Made With Love

When I was very young, my grandma crocheted an afghan for our family. It was meant for general use, but I laid claim to it early on. I was fascinated by how all those squares were each unique. I looked and looked for repeats, but there were none. My grandma was just too clever for that. I also liked how each square was individual on the inside but brought together by a unifying border of black yarn. That afghan made me feel connected to my grandma--thinking of her choosing odds and ends of yarn from her wooden bowl and sitting on her red plaid couch watching “Wheel of Fortune” while working on a gift for us. When I lost my grandma recently, that afghan of many colors came to my mind again for the first time in years. I wondered if it was still around somewhere so I could take solace from it, but it was just wishful thinking. It was long gone and that fact, added to fresh loss, felt really unbearable. Then I realized something wonderful: my grandmother hadn’t just given me a blanket, she had shared with me a love of creating things and the best way to remember her was to make myself a new afghan. Which I promptly did. In Patricia Polacco’s The Keeping Quilt, a family tells their story of love in every stitch of a beautiful blanket. I keep mine on the back of the couch and think of my grandma every day.

http://www.amazon.com/Keeping-Quilt-Patricia-Polacco/dp/0689844476

http://www.patriciapolacco.com/

Liar, Liar

Parents have a whole stockpile of truisms, sayings, and morality tales to keep their kids in line and teach them life lessons. It’s part of the parent training process--which you cannot claim to have finished until you hear your parents’ voice come out of your mouth. What with all the talk about starving kids in China and putting everything in its place, I’d say most of what kids learn comes from parent speak. Yep, there is plenty of folksy wisdom to go around , but I think the one that most parents spend the greatest chunk of time on is their version of The Boy Who Cried Wolf if-you-tell-lies-no-one-will-believe-you-when it’s-really-important lesson. I know my parents did. I know I did. And still do. Of the three of my kids who have developed into humans enough to tell the difference between truthing and fibbing, I have noticed a spectrum of truthiness. One of mine would tell the truth regardless of consequence, one never met a fact they can’t fudge, and one has a flexible, utilitarian approach to veracity. So, talk about integrity and honor and all that character-building stuff comes up pretty often. Not always (if ever) successfully. Some subjects just can’t be taught by talking--you gotta get burned to figure out what’s too hot. In Shirley Bogart’s Nelly, That’s Not Nice, our little newt heroine learns about telling the truth when she gets a smack-down from her friends. But it’s better than getting eaten like that whole boy/wolf thing, right?

http://www.amazon.com/Nelly-Thats-Not-Nice-AlphaPets/dp/B0006OZRP8

http://www.jacketflap.com/persondetail.asp?person=143105

I Feel The Earth Move Under My Feet

When people think California, they are interested in three things: Hollywood, the beach and earthquakes. The first two inspire glamour-envy and that last one makes everyone fear the shake zone. But I was in Tennessee during a tornado warning once and that one time was more than sufficient. The sky was a weird, ominous yellow and the air was filled with impending doom. I swear I could hear dramatic music the whole time. I’ll take earthquakes any day, thank you. And living smack-dab on top of the San Andreas Fault, one of the first things you learn as a Southern California kid is what to do during earthquakes. In fact, earthquake-preparedness--getting in doorways, under tables, away from windows--is so deeply ingrained in us that my brother John and I each caused an embarrassing public scene when beepers we had on vibrate went off the first time. What do you expect? He and I rode out the 1971 quake together in the middle of our parents’ careening four-poster bed. He was also the first call I got years later when an early-morning trembler trapped the very pregnant me flailing around like a turtle on its back while my roommate yelled for me to get to a doorway. Yet, even with all that exposure, I still can’t imagine the experience of San Franciscans on the morning of April 18, 1906. In Earthquake, Milly Lee tells a survivor’s story through her grandmother’s eyes. Maybe that day a tornado wouldn’t have seemed so bad.

http://www.amazon.com/Earthquake-Milly-Lee/dp/0374419469

http://www2.visalia.k12.ca.us/library/millylee/index.htm

From Sea To Shining Sea

My memories of Fourth of July begin on a blanket at Reseda Park desperately trying to stay awake long enough to see the fireworks. There was such anticipation that long summer day (what other holiday makes you wait until nighttime?!), that I could never take a nap despite knowing it might help me fight off the Sandman. And it was in Reseda Park, then the magic land of giant robots and duck ponds, that I fell in love with fireworks. Utterly captivated by the spectacle and splendor. I grew so attached to that ritual pilgrimage to the park that I vividly remember the first year I didn’t go. It was 1976 (the Bicentennial, for heaven’s sake) and my brother John and I had traveled to our Nana and Grandfeather’s ranch in Northern California for several weeks. With Independence Day right in the middle. Since our grandparents lived thirty miles from town (a generous label for 1970s Susanville), trips in were rare and well-planned. John and I spent most of the afternoon taking turns on the homemade swing hung between two giant trees feeling sorry for ourselves that it was such an important year and we were going to miss the festivities. But, to our surprise, Grandfeathers drove us all the way to town for a fireworks show I’ll never forget. In Sally Williams Chapin’s My Red, White, and Blue, the story of America’s flag is told without fireworks, but there is a little button that plays music. Happy Birthday, America!


http://www.amazon.com/White-Blue-Musical-Board-Book/dp/1560213884

http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1533558.Sally_Williams_Chapin

Daily Routine

When Connor was four weeks old we had a long, terrible night. As I watched the sun come up through bleary, bloodshot eyes, I decided to consult the bible of babycare, otherwise known as What To Expect The First Year. I had received it at Connor’s baby shower and my first reaction was to take offense. After all, I already had a child, thank you very much, and wouldn’t be needing a little advice manual obviously written for beginners. Then I wore the cover off by thumbing through its wise pages on a daily basis. On that particularly traumatic morning after that particularly frustrating night, the bible, as expected, had an answer for me, but I wasn’t gonna like it. Apparently, all of Connor’s behavior pointed to one diagnosis: colic. Which usually lasts twelve weeks. Which was going to be eight weeks longer than I could go without drinking bleach. The one tiny ray of light was a suggestion that relief is sometimes found for colic babies by adhering to a strict bedtime routine every night. I started that night and never deviated from it for the next six months, even playing one lullaby tape so many times that it turned to static tape dust. But the monotony paid off in blissfully quiet nights and was well worth the trade. In Amy Hest’s Kiss Good Night, Little Bear isn’t going to let Mama off the hook until he gets the smooch he’s come to expect. Maybe he had colic, too.

http://www.amazon.com/Kiss-Good-Night-Amy-Hest/dp/0763607800

http://www.amyhest.com/

And The First Shall Be Last

Sibling groups always debate who got the raw deal in birth order roulette. The middles feel ignored. The babies complain of hand-me-downs. But it doesn’t matter what the other kids say, being the oldest is the hardest. Your parents are at their most neurotic. You get blamed for everything. And you end up being the free, built-in babysitter. For me, being the oldest came with all those things, but the plusses outweighed the minuses--except that whole taking the blame thing. My mother once jumped my case when my brother got PlayDoh on the carpet. And he was thirteen at the time. Seriously. I did do a lot of babysitting, but that was largely by choice. However, with great power comes great responsibility. If you’re going to watch the baby, you better keep on your toes. During one of many adventures with nine month-old Matthew, he fell asleep and I lowered the back of his ancient stroller so that he could lie flat. Unfortunately, when I tipped the stroller to go up a curb, my prone baby brother tumbled onto the street head first. Hysterical with grief and guilt, I grabbed him, leaving the stroller behind in the street, and ran all the way home. He was fine, but I was a mess and have never forgotten that moment. In Catherine Lukas’ Francie the Babysitter, big sister chimp resentfully tends baby brother chimp until he gets in terrible trouble and only she can save him. Sometimes being big comes in handy.

http://www.amazon.com/Francie-Baby-sitter-fabulous-five-minute-stories/dp/1599391015

http://www.jacketflap.com/persondetail.asp?person=24015

I Wish I May, I Wish I Might

Someone at work told me that a math teacher just won the Texas lotto. Again. For the fourth time. To the tune of $21 million. Do you know the odds of that? I do. I looked it up. The odds of hitting the jackpot four times are 1 in 18 septillion. That’s the number 18 and then twenty-four zeros. I guess I should have paid more attention in algebra. It seems that daydreaming about what we would do with the proverbial million dollars is a frequent occurrence for most of us. Especially in hard economic times when so many are truly struggling. Scarlett’s Auntie Michelle broke her leg a year ago and her favorite way to escape the mind-numbing boredom and bone-aching pain of an extended recovery was to fantasize about what she would do if she suddenly got a windfall of lottery riches. I can’t think of a nicer person to win (especially since there are goodies for me on her list!), but I also can’t think of someone I’d less like to see experience the dark side of that supposed good fortune. Whenever I hear follow-up stories on lottery winners, I am stunned by how terribly wrong things seem to go after they get that giant check with their name on it. It always makes me pause. In Helen Oxenbury’s Pig Tale, two happy hogs hit the jackpot only to long for their mudbath days. I guess “Be careful what you wish for” is good advice after all.

http://www.amazon.com/Pig-Tale-Helen-Oxenbury/dp/1416902775

http://www.answers.com/topic/helen-oxenbury