. Across the copyright page and the page of acknowledgements, he trudges through snowy streets in the blue light of early dusk. As he walks through the darkening streets, up the stairs and down the halls of his apartment building on the left-hand pages, we see into the world of his imagination on the right-hand pages. For while in fact he walks bundled in the cold thin light of winter, in his mind—and in the words of the story—he walks through summery woods to his camp to meet with his friends, four lions who guard his campfire. As he enters the empty apartment, we see him take down from a shelf the box containing the four paper lions who guard him in his mother’s absence. He feeds them and tells them stories, “to make them stay brave.” And on his mother’s smiling return home, pizza in hand, he shows her the picture he has drawn at school, while the lions of his imagination smile benevolently upon them from his bedroom: “And I know when I sleep they will guard me till morning.” The respect for the courage of children is palpable here. This is a wonderful story.

metafiction for children

I'm sorry about yesterday--we're all getting better, but things seem to be moving at a snail's. And one child's interruption led to the loss of yesterday's work. But here I am with...

Catherine and Laurence Anholt, Come Back, Jack! (Cambridge, MA: Candlewick Press, 1993).

The endpapers of this little book are filled with nursery rhymes, and the title page features a picture of two little children sitting together over a book. "There was once a little girl who didn't like books," this story begins. But her little brother Jack does, and one day, when she is supposed to be watching him, he disappears into his book. She hurries after him, to find herself standing on a hill, listening to the sound of crying--it's Jill at the bottom, just having tumbled down. But Jack has moved on. His heroic sister follows him through one rhyme after another, until at last they emerge from the book. The Anholts always create such sweet confections of children that this slight book is hard to resist, and tremendously exciting for those who can see the delicate web of references being built.

magical food

Mem Fox, Possum Magic. Illustrated by Julie Vivas. New York: Harcourt Brace & Co., 1983.

Food has magical properties, as all children know. Notions of distinctness and indistinctness, of separateness and togetherness, all are mediated through food. That it becomes you is a profoundly unsettling notion for many.

So Mem Fox's Possum Magic seems to speak clearly to children, despite the slender plot. Grandma Poss uses her magic to make little Hush invisible--mostly to protect her from snakes, though invisibility has other benefits. But one day Hush wants to see what she looks like again, and asks Grandma Poss to make her visible once more. And though she tries, she can't manage it: "Grandma Poss looked miserable. 'Don't worry, Grandma,' said Hush. 'I don't mind.' But in her heart of hearts she did."

Grandma is not so easily defeated, however. And the next morning, just before breakfast, she remembers that the magic has something to do with food. And so the two of them embark on a voyage around Australia, sampling regional delicacies wherever they go, in an effort to render Hush visible once more. And slowly but surely, Hush reappears.

This is the kind of book that gets children really excited about food. Be prepared to try new ones!

by the sea

Petra Mathers. Lottie's New Beach Towel. New York: Atheneum Books, 1998.

Lottie is a lovely Leghorn hen. Her story begins as she is preparing a picnic to share with a friend. A package arrives. "Inside was a beach towel with a note. 'Dear Lottie, This might come in handy this summer. Love, Aunt Mattie.'" And so it does. As events unfold, the beach towel rises to every occasion, saving Lottie's feet from the burning sands by the sea, servng as a makeshift sail when her friend's outboard motor dies, and substituting as a bridal veil when the original veil blows away in the wind.

This is a wonderful book for preschoolers, full of everyday dramas and the inventiveness needed to solve them. Lottie's unflappability is an inspiring model for them; her calm and persistence in the face of change an incredible support for them. Her reliance on a blanket-like object is endearingly familiar, as is her day full of incident from morning until night. And the peaceful image of her typing a thank-you note to her aunt while the towel dries under the stars is immensely comforting.

For years, we quoted lines from this book to each other, even the simple "What now?" when confronted with a small change in plans. You might, too.

my friend

My Friend John. By Charlotte Zolotow. Illustrated by Amanda Harvey. New York: Doubleday, 2000.

There aren’t enough books for children about the profound intimacy that they share in a friendship. This book is about just that. Charlotte Zolotow’s spare, deeply felt text begins, “I know everything about John and he knows everything about me,” and concludes, “and everything important about each other we like.” In between, readers uncover the secret knowledge that these friends share, the rules that guide them, the ways in which they witness one another’s suffering and seek to mitigate that suffering. Amanda Harvey’s illustrations burst with energy. Together they show how much better the world is when you have a friend.

piggish behavior

Pigs Aplenty, Pigs Galore! By David McPhail. New York: Dutton Books, 1993.

“Late one night/ As I sat reading,/ I thought I heard the sound of feeding.” The narrator of this story, a mild-appearing man, finds his home overrun by pigs—“Pigs in tutus, pigs in kilts, pigs on skateboards, pigs on stilts.” The dizzying variety and numbers of pigs continues to grow, as does the piggy party, until someone orders $685 worth of pizza, and the narrator loses his cool: “I’ve had enough!’/ I scream and shout. ‘Get out, you pigs!/ You pigs, get out!’” But the pigs are so contrite, and beg to be allowed to stay. What can they do to make amends? Little children revel in the chaos created by the pigs and in the satisfying resolution.

cowardly custard

Custard the Dragon and the Wicked Knight. By Ogden Nash. Illustrated by Lynn Munsinger. Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 1996.

Another reluctant dragon! This time, Belinda’s “realio, trulio little pet dragon” is forced into action by the wicked Sir Garagoyle, who snatches her from her home and chains her in his deep deep dungeon. But Nash’s rollicking rhythm and Munsinger’s bright cheerful illustration ensure that the tale is never frightening. This is a sequel to Nash’s equally delightful The Tale of Custard the Dragon.