Monthly Archives: February 2010

Reading is Fundamental

I did my student teaching in an urban fifth grade classroom. It was a very diverse group of children, of many different cultures and backgrounds. One child, X, lived in a group home down the block from the school. He had been through several foster families before ending up in residence there, removed from his parents for neglect.

Although he was not at the head of the class scholastically, X always had a pencil in his hand. He loved to draw, and was good at it. He drew killer whales. Actually, one whale in particular: Willy, from X’s favorite movie, Free Willy.  On the top of his desk, on his notebooks, on the board when no one was looking, on the side of a giant roll of newsprint during the class field trip to the local newspaper, he drew Willy everywhere. The fact that Willy had achieved logo status was a double-edged sword for X — it made him famous with the other students, but teachers always knew whom to blame. X talked about the movie frequently, eyes bright whenever a class discussion stumbled into something that might serve as a convenient segue.

It was not hard to figure out why Willy was so important to X, taken from his family, in the clutches of the foster system, longing for home. Poignantly, Willy gets an advocate and is saved. I’ve always wondered if this boy’s hope to get out of the foster system and into a more stable situation was ever realized.

It got me thinking about what a favorite movie or book might say about each of us. Since that time, I’ve made a point of asking friends about their favorite titles, and have been intrigued with the psychological consistency of their responses. Asking an acquaintance at a party the title of his or her favorite book could be a lot more illuminating than, “What’s your sign?”

Ironically, I don’t have a favorite book, and until recently didn’t have a favorite movie. (Coincidentally, it’s also a story with whales, Whale Rider. Feel free to analyze.)

Your favorite book – what does it say about you?

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The Cat’s Meow

There is a mini contest over at WEBook.com right now, the prize to which is that the winner gets to enter their PagetoFame Contest for free. Normally, I wouldn’t be too interested, but the catch is that you have to write a 500-word story using only one-syllable words. How could I resist?

Here is my entry:

 

The Gift

 

“You want me to leave?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.” Ed stalked out.

“The door!” Liz called.

He slammed it shut and stormed down the stairs to the street. She heard his car start as she dropped to the couch and leaned her head on the black wool throw. Pained, she closed her eyes. What must he think?

A meow came from the box. She checked the front door to make sure it had latched, and then let the cat roam the room. It had been in that box since last night, for Pete’s sake! How could Ed think that was fine? He sneezed when it was loose, but it was not good to keep it in there like that. What if it pooped? She got up and brought the tray back in from the porch. The cat ran in and did its job. Good thing she’d thought of that!

The phone rang. Liz picked it up and looked at the screen. It was the pound.

“Yes?”

“Miss Peck, I’ve got good news and bad news.”

“Well?”

“I talked to my boss. He said we can take the cat back, but I can’t give you your dough.”

“Why not?” she cried. That care kit she’d had to buy when she chose the stray had not been cheap. “She has not been fixed yet. Why can’t I get that back, at least?”

“You signed the form that said you knew we don’t let folks take strays as gifts. Some folks don’t want a pet like you’d think, and they end up right back at the pound, or worse. It’s hard on the pet. That’s why we make folks sign the form. You broke the rules, so no cash back.”

“Fine. How long will you be there?” she looked at her watch.

“We close at noon.”

“I’ll be there by ten.”

“Thanks, Miss Peck. We’ll see you soon.”

That was that. Liz shook her head. She still did not know why Ed had not told her that he and cats were such a bad mix. He said how much he liked them all the time. She had not known that there was a cause for his lack of one as a pet. She’d thought it was such a great choice for his gift.

“Come on, cat,” she said, and put it back in the box. Its fur was soft, and it was so cute. Liz was sad.

The phone rang once more. It was Ed.

“Hi,” she said. “How’s your nose?”

“Fine, now,” said Ed. “Um, I was rude. The cat was a great gift. I just can’t stand to sneeze all the time!”

“You never said… “ Liz paused. “Please don’t think that it was a joke. I just did not know! You say you like cats so much.”

“I know,” said Ed. “I don’t blame you. I don’t know why I did not tell you. “

“They pound said they’d take it back.”

“Great!” said Ed.

Liz grinned. “Yes.”

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Line in the Sand

Everyone who has ever gone to elementary school has done the art project where the teacher draws a line on a piece of paper and the student turns it into a picture. 

Some students start drawing immediately, others stare at the paper and agonize over what to do. Some of the pictures are so well executed that the original line needs to be pointed out, others look like a dinosaur doing a somersault into a stack of pancakes. Some children manage to draw what they always draw, a few take that line places that even the art teacher wouldn’t have thought of.

That line is a prompt, an idea that inspires one to create something larger, more developed than the original idea. In writing, prompts are generally ideas that come to us at random times in everyday life. But sometimes, there is a contest that starts with a writing prompt.

Like this one!

I am officially hosting a flash fiction contest (500-1000 words), any genre, in which all entrants will start their story with the same line. Where you take that prompt is up to you, but the submission that pleases me the most will win either a $10 e-giftcard from Amazon.com, or a hardcover edition of the children’s book, Harold and the Purple Crayon, by Crockett Johnson* (winner’s choice). The winner will also have their story “published” in the Layinda’s Blog post of Monday, March 8, 2010, as well as a link to his/her blog, if there is one. (Keep the salivating to a minimum, please.)

a

Official Rules:

1. Entries need to be posted by Friday, March 5, 2010, 11:59 P.M., Eastern Standard Time, in the Line in the Sand comments on Layinda’s Blog (authors will retain all rights to their work).

2. Each entry needs to be 500-1000 words in length, any genre, but no smut, please.

3. THE STORY MUST START WITH THE PROMPT.

4. Only one submission per author.

5. To qualify, entrants must mention the url to my blog:

 https://layinda.wordpress.com/

either on their blog or in a comment on someone else’s blog, and include the url to where that mention is posted in the same comment as their entry to this contest.

6. The contest winner’s name and winning story will be posted in this blog on Monday, March 8, 2010. Arrangements will be made at that time as to logistics regarding the prize.

Any questions? Post those, too.

a

HERE IS THE PROMPT:

She watched the boat sail away.

a

* See my previous blog post, Oldies but Goodies: Great Books for First Graders.


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The Thrill of Victory

I couldn’t let the Olympics go by without mention. It was easy to think of an angle that related to the topic of writing, how athletes (like authors) have to train so hard (engage in the discipline of writing), develop their skills (learn their craft), work as a team (find critique partners, join Agent Query Connect), get a coach (attract a literary agent), and then face the reality that there are only three medals to go around (many more authors than publishing opportunities). That they’d better love what they do for the sake of doing it, because most will never achieve a significant victory. But what I really want to talk about is those shoes that the curlers wear.

First of all, Curling? It’s only been an Olympic event since 1998, but somehow has recently garnered more evening air time than all the other events combined. Or at least it seems like it! My older son and I have watched, trying to discern the rules of the game. We find it oddly fascinating, yet restful, sort of like watching bowling or golf. Maybe that’s why they have it on so late, so that people can just drop off to sleep.

Wanting to know more about the sport, I googled it, and came across a fabulously in-depth post on Wikipedia.com: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Curling which lists everything you might ever want to know about it, including where it originated. (Scotland! And I had assumed Canada.) 

But back to those shoes. Every winter when I was little, I had a pair of cheap winter boots that were great for sliding on the ice. Each year, the first thing I usually did in my new boots was to test their sliding factor. Did they keep me from slipping, yet allow me the luxury of a good long slide when I was in the mood? As I’ve aged, the quality of my boots has gotten better, but I miss being able to slide so easily.

According to the Wikipedia article, the curlers’ shoes actually have teflon on them! I was wondering how the curlers keep from falling, but now know that one of the shoes has a textured surface, and the “slider” shoe has a textured cover that slips over it for better traction. For those who cannot afford a pair of official slider shoes, electrical tape on the bottom a tennis shoe may be utilized.

I’m going to try it.

a

P.S. Doesn’t China having a curling team make you think of those Jamaican bobsledders?”


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I Cannot Tell a Lie: Update

As today is George Washington’s actual birthday, I will give the truthful answer to my “I Cannot Tell a Lie” post of last week.

In review, my two truths and a lie were:

1. I used to have a parakeet that figured out how to escape his cage, and my cat ate him while I was at a Fourth of July carnival.

2. When we were young, several of my siblings and I dressed up our little sister as Uncle Sam, put her on top of the newel post in the front hall and left her there.

3. I once was driving my car and a firework shot through the open window and caught the back seat on fire.

The truth is that the firecracker in the backseat was the lie.

Update: Little Sister was not outwardly scarred from her experience on the newel post, and I still have one of poor Budginald’s tail feathers. I forgave the cat, because that is what cats do. I think my sister has forgiven her siblings, as well, for similar reasons 🙂

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Home Library vs. Public Library

Books were a big focus in my family when I was growing up. I thought that everyone had walls of bookcases with lots of old books in them. Our house was filled with books from my parents’ childhoods, as well as old books that their parents had owned, and their parents. Copies of Dick and Jane were juxtaposed with The XBarX Boys and Elsie’s Girlhood, The Girls of St. Wode’s with The Flower Girls, A Little Maid of Mohawk Valley with Tarzan. By the time the big resurgence of Anne of Green Gables occurred in the 1980s, one of my sisters had already accidentally dropped our 1912 edition while reading in the bathtub.

In the room that my younger sister and I shared as preschoolers, we had a bookcase filled with more recent books, although still mostly handed down from our older brother and sister. Occasionally our mother would bribe us with new Golden Books from the grocery store to keep us in line while shopping. Every night, one of our parents would read us a stack of stories before shutting off the light, our last thoughts of the day saturated with literary convention.

I have kept up the tradition of the home library with my own children, buying books for them before they were born, reading to my eldest in the womb after learning of neurological research confirming that the rhythm of oral reading is different than that of everyday speech, and even in utero, babies can be prepped to read.

One reason I remember so many of the books that I enjoyed as a child is because they sat in a bookcase next to my bed, and I read them all the time. Kids need repetition while they are internalizing the reading process. That’s why little children request books to be read to them over and over, sometimes right away! They listen with eager ears, poring over the pictures as they absorb the verbal context. Frequently, they will  put their finger on the page and point out each word as it is read. Woe to the adult who skips a word! When playing alone, prereaders will often parrot a familiar story out loud as they turn pages at exactly the right moment. Continuity is important, familiarity with a work allowing a child to concentrate on the nuances and details of the words. How can a book be sufficiently internalized if it goes back to the library after two weeks?

Once a child is in second grade or so, the need for repetition diminishes, as does the need for pictures. I am actually a huge fan of the public library system, for older children. Libraries have been responsible for much of my reading fodder since age eight, my appetite for books and pocketbook both satisfied.

When I really love a book I’ve read, I head to amazon.com to buy it, so that I can share it with my friends and even my children at a later date. So that I’ll have a copy when it goes out of print. So that I can enjoy it again in a few years, after I’ve forgotten the details. So that I can notice the title as I pass by my bookcase and recall a moment of the story, a warm memory of a good read.

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I Cannot Tell a Lie

George Washington was born on February 11, 1731. Until 1752. Then he was born on February 22, 1732, because Britain abandoned the Julian calendar in favor of the Gregorian*. (No wonder he was annoyed with them.)

For many years, the United States celebrated our first president’s birthday on February 22nd, but eventually the public tired of celebrating both Washington’s and Lincoln’s birthdays in the same month (Lincoln’s is February 12th). In 1968, Congress combined the two in a happy compromise by having President’s Day fall somewhere in between, on the third Monday in February.

In honor of that day, school children still learn the story of George Washington and the cherry tree. For those of you who didn’t, young George received an axe for his birthday and went into the yard to play. Later that afternoon, his father discovered that their most prolific cherry tree had been chopped down, and inquired as to the culprit. George, caught red handed, said wisely, “Father, I cannot tell a lie. I did it.”

In the spirit that George might have replied differently if he’d been quick enough to think of something, I am posting a game that I got from my AQ friend, Cat Woods. [Link to her blog post with the same title: http://catwoods.wordpress.com/2010/02/13/i-cannot-tell-a-lie/]

In this game, the author lists two truths and a lie, and the readers guess which is the lie. All of mine have a patriotic theme. Sort of.

1. I used to have a parakeet that figured out how to escape his cage, and my cat ate him while I was at a Fourth of July carnival.

2. When we were young, several of my siblings and I dressed up our little sister as Uncle Sam, put her on top of the newel post in the front hall and left her there.

3. I once was driving my car and a firework shot through the open window and caught the back seat on fire.

Can you tell the lie? Make some guesses in the comments, and I will post the answer on Monday.

*http://www.archives.gov/legislative/features/washington/

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Oldies but Goodies: Great Books for First Graders

Time for another installment of my favorite books! Today I’m focusing on first grade. These were books that I enjoyed reading to myself as well as having read to me at bedtime. All are suitable choices for home and classroom libraries, as are any others by these authors.

All listed are still in print, although a few of my favorites are not. The Story of Babar by Jean De Brunhoff was listed as “not available,” so I didn’t link it, but it will hopefully be back in print soon. More Riddles by Bennett Cerf …With more Pictures by Roy McKie has unfortunately gone by the wayside. (What do you call four ducks in a box? A box of quackers!)

Other books I enjoyed that are out of print, but are possibly still available at libraries: Anatole Over Paris by Eve Titus, The Crybaby Calf, by Helen and Alf Evers, Herman the Brave Pig, by Miriam E. Mason, Fierce John, by Edward Fenton, and I Can’t, Said the Ant, by Polly Cameron. 

As before, to see the list, click on:
Amazon.com Widgets

Click on any individual title, and you will go directly to that page on Amazon.com, where you will be able to view the description and reviews.

Happy Reading!

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What I Owe to Books

I didn’t post yesterday because I was busy helping my son make a box for his Huckleberry Finn party at school today. I also made gingerbread for his whole class, because that is a food item mentioned in the book, Huckleberry Finn.* The box is actually a Valentine’s Day box, but his class skipped the official Valentine party, opting to combine it with their Huckleberry Finn experience. The boxes were to have themes, one of which was HF, but my son chose “Outer Space.” More specifically, “Zero Gravity in Outer Space,” and we were trying to get the box to levitate via magnets  and fishing line to simulate said zero gravity. In a nutshell, it was a pain in the neck and didn’t end up working.

However, the valentines themselves, which we also made, looked great. Each was a heart made out of card stock, with a little folded corner-bookmark stuck on the end, which I created from (slightly modified) directions in an origami book. As we worked together, I started thinking about all of the things that I’ve learned to do from books.

I don’t just mean textbooks, I mean regular novels and stories. For example, I can’t recall the title, but when I was little I read a book about a boy who made a flute out of a willow branch, and the story described how to do it. (You select a half inch or so thick branch, flexible but not too flexible, not brown but not green, cut it to about 6 inches long with a jack knife, pull out the core, cut a v-shape about an inch from the top, and drill a series of little holes down the front. Voila! You have a willow flute.)

Other things that I have learned from books include how to ride a horse, how to do calligraphy, how to carve soap, several magic tricks, how to knit and crochet, many card games, how to speak Spanish, Hardanger embroidery, how to make a sand candle and do plaster sand casting, how to take care of parakeets, how to rip a telephone book in half, two ways to do invisible writing and how to make it un-invisible, the safest way to climb a pine tree, how to bake a potato in the ground, how to tie knots, morse code, and how to “speak” the sign language alphabet. As well as all of the recipes I’ve made and music that I’ve played.

What are some things that you owe to books?

*Ten is rather young, in my opinion, to be reading Huckleberry Finn: Read my post: “Asynchronous Development in Book Selection”

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The Valentime

The boy labored over the card, a red ballpoint in his hand. He drew a heart-shaped dartboard with an E in the center, a scoreboard with Love written at the top and the name Emma fifteen times. Giant red darts that looked like rockets filled the corners of the paper. His tongue peeked out at the corner of his mouth as he wrote, “I shuw hopen you like this card. Love, Jake.” He folded it in half and added it to the glittery wooden heart he had persuaded his mother to purchase at the craft store.

“Mommy, when aw you goween to make an envelope fow Emma’s valentime?” His auditory processing problem was evident when he spoke; the garbled sounds of the words he heard were converted to speech. After five years of therapy, he was understandable, but still sounded less mature than his seven years.

His mother was over at the kitchen sink, washing up the pots and pans from dinner.

“Why don’t you write the names on your other valentines, and I’ll do it when I’m done?”

With a slight scowl, he freed the box of valentines from its cellophane wrapper and got the list of names out of his backpack.

“Have you even seen Emma lately?” his mother asked. Emma had moved up to the gifted program at the start of the school year, along with Jake’s best friend, Niles. Jake had been passed over because his disability interfered with the testing and his scores were low.

“Well, I saw hew at wecess.”

“Did she say hi?”

“No. But I did see hew in da dwivah line, and she waved at me.”

A moment passed.

“Does Emma love you, too?” The real question.

“I don’t think so, but if I give hew enough pwesents, she will,” he said with confidence.

That made his mother smile, but she cautioned, “Well, maybe. There are lots of other little girls, you know.”

“I know dat,” Jake said, “but I love Emma.”

His mother dried her hands on a towel and walked over. Picking up the pink sheet of acetate Jake had chosen, she quickly fashioned an envelope large enough to accommodate the card and sparkling heart. She was an artist, and knew how to make all kinds of things. Jake watched her swift movements with admiration.

“There,” she said, slipping the gifts inside and sealing it. She handed it to him. “You can write her name on the front. E-M-M-A.”

“I know dat,” Jake protested. He always knew more than she thought he did. He wrote the name and carefully put the envelope into his backpack.

Emma would like it — he knew that, too.

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