Book Review (Kids): A Couple of Boys Have the Best Week Ever

Award-winning children's author Marla Frazee has written a delightfully fun book for this time of year. James is visiting his grandparents, Bill and Pam, who live at the beach, for a week's vacation. His best friend Eamon ("pronounced "ay-mon"") comes along.

(Bill and Pam must be saints (or sedated) to agree to babysit two high-energy boys - who appear to be elementary school aged - for an entire week. I'm just sayin'.)

Nonetheless, you know you're in for a fun time just by the cover illustration, which has James (on the left) saying, "How long do we have to stand here and smile?" and Eamon replying, "Only for this picture and then we can go back to being normal."

With that, the reader is off with James and Eamon for a rollicking seaside adventure, but soon learn that Grandpop Bill (who strongly resembles Quaker Oats and Liberty Medical pitchman - and accomplished actor - Wilfred Brimley) has planned a week of Nature Camp for all to enjoy. He has a fascination with Antartica, suggesting that they all visit the Penguin Exhibit at the Natural History Museum, and brings globes and maps to the breakfast table (laden with Pam's specialty, banana waffles).

James and Eamon are less than interested, to put it mildly - until their last evening at the beach, when they wander outside, and discover the many joys that nature can provide when you're not really looking. The ending is a special gift for Bill and Pam that makes Bill realize that perhaps his tutorials on Antartica and penguins have been absorbed more than previously thought.

Marla Frazee has written an incredibly entertaining book, one that my kids loved. For the purpose of this review, I asked Boo what he liked most about it and he replied, "The characters."

There is one page that several bloggers (I've listed some other reviews below) have commented on that bears mention. Grandpop Bill is driving the boys to Nature Camp, and en route, "James and Eamon learned a lot of new vocabulary words while Bill drove." The illustration is of Bill driving the car, with a "speech bubble" over his head, with simply: "@#%&!

This didn't cause that much of a to-do in our house ... in fact, my kids thought it was funny, perhaps relating to other youngsters who have, ahem, learned a few choice words while driving with a grown-up. I didn't find it too inappropriate (although I respect the opinion of others who see it differently and felt it shouldn't have been included). I just explained the @#%&! to my kids as how one would write the sound "Argh!" (if that makes sense). And they bought it.

A Couple of Boys Have the Best Week Ever has been named as a 2009 Caldecott Honor Book (among many other awards)and, on a more local level, as a Blue Hen Award Nominee for Children's Choice. I've seen the Blue Hen books at our library on occasion and have been curious about what these are all about. Seems that each year, our state's library association selects a handful of picture, chapter, and teen books as nominees; kids get a chance to vote for their favorites. A Couple of Books Have the Best Week Ever is up against one of Betty's favorites, Fancy Nancy's Favorite Fancy Words by Jane O'Connor, and three others.

This one will be getting Boo's vote - as well as mine. Marla Frazee has written (and illustrated) a lighthearted, fun summer read that, just like the subtle lessons imparted by the story's Grandpop Bill, emphasizes the bonds of friendship and family, respect for elders, and an appreciation of natural resources and the environment.

I hope you enjoy this one during one of your best weeks ever.

Here's what a few other bloggers are saying (if I missed your review, please let me know!)

BooksForKidsBlog

Jennifer Morrill's Attempt at a Blog

Once Upon a Time

And Marla Frazee's website is here

The Sunday Salon (7-12-09): Vacation Reading Planning

Our vacation isn't for a couple more weeks yet, but I'm already setting aside the books I'm bringing.

There's a bit of madness to this, I admit. For starters, I must have more books with me than I can possibly read. At the bare minimum, there must be one book for each day of the vacation. Never mind that a brand new library just opened in Undisclosed Location, where the family beach house has been for ... who knows. Never mind that there is an inviting chock-full bookshelf in the robin's-egg-blue bedroom that gets the bay breezes when the windows are open.

The books accompanying me must be by authors of a known quality to me. There's nothing sadder than abandoning ship in the middle of one's vacation. I need to be pretty confident that this is going to be a book I'll love. That's why Beth Kephart is coming along, in the form of Nothing But Ghosts and Into the Tangle of Friendship. Beth will sharing the blue bay-breezed bedroom with Kaye Gibbons and Ellen Foster as I read The Life All Around Me. (I started this on audio recently and quickly turned it off, the writing being so wonderfully rich that I had to read it instead of listening.)

No nonfiction books on parenting or special needs are permitted. I make exceptions for memoirs, however, so Vicki Forman's This Lovely Life will be part of a lovely week by the sea.

Library books are verboten to be read on the beach if they have the cellophane-ish jacket cover. (They can be read on the second story porch with views of the bay and the ocean, depending on what Adirondack chair you're nestled in.) As a teenager, I worked in a library shelving books and nothing was more off-putting to me than handling library books with grains of sand imbedded in the covers. (I still cringe just thinking about it.) Or maybe it was a reminder that the affluent patrons of the library were taking the books to far-flung beaches in the dead of winter that made me so sensory-adverse. Library paperbacks are allowed on the beach.

And finally, there must be a short story collection. It's usually the Best American Short Stories collection or the PEN/O.Henry Stories. I happened to get The 2009 PEN/O'Henry Prize Stories 2009 at the library today - and as a bonus, its in paperback!

Today, as I'm counting the days to vacation, I'm spending time with Cecilia Ahern's There's No Place Like Here (a fitting description of the six-block long, two-block wide enclave that is Undisclosed Location). If you're a fan of Cecilia Ahern's (and I am), this has the magical realism qualities of her previous novels. I'm enjoying this, and it's a fast read so far.

I'm between audiobooks right now, although with lots to choose from. (I've been, um, kind of overdoing it with my library loot lately.) Most likely this week's audio book will be Gilead by Marianne Robinson.

I hope your Sunday Salon reading is being done while on vacation. If so, what are you reading ... and where?

It's July 11. Bah, Humbug.

In need of some stocking stuffers? How about an artificial Christmas tree or a snow blower? Then you'll want to head on over to Sears, where their Christmas in July sale is going on. (It might end today, I dunno.)

I first heard about this sale at work yesterday, when the guy who administers our retirement plan funds mentioned such during a meeting. (Talk about a big chill. There's absolutely nothing warm and toasty when you're talking retirement planning these days.) Mr. 401k mentioned that he noticed a Christmas display while in Sears.

After years of "Christmas creep" where holiday winter snowglobes have long shared the aisle with Halloween witches and skeletons, I guess it was inevitable that we would be hauling out the holly while similtaneously having a hot dog and a brewski on the back deck.

I checked out Sears' website and sure enough, there's a Christmas Lane tab. You can Shop Holiday Decor! or Shop Winter Readiness! A fleece blanket by the fireplace for the Fourth of July, anyone?

Maybe it's me, but doesn't this strike anyone as insane? Or sad? To me, the Christmas creep is downright creepy.

Or, maybe there's a bright side to this. Allow yours truly to be the first to wish you and yours Happy Holidays.

Unless someone already beat me to that back on Easter.

Book Review: The Story of a Marriage by Andrew Sean Greer

The Story of a Marriage, by Andrew Sean Greer

I am in love with Andrew Sean Greer.

Hmm, perhaps I should clarify that statement, since my husband The Dean has been known to read this blog.

I am in love with Mr. Greer's writing.

Still, any guy who writes the way Andrew Sean Greer does in The Story of a Marriage qualifies as a keeper in my book. Read for yourself, with these opening lines:

"We think we know the ones we love. Our husbands, our wives. We know them - we are them, sometimes; when separated at a party we find ourselves voicing their opinions, their taste in food or books, telling an anecdote that never happened to us but happened to them. We watch their tics of conversation, of driving and dressing, how they touch a sugar cube to their coffee and stare as it turns white to brown, then drop it, satisfied, into the cup. I watched my own husband do that every morning; I was a vigiliant wife.

Yep. That would be me.

"We think we know them. We think we love them. But what we love turns out to be a poor translation, a translation we ourselves have made, from a language we barely know. We try to get past it to the original, but we never can. We have seen it all. But what have we really understood?

One morning we awaken. Beside us, that familiar sleeping body in the bed: a new kind of stranger. For me, it came in 1953. That was when I stood in my house and saw a creature merely bewitched with my husband's face."

With those lyrical lines, I knew this was going to be a good book. And as the cadence and rhythm of that prose continued throughout the novel, I was left breathless. On more than one occasion. Seriously, there are countless of passages like that - and better. (I found myself thinking, "Yes, that's a perfect quote for my blog review!" on almost every other page. I'm not kidding; Andrew Sean Greer's writing is simply that spectacular and original.)

Jeez, do I not sound like a lovestruck teenager instead of a 40 year old mother of twins? {{fans self}} (And as a matter of fact, yes I did just follow him on Twitter. Nothing wrong with that ... right?)

OK, back to the review.

Pearlie is the wife of Holland Cook; the two grew up together in Kentucky and reunited by chance on a California beach after Holland returns from serving in World War II. Despite the well-meaning but meddlesome overtures by Holland's spinsterish aunts, who inform Pearlie that their nephew is ill, Pearlie and Holland marry. ("The younger aunt put her hand on her lips, like an old statue, and told me it was bad blood, a crooked heart, that there was no cure for it.") With a backdrop of major historical events, like the trial of Ethel Rosenberg, and cultural norms unfolding in the background, Pearlie and Holland live a fairly typical 1950s life in California, along with their son who is afflicted with polio - until an old friend of Holland's returns.

Greer weaves details - one by one - of Pearlie and Holland's younger selves throughout the progression of the novel. (This is the type of book where discussing too much of the plot in advance will absolutely ruin the reader's experience, and as such, I am trying not to give too much away.) I will say that, with one word, one phrase, or one sentence, Greer gives his reader the unexpected - and then some.

I loved, loved, loved everything about The Story of a Marriage. The characters, the plot, the language (in one sentence, he describes "squirrels, fussing like accountants"), the conflict and tension, all of it.

I hope I am doing this wonderful book justice. There's been a lot of buzz about this book among book bloggers (and others) and I admit that I might not have picked it up at the library if not for the many bloggers who raved about this. I'm so grateful for that; otherwise, I would have possibly missed out on discovering a new favorite writer. You'd better believe that I have Greer's previous works, The Confessions of Max Tivoli, The Path of Minor Planets, and How It Was For Me on my TBR list.

The Story of a Marriage is one that I will be recommending for quite some time, as it is one of the best books I've ever read. You know how Newsweek recently published their list of the 50 books for our time? This absolutely, without a doubt, is the very definition of a book for our time. Even thought it is set in 1953, it is incredibly apropos for 2009.

This is a classic. Truly. (And dare I say, moreso than others that have that distinction.) Make this among your summer reading. It's a quick read at 195 pages, so there's no excuse.

My recommendation: 5 stars out of 5. This is one that I would likely re-read, and I very rarely re-read books. (Or watch movies or television, for that matter.) But a second reading would definitely give the reader a deeper perspective into the story and the issues presented, so it would be worth doing.

Andrew Sean Greer's website is here, and below are reviews of what other bloggers had to say. (None of these reviews contain spoilers or other artificial ingredients.) If you read The Story of a Marriage, I'd love to hear your thoughts.

The Book Nook Club
Books on the Brain
Devourer of Books
The Literate Housewife

Fool on the Hill

Before you get to the pool at The Valley Club, you have to climb up a very, very steep hill. One that, at its peak, rewards your efforts with a gorgeous view of the valley below. To get there, however, you need to lug all of your swimming gear - your towels, your cooler, your duffle bags, etc. - up what can seem to a kid to be akin to a miniature Mount Everest.

Let's just say that I know this fact from firsthand experience. And yes, I'm referring to that Valley Club - the same Valley Club that's attracting national attention across the country and throughout the blogosphere as a result of the incident involving 65 children - all African-American or Hispanic - from a Northeast Philadelphia day camp.

According to the news accounts (and I've read too many to link to just one), the director of a nearby day camp contracted with The Valley Club and paid nearly $2,000 so that her campers could go swimming there on Mondays. Just on Mondays, mind you, and only for 90 minutes.

So, on June 29, the campers arrived. All 65 of them. It was their first visit to the Club - as well as their last. Seems that a few of the Club's members plucked eyebrows were raised higher than The Valley Club's 10 foot diving board, as the kids' presence caused some consternation among the members. Subsequently, the camp's payment was refunded with the sentiment that they were asked not to return. According to the club president, it seems that some members were concerned that the campers' presence would "change the complexion" of the Club.

And that would be, apparently, because the campers in question are African-American. And that is ... how shall we say? A little bit of a different demographic than what typically makes up The Valley Club's membership.

He then corrected his poor (but telling) word choice by saying he meant the "atmosphere" of the Club. Now, tonight club officials are saying the camp was asked not to return because The Valley Club couldn't handle 65 kids. This after knowing well in advance that 65 campers would be showing up. Nobody thought to prepare for that?

Now, 65 kids is a lot of kids. I think we can all agree on that. And the fact of the matter is that this is not a large, community recreation center type of pool. It's on the smaller side, as pools go, and frankly, 65 children in the shallow end of the pool would have been too close for comfort regardless of whether they were white, black, red, yellow, pink, green, or some combination thereof.

Still, this is discrimination at its abhorrent worse. And to say this has been handled poorly is an understatement. It's a crisis communications case study for any Public Relations 101 course. And since The Valley Club could use the services of a PR professional right about now, I offer some free advice (and free might be all they can afford; even if they do wind up staying in business, which I highly doubt is possible at this point, the legal bills will be out the whazoo).

1) Issue an apology, in post and in haste. It'll fall on deaf ears, it'll be disingenuous and insincere sounding, but just do it already.

2) Stop denying that you discriminate. You do, and you have. For years. Well before these campers were even born. Admit that fact and take steps to change that. Immediately.

3) Do something about that hill, the one you have to lug all your gear up in order to get to the pool.

What, you can't alter the actual terrain of the land that your Club sits on? OK, that's understandable. But yes, there's something you can do about the obstacles that stand in the way of enjoying a perfect June afternoon at the pool.

You can tell your members - and yourselves - to leave their prejudiced 1950s segregation baggage at the bottom before climbing that hill to enjoy the view high above everyone else.

Day after day, alone on the hill,
The man with the foolish grin is keeping perfectly still,
But nobody wants to know him,
They can see that he's just a fool,
And he never gives an answer,
But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down,
And the eyes in his head,
See the world spinning around.

Well on his way his head in a cloud,
The man of a thousand voices talking perfectly loud
But nobody ever hears him,
Or the sound he appears to make,
And he never seems to notice,
But the fool on the hill . . .

"Fool on the Hill", The Beatles (1967)

The Man (or Woman) in the Mirror

We just love to get all sanctimonious and high-and-mighty, don't we?

I'm talking of a collective "we" here - that of our society in general. And not every person in society, of course, but a handful.

Allow me to explain.

I listen to a fair amount of talk radio (an average of 2 hours daily) and it's fair to characterize me as a news junkie. And given the overkill coverage of Michael Jackson over the past few days (and yes, I admit I'm contributing to such on this blog and with this post), I've been hearing a mantra that strikes me as ... well, I have to say it ... hypocritical.

It's this discourse that Michael Jackson's death and the circumstances surrounding such are being blown out of proportion in regards to the death of other, more noble and honorable every day people.

People like the brave and distinguished soldiers who died in Afghanistan over the weekend. A six month old baby who died from the number one genetic cause of infant deaths, a disease no one knows the name to. The list can go on into infinity without mention of a King of Pop but with a proliferation of Kings of Grandpops.

Yes, these people rightly deserve to be memorialized with the same tribute and fanfare afforded to celebrities.

But here's the thing. We say we'd rather watch coverage of a regular soldier's funeral, or even regular people's memorials. And I have no doubt that this is our true intent.

But we don't.

You could say that we're not watching or reading such coverage because it isn't easily available as part of our junk food laden spoon-fed diet of "news." And indeed, coverage of such occurances isn't widely available.

Or is it?

How many of those saying they'd rather see coverage of other, more substantial, more meaningful deaths actually take the time to read the New York Times' Names of the Dead, its ongoing list of fallen heroes?

How many read the article about the soldiers (eight of them, right?) who died in Afghanistan this weekend?

(My intent was to link to these items, but I've just spent about 20 minutes searching for them, in vain. Kind of illustrates my point, I guess.)

How many people watched So You Think You Can Dance instead of Taking Chance? (What's Taking Chance? Here's my post about it.)

How many people even know that North Korea is sending up missiles willy-nilly, the latest (as of this writing) with seven Scuds launched on the Fourth of July? You want a little rockets red glare on your burger? Comin' right up, plenty more to go 'round.

I'm not trying to be all high-and-mighty, holier-than-thou here because I don't have a pedestal to stand on. I haven't earned that spot; I'm not in the military. The closest I come is being the granddaughter of a World War II veteran who was among the 2,500 or so members of that group dying each day. Of all of the activities I've listed above, I've only watched Taking Chance and I only know about the Scuds from reading The Dean's blog post about it. I'm prone to bypassing the hard news in favor of ... well, less worthy stuff. I'm not proud of that. It's embarrassing.

So maybe that's one of the souvenirs we as a society can collectively take away from the Michael Jackson Farewell Tour. To stop and wonder if our attention is truly worthy of this amount of coverage, whether we really want to watch Matt Lauer's reportage from Michael Jackson's bathroom, for God sakes.

And to put our money where our big mouths are, to start with the man (or woman) in the mirror and decide to make a change and seek out the coverage of more worthy, more substantial and substantive news.

I'm gonna make a change for once in my life
It's gonna feel real good, gonna make a difference, gonna make it right
As I, turn up the collar on my favourite winter coat
This wind is blowin' my mind
I see the kids in the street with not enough to eat
Who am I to be blind?
Pretending not to see their needs
A summer's disregard, a broken bottle top and a one man's soul
They follow each other on the wind, ya' know 'cause they got nowhere to go
That's why I want you to know
I'm starting with the man in the mirror
I'm asking him to change his ways
And no message could have been any clearer
If you wanna make the world a better place
Take a look at yourself and then make a change ....

Man in the Mirror, Michael Jackson

Daddy's Girl, For Always

Transformation.

It's been the hallmark of Michael Jackson's entire life, beginning with his fame as a child star to his changing the musical industry with his musical talent and videos, to the freakish facial transformation of recent years.

And in just 26 words, his daughter Paris definitively transformed him once again - if only for that moment - into a person that we admittedly (perhaps with good reason) had difficulty seeing.

Daddy.

We didn't think of Michael Jackson as your typical Ward Cleaver father - but then again, Ward never dangled The Beav over a balcony, either. MJ's eccentricities didn't exactly place him among the Father of the Year contenders in most of our books.

But maybe there was more behind that parental veil than we were led to believe. For I believe that you cannot, at 11 years old, take a microphone and speak to thousands of people while gazing at your father's coffin, if what you have to say doesn't come from the heart. I believe that little Paris truly meant every syllable of her 26 word eulogy.

“Ever since I was born, Daddy has been the best father you can ever imagine,” Paris sobbed onstage. “And I just wanted to say I love him so much.”

This wasn't a performance. Far from it. This was a little girl who wanted the simplest of things, the thing every adoring little girl wants. For people to know that she had a great Daddy. That he was loved.

In what was (in my opinion) a completely unplanned, unscripted moment in an orchestrated finale, Paris did something special. She gave her father a final, priceless gift of peace. And of transformation - if only for the briefest of shining moments - back into someone who was, at least to one little girl, beloved.