Eat, Read, and Be Mommy

Jason Reynolds’ Look Both Ways: A Tale Told in Ten Blocks is not quite a collection of short stories–or perhaps it’s just barely one. For me, it was really more of a zoom-out, or a fictional documentary; each story contributes to the overall picture, and the main characters of each story pop up in the background of another story or two, because each story is happening (at least partly) at the same time. Following middle school students home from school is a surprisingly effective way to get to know them, and Reynolds handles the format with skill. I have a middle school librarian friend who didn’t love it–she said many of the stories felt like first chapters, and she’s not wrong–but (surprisingly enough!) it worked for me. Honestly, I was surprised by that, given how much I prefer closure and answers, but then, Reynolds likes to leave you hanging at the end, so perhaps I was unknowingly prepared for it. If ALL of the man’s book were collections like this, mind, I probably wouldn’t seek all of them out; they aren’t, however, and Reynolds is becoming one of those authors that I want to read just about all of. (That “of” is hanging at the end there, and I know it, but words are not flowing tonight. Sorry.) I’m never going to be as into Look Both Ways as, say, his “Track” series, but this was still a uniquely enjoyable reading experience.

What did you think?

I was looking for a way to combine my youngest girlie’s birthday–which was yesterday–and Ellen Feldman’s Paris Never Leaves You; ‘daughters’ was the only similarity I could come up with. Which works, right? My youngest girlie is also my youngest anything, and the fact that she is six (now officially old enough to butter her own muffins with a plastic kid knife!) feels a little crazy. Not to mention the fact that we’re still celebrating, because today is distance learning (because of SEPs), and thus much more conducive to coffee cake for a birthday breakfast as well as gnocchi for her birthday dinner. (We did have ice cream sundaes for her birthday dessert last night, as well as presents.) I’ve cooked the potatoes–which are cooling on the stove–and after this review and some possible putting away of laundry, gnocchi dough is in my future! (By the by, I wasn’t sure how she felt about her birthday gifts yesterday, but there seems to be a lot of playing with them today, so that’s a good sign.)

In the meantime, Feldman’s book is also about a mother with a daughter–a Parisian mother who gave birth to a daughter on the day that the Nazis entered Paris. Life has taken Charlotte Foret from a Paris bookshop to a cubicle at a New York publishing house; she has made a life for herself and her daughter and has no desire to think about their war years. The past, however, is an inescapable part of life, is it not?

I recognize that as descriptions go, that one is obnoxiously vague. This is a spellbinding novel, however, and not one that you can summarize easily; better to experience what Charlotte experiences as the novel unfolds. Paris Never Leaves You is both austerely hopeful and philosophically complex; it’s also a compelling story of life during an enemy occupation and what comes afterward. It manages to be both an utterly human novel–a novel of people and their lives–as well as an extraordinarily thought-provoking one. It stays in your head, flooding your mind with thoughts of choices and humanity. There is infidelity–which is never my preference–but it didn’t ruin the reading experience for me, as it so often does. (It still didn’t make me happy, mind you, because infidelity is wrong. I’ve been married for more than twenty years now, and our happiness is hard-won, as is most marital happiness; we’ve won it by keeping our commitment to each other. If your marriage isn’t a place you feel you can stay, you owe it to yourself and your integrity to exit honestly.) It’s somewhat open ended, but in a way that feels necessary, whether there is ever a sequel or not. Ultimately, I found Paris Never Leaves You impressive, and I’m grateful to St. Martin’s Press for the ARE.*

*With the one exception of the title. I’m not sure what I would have called it, but I don’t feel like that title did it justice.

Tae Keller’s When You Trap a Tiger was on my radar before it won last month; it was being talked about in the book world, and the family aspect looked to be up my alley. I’m not sure when I would have gotten to it if it hadn’t won the Newbery Medal, but it did, and so you have the pleasure of this review!

Anyway. I think the simplest way to describe When You Trap a Tiger is that it’s an older Korean cousin to Grace Lin’s Where the Mountain Meets the Moon, Starry River of the Sky, and When the Sea Turned to Silver. Like Lin, Keller intertwines folklore with family life, blurring the lines between prosaic reality and a different kind of truth. Keller’s story, however, uses contemporary reality instead of historical, and for me, that made the sadness of Halmoni’s illness a much sharper thing. As Lily attempts to trap and negotiate with the tiger only she can see–hoping to heal her halmoni, or grandmother–her relationships with those around her start to shift. And when her family’s story reaches its crisis point, it is Lily who must find a way to heal what can be healed while accepting what cannot be.

This was most certainly an emotional book to read, partly because Lily’s own emotions–not to mention her mother’s and sister’s–are in such turmoil throughout the book. It is Lily’s book first and foremost, but it is also a sister story (which tugged at me) as well as a mother/daughter and grandmother/granddaughter story; it’s the sort of book that has you both crying and laughing at the end. (It also has an LGBTQ+ side story, although to be honest with you, I found it somewhat distracting. A romantic relationship when the family has JUST BARELY moved back to a place they haven’t even visited for years feels rushed.) Ultimately, it’s not perfectly my thing (the fantasy element), but it’s a completely worthwhile read. Let me know what you think!

Frankly, if I read the original Logan Likes Mary Anne! as I kid, I have no memory of it. Most of the other Babysitters Club books that have been adapted into graphic novels have been nostalgic for me, however, and so I’ve been reading them right along with my girls and enjoying the faint sense of childhood it brings. This one felt a little uneven–Mary Anne’s character (and her friends’ decisions) seem slightly manipulated to suit the plot idea–but hey, it is what it is, and it was still fun. Now to put the next one on hold, because apparently, it’s out already. Possibly 2020 affected either how close together they were released OR how soon our library got it? (Or, of course, how soon we were actually able to GET it from the library…)

Anyway. I hope y’all had a lovely Sunday! (And yes, I realize I didn’t really describe the book. The title pretty much did that for me.)

When I’m in need of some fluffy reading, I’m a Regency romance sort of person, while my 11-year-old would re-read her favorite graphic novels every week if she could. Breena Bard’s Trespassers is likely to be her version of fluff; while it lacks the depth of Svetlana Chmakova’s or Victoria Jamieson’s books, it’s got fluctuating friend dynamics, a summer lakeside getaway, and a people-oriented mystery. (Also one miniscule editing fail that amused me greatly. We’ll see if she spots it!) Bard’s art is less expressive than is my preference, but it gets the job done, and the plot line I was keeping an eye on as ‘potentially older than my 11-year-old needs’ developed quite differently (in a pleasantly surprising sort of way) than I was expecting. All in all, Trespassers has some depth and a fun mystery; graphic novel fans should enjoy this one.

My friend Andrea picked School of Charm for Book Club ages ago; I started it over two years ago and then got sidetracked by the holidays. For one reason or another it’s been languishing in the pile by my bed since then, waiting for me to get back to it–until now. Remember how I’ve been deliberately working on my “Currently Reading” list? I realized that School of Charm would probably make a good read aloud for my 11-year-old, and–hallelujah!–we finished it on Monday.

Here’s the thing. There’s a lot to capture my interest here–when Chip’s dad dies, she and her family move in with their maternal grandmother in North Carolina, whom the children have never met. While Chip’s mother, grandmother, and older sister are part of the beauty pageant life, and little Ruthie is young enough to fit in anywhere, Chip is a tomboy who spent much of her time with her father. As a result, she doesn’t know where to fit in with her family anymore. When she sees a sign nearby for “Miss Vernie’s School of Charm”, she decides that perhaps that will help; so begins a rocky journey to find her place in her new home.

So far, so good, right? Totally up my alley. The problem is that this is one of those books where the problem doesn’t get appreciably better until the very end; 90% of the book is suffering through the problem, and the solution feels comparably sudden. That’s never been my jam–I like reading about the process of recovery–and in this case, Chip’s unhappiness and her family’s attitudes are incredibly painful to read about as a parent. I’m not saying it’s not realistic–grief is hard, and when it necessitates other significant life changes, it can cause people to act in all kinds of uncharacteristic ways–but it made for a difficult reading experience.

Of course, on the other hand, I think my girlie enjoyed it. Perhaps this is just a book best enjoyed by its intended audience.

It wasn’t long ago that I read Jamie Sumner’s Roll With It, which I found interesting and thoroughly likable (as expected, my 11-year-old LOVED it). I was consequently stoked when I realized our library had gotten Sumner’s newest book, Tune It Out, in eaudiobook format. On hold it went, and that 11-year-old of mine has been waiting somewhat impatiently for me to finish and pass on the hard copy to her. I finally finished it a bit ago, and I have to say–wow.

I tell you what, WOW.

Roll With It is good, folks, don’t think it isn’t, but Tune It Out is great.* It deals with tough things with hope and sensitivity (and ALL the feels). Lou’s life with her single mom in their truck is one that too many children in this country can relate to, as is her sudden removal from that life. Her sensory issues, however, make her situation all the more complex, which is what gives Lou’s story so much depth. Her adjustment to life with the aunt she barely remembers (and the uncle she’s never met) is bumpy and complicated, but it also proves to be a journey to a level of wellness she’s never experienced before. By the end, I wanted to give her a standing ovation–and NOT just for her performance. If you have an older elementary or middle school student, don’t miss this one.

*It almost feels like the author’s personal experience with a child with cerebral palsy gives Roll With It a bit of a consciously informative vibe, while Tune It Out is pure story.

I read Meg McKinlay’s Duck for a Day out loud to my kindergartener over a period of several days, and it was an interesting experience. It’s hard to tell how much she likes it when I read aloud chapter books–she’s got sort of a poker face when it comes to longer reads–but she wanted me to keep going! I rather enjoyed it, actually (there’s a subtle humor that parents will likely appreciate even more than little ones), and I think kids will too; Abby’s longing to bring the class pet home for a day, since her parents won’t allow her to get a pet of her own, is something children will readily understand. Leila Rudge’s charming (and funny!) illustrations add much to an already layered story, making this a great read for (or with) an early middle grader.

I picked up All My Friends Are Ghosts from a graphic novel display at the library, because it sounded like a fun read for my graphic novel-adoring 11-year-old. I brought it to Idaho with me to preview, though, and after reading it, I decided–nah. It seemed like such a fun idea–misfit girl wanders into the woods and ends up at a ghost school–but it just didn’t deliver; the plot was iffy, I found some of the art a little too odd, and the fart jokes? Seriously? Just no. There’s nothing more harmful than that, it’s true, but it felt like the authors couldn’t decide between tween girls and 8-year-old boys as their audience. If one of my kids brings it home, then whatever, but it’s not good enough for me to pass on to them myself. Unless you have a voracious graphic novel reader interested in the paranormal–AND fart jokes don’t bother you–I’d skip this one.

And no, I’m not talking about George Eliot–that would be a whole different era. I realized the other night that in trying to think of other books by Jean Craighead George, I was instead coming up with books by Elizabeth George Speare. (I was clearly tired, but it explained why things weren’t sounding quite right in my head. And both writers have won multiple Newberys, which partly explains my confusion. I eventually got myself mentally organized.) At any rate, I read Jean Craighead George’s Julie books several years ago, but this week I finished My Side of the Mountain for the first time. It’s a bit like Gary Paulsen’s Hatchet, and then again a bit like Elizabeth George Speare’s The Sign of the Beaver, but it’s more relaxed than either book. Sam Gribley isn’t dealing with familial problems, particularly; he just wants to go live in the woods. And so he does.

In one sense, that’s pretty much the plot of the book. In another sense, however, My Side of the Mountain is part field and nature guide and partly a pondering on civilization, our dependence on modern conveniences, and just how remotely one wants to live. Of course, it’s also a boy’s fantasy come to life. (And maybe a girl’s–I just never had a desire to run off to the woods myself. Then again, I more or less lived in them already, and why give up modern conveniences when it would have meant less time to read? I was a hopeless bookworm.) Moreover, Sam certainly does a solid job of it, although some of his skills are more believable than others. (You can learn a lot of things in books, but sewing well by hand is a skill, and not a terribly common one among teenage boys–even in 1959.) Overall, it’s a leisurely and interesting story, in a highly informative kind of way. It reads, perhaps, more than a little like a daydream come to life. If such a daydream appeals, than the book will, too.*

*My apologies for what I feel is a rather weakly written review. I think some of my writing skills must be hibernating.