Wild Goose Chase

Geese are terrifying sons a’ guns. At least the ones who live in Rancho Simi Park are. Anyone who grew up in Simi Valley knows what I’m talking about--because the chances are better than average that if you were raised in Simi, you went to Rancho Park. And if you went to Rancho Park, you or someone you love was most likely the unfortunate target of an orchestrated goose attack. Maybe more than once. Mean, those geese were mean as snakes. Meaner. And fast. You could be minding your own business--just trying to wade or swim out to the little island when you knew you weren’t supposed to---and they were all over you before you could say “down comforter.” They were also greedy and aggressive. Heaven help the little fingers that started looking tasty after the stale bread brought for throwing to the ducks was gone or the tiny toes that bobbed above the water when feet were dangling over the side. Most of us needed only one run-in with the goose posse to steer clear, but some more hard-headed, stout-hearted souls never seemed to get enough of the fight. Like my youngest brother, Matthew. I do not know what sound is more prevalent in my memory of Rancho Park--geese hissing and wing flapping or blond-boy yelling and running. I do know I heard them both a lot. In Grete Mannheim’s The Geese Are Back, some really impressive nature shots show geese doing their thing. Including hissing and wing flapping.

http://www.amazon.com/Geese-Are-Back-Grete-Mannheim/dp/0819302449

http://www.brooklynmuseum.org/opencollection/artists/7024/Grete_Mannheim

The Golden Coast

“Baywatch” ruined my life. Well, actually, beliefs like the ones perpetuated and celebrated by popular artifacts like “Baywatch” ruined my life. Maybe not ruined, exactly, but definitely made harder. You see, it’s not easy to be a flat-chested, melanin-challenged brunette in a Malibu Barbie world. And nobody lets you forget it. Especially when you travel away from California. When I used to spend my summers in Tennessee with my grandparents, the locals would get all excited (as evidenced by literally announcing it in the paper) about the idea of a genuine beach bunny hopping on over to Lynchburg…and then look over my shoulder when we were introduced trying to find her. Not that I didn’t look familiar to these people--there was always a cousin Rebecca in Idaho or Mary in Kansas who was my spittin’-image twin--just not like the Hollywood pictures in their heads. Just once I would have loved to have one person, a single soul, say, “Oh, that makes so much sense!” when meeting me and finding out my home state, rather than, “Really? I would never have guessed.” But it does work both ways. When I traveled to Chicago for the first time, I was terrified of all the crime I would encounter and tucked money in ten different places, including both my shoes. Which proved completely unnecessary. In Marjorie Weinman Sharmat’s Gila monsters meet you at the airport, an East Coast boy gets a big surprise when he travels West. And yes, there are brunettes here.

http://www.amazon.com/Gila-Monsters-Airport-Reading-Rainbow/dp/0689713835

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marjorie_W._Sharmat

Behind The Scenes

Back when due dates used to be stamped inside the front covers of books, I took a Rumer Godden book off the shelf at Chico State’s library and looked at its circulation history. To my surprise, the last due date was thirteen years earlier--which meant I might have been the first person to open that particular volume in over a decade. And it made me wonder, in a metaphysical sort of way, what happens to all that is contained in these books when no one is reading them, bringing them to life. Then I got my answer, or at least an answer. Keilana was cast ten years ago in a play called “Mutiny in the Library,” where all the characters from books not checked out come to life at night and live lives completely separate from their literary selves. I had always suspected as much, it was just nice to have some validation. But there was a note of sadness to the whole thing, as there always seems to be when some being doesn’t live up to its intended and authentic purpose. Although maybe we don’t really know so much about the true purposes of things. Like cats--maybe they were meant to be a bit stand-offish and sleep all day, and maybe they weren’t. In John Burningham’s It’s A Secret, Marie-Elaine finds out about the secret nightlife of her cat, Malcolm, and joins in for an evening of frolic. I guess that’s what cats do when no one is watching.

http://www.amazon.com/Its-Secret-John-Burningham/dp/0763642754

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Burningham

Feel The Heat

Scarlett loves anything firefighter-related. I mean really loves. She gets rapturous over fire trucks, fire stations, sirens, hoses, jackets, fire hats, and the brave ones themselves. I know you’re thinking that all kids love fire stuff and Scarlett isn’t so unique. And I know that makes sense. But I’ve had other kids, cared for other kids, and taught other kids, and none of them was a firefighter freak like this child. She learned how to say “pire-pire” (her version of “firefighter” ) before she even learned our names. I think it is entirely possible she will either become a firefighter or fall for one. Which scares me to death, but also makes me proud, because firefighters are the one uniform-wearing group trained only to save people, not to hurt them. Their weapons are tools of rescue and are used only to battle the forces of nature, not to intentionally take human life. It’s been said, and I know it sounds cliché but I have to agree, that there’s something to be said for the folks who run into burning buildings when everyone else is running out. There’s something particularly heroic about that. Not that all that heroism is easy on loved ones. Workplace accidents take on a whole new meaning when someone you love works in a dangerous place. But Scarlett doesn’t know about that yet. She just thinks the brave ones are cool. In Linda Lee Maifair’s I Want To Be A Firefighter, little Grover dreams big. And heroic.

http://www.amazon.com/Want-Firefighter-Sesame-Street-Be/dp/0307126269

http://www.amazon.ca/s?ie=UTF8&rh=i%3Astripbooks%2Cp_27%3ALinda Lee Maifair&field-author=Linda Lee Maifair&page=

In The Know

When I worked as a bank teller I formulated a theory that still stands up to scrutiny in my mind today: The most unlikely people know all about your personal business. I seem to encounter more people every day who are going to increasingly great lengths to keep their information private--passwords, encryption, one friend who is a corrections officer even shreds his Post-it notes because he is convinced that convicts’ families go through his trash to find details to hurt him and his family--yet, these same people don’t give a thought to what the bank teller knows, and she knows a lot. Your bank teller knows where you work, when you get paid, how much money you have, how good your credit is, and who you have accounts with. Your bank teller even knows more than your doctor--because you can’t lie to the teller about how much fast food you buy. But who thinks about how secure their bank teller is? Another highly-informed person in our daily lives (well, six sevenths of our daily lives, excluding holidays) is the mail carrier, someone who literally sees all our connections with the outside world. Not that I’m trying to sound paranoid, just pointing out the not-so-obvious fact that we often seem to miss the security forest for the invisible people trees. In Kevin Henkes’ Good-bye, Curtis, the community celebrates a beloved mailman’s last day--and he sends them all thank you notes to the addresses he knows by heart. Something to think about.

http://www.amazon.com/Good-bye-Curtis-Kevin-Henkes/dp/0688128270

http://www.marisabinarusso.com/Curtis.html

Those Who Are Lost

I recently read an article about the “Compassionate Friends”--an organization dedicated to supporting families having lost a child at any age, of any cause. Most of the interviews were what I expected--newly grieving families who had to let go of young children much too soon to the evils of disease, accident, and even in some cases, foul play. Tragic stories, heartbreaking but not surprising. What did seem unusual was my reaction to the interview of a couple who are national leaders of the group. One of the points these good people took great pains to make in their interview was that the grieving process for losing a child, maybe any loved one, is a unique beast that can only be wrestled with, never conquered, and should never be subject to time parameters or judgment. Also not unexpected information, and I agreed with them whole-heartedly. But then they mentioned that their daughter had been gone for 21 years, and, to my disappointment, my first thought was, “And they still go to these meetings?” As if that was long enough. As if I, having been spared the horrific ability to identify with them, could determine when they were “done.” Sometimes the mirror that gets held up to your inner self reflects some unattractive stuff. At those times all you can do is acknowledge the rotten spots and do better. In Marisabina Russo’s Where Is Ben?, a mom only briefly has to look for her hiding boy. May we always find them all.

http://www.paperbackswap.com/Where-Ben-Marisabina-Russo/book/0688080138/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marisabina_Russo

http://www.compassionatefriends.org/home.aspx

Tell Me A Story

A teacher I greatly admired once asked a question: In pop music, what is more important, the lyrics or the melody? Now, this was an English teacher--a person educated in the written and spoken word, someone I considered a soul sister for that very reason--so, I was pretty sure I knew what our answer would be. Except for how I didn’t. To my surprise, my teacher and literature mentor claimed that the music was most important…because it came first and therefore had the place of most prominence. Despite the raging case of cognitive dissonance it caused in me, I disagreed then for many reasons and I disagree still for those reasons and others I’ve formulated over time. But then, when I couldn’t yet fully verbalize how I felt, and now, when I can, the primary issue I have with her theory is this: The words tell the story, the story draws us collectively together, and that collective forms the community that embraces the artifact--in this case the song. In other words, without words, there is no common experience. And that is what culture, popular or otherwise, is for. Stories have permeated culture, indeed formed and preserved it, since humans achieved speech. We were a narrative species eons before we got that whole writing thing, and our stories are what tell us who we are. In David Wisniewski’s Rain Player, a Mayan boy embraces the stories of his ancestors to bring rain to the parched land. Good thing someone was listening.

http://www.amazon.com/Rain-Player-David-Wisniewski/dp/0395720834

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Wisniewski