I scream for ice-cream!

It's summertime, and all I can think about on a hot Saturday afternoon is ice-cream. Why is it that the ice-cream truck never comes when you really want it - when there's no dessert in the house but the idea of actually leaving one's property to go procure some feels like way too much effort? No, the ice-cream truck only comes when you've just pigged out on 10 chocolate cookies or when you're about to sit down to dinner (and yeah, you could put the ice-cream in the freezer for after dinner, but the ice-cream truck is all about instant gratification - after all, if I wanted to act all commonsensical, I'd just have bought a half-gallon of ice-cream from the market the last time I went).

Not that the ice-cream truck is the awesome experience it was when I was a kid. For one thing, I don't get the same thrill out of that tinny music coming closer and closer. Sure, my animal brain still screams "The ice-cream truck! The ice-cream truck!" but the grown-up, spoilsport part of my mind quickly squashes most of my enthusiasm, calming asking if that chemical-loaded sweet stuff is really what I want, when a nice low-fat cherry yogurt is sitting right there in my fridge.

And ice-cream trucks are just not what they used to be, at least in my part of town. 40 years ago, Venice had some fine trucks that dispensed soft ice-cream in two flavors - a single was 15 cents. You could get a "banana boat" for 60 cents or a "double" (on a snazzy two-headed cone) for 25 cents. And that ice-cream was creamy, delicious, and practically as big as my head. Check out these photos from June 1969 - I'm the small grubby child with short hair. Now that's an ice-cream truck!

I haven't seen an ice-cream truck that dispenses soft ice-cream in Venice for at least 20 years. Now the trucks sell a variety of pre-packaged frozen desserts, from snowcones to drumsticks, often in somewhat dubious off-brands. The truck that trundles infrequently down our street is mottled and often sprayed with graffiti. The photos highlighting the desserts are faded and worn. And yet when "The Music Box Dancer" sounds discordantly from the end of the street, you can still hear shrieks of "The ice-cream truck! The ice-cream truck!" from all the kids on the block (including my two teenagers).

And if you want to see Eddie Murphy's scarily accurate and hysterically funny take getting ice-cream from the ice-cream truck, click this link. Yes, there is profanity!

Happy licking...

Freedom to explore the "wilderness of childhood"

Michael Chabon, author of some of my favorite grown-up books (you've got to read Gentlemen of the Road - and the Yiddish Policeman's Union - oh, and all his others as well) and of one children's book (Summerland, which I've never read), has written a fascinating piece in the July 16 New York Review of Books called Manhood for Amateurs: The Wilderness of Childhood. After pointing out how many of the best children's books feature kids who have plenty of opportunity to go off on their own and explore their world (whether realistically or fantastically), he writes:

"The thing that strikes me now when I think about the Wilderness of Childhood is the incredible degree of freedom my parents gave me to adventure there. A very grave, very significant shift in our idea of childhood has occurred since then. The Wilderness of Childhood is gone; the days of adventure are past. The land ruled by children, to which a kid might exile himself for at least some portion of every day from the neighboring kingdom of adulthood, has in large part been taken over, co-opted, colonized, and finally absorbed by the neighbors."

When I was a kid, we walked to and from school by ourselves, went to the beach unaccompanied by grown-ups, roamed the streets and boardwalk for as far as we could walk, bike, or rollerskate, and in general felt as if our neighborhood belonged to us entirely. However, by the time I was a parent, times and attitudes had changed and it was years before I let my kids go farther than three houses down the street. It's strange how easy it is to get sucked into the fear - but I do believe it's necessary to teach your kids how to be sensible and safe and then let them be free to skin their knees, cross that busy intersection, and ride the bus (sitting next to the busdriver, natch) all over town.

I can say that now that my kids are savvy teenagers - and they do bike and bus all over Los Angeles - but it took me a long time to let them do this stuff. It still makes me nervous. I'll feel anxious about their safety forever, most likely.

Chabon suffers similar doubts and anxieties with his own kids - believing in giving them their freedom but worrying not only about their safety but about the fact that, if he sends his kids out to play, they might not have anyone to play with - the neighborhood kids are all tucked safely indoors or in their backyards! I experienced this sort of problem when I was allowing my second child to walk or bike to the park by herself - but none of her friends, in 5th grade, were allowed to go past the end of the block. Jeepers!

Chabon wonders what will happen to children's literature when the only adventuring is done on the pages of children's books, and ends with these remarks:

Art is a form of exploration, of sailing off into the unknown alone, heading for those unmarked places on the map. If children are not permitted—not taught—to be adventurers and explorers as children, what will become of the world of adventure, of stories, of literature itself?

It's horrible to think that kids may find the notion of hopping on a bike and riding to the ice-cream store by themselves for some summertime refreshment as exotic and dangerous as going on a magical quest.

Welcome, Mr. Gomez!

For most of us senior librarians and Central Library staff, today was the first day we clapped eyes on Martin Gomez, our new City Librarian. After the short business portion of our bimonthly adult information meeting, our interim City Librarian introduced Mr. Gomez, who gave us a brief overview of his career and made it clear that he was eager to get started.

He stressed that, while he isn't a person who thinks up ideas on his own, he is very aware and receptive of great ideas that others come up with, both in other library systems and in our own. Mr. Gomez then said he welcomed our ideas and suggestions - this gave me a spark of hope and gladness, which was immediately dampened by the irrepressible thought, "I've heard that before." The last time a well-meaning library director told us that, it turned out that in fact we'd get in trouble if we communicated in any way but up through the chain of command - and we all know the problem with that. Invariably, the suggestion (or complaint, as the case may be) gets stuck somewhere at a lower level and never does reach the City Librarian at all, or in a very watered-down form.

Still, I was impressed by Mr. Gomez's down-to-earth demeanor and his slightly awkward sense of humor (because I don't trust a librarian who is too polished!), as well as his emphatic statement that he is looking forward to leading us - which is exactly what we need. And he pointed out that he brings to LAPL a wider national and even international perspective, gleaned from his time as director of the Urban Libraries Council. Excellent - we've been a provincial system for far too long. So - hopefully he really will solicit staff opinions, suggestions, and advice.

Because I dashed out after his speech to snag some pastry and fruit before heading back up to my office, I was one of the first folks at the reception and thus one of the first folks to shake Mr. Gomez's hand. I told him I was from Children's Services and that I had read he was a big proponent of youth services, as proven by his efforts on behalf of out-of-school-time programs. I then gave him a huge grin and a major thumbs-up, and moved on. What I really wanted (as I'm sure we all did) was to take him off for coffee, cake, and a light conversation about some of the issues facing LAPL - and which should be tackled first.

But - he seems like an extremely savvy, experienced library administrator and I'm sure he'll be able to see for himself where both our strengths and our weaknesses lie. But if he wants any input - and creates a good, safe way for us to give it to him - then I'll be happy to offer my $.02!

Review of Highway Robbery by Kate Thompson

Thompson, Kate. Highway Robbery. Greenwillow, 2009.

No, there isn’t much action in this slim book – essentially, a boy stands around in a nasty, cold, muddy street holding a horse for a gentleman who is conducting some business nearby. Some dubious types come around, wanting to buy (or steal, more likely) the horse from the boy, some nice stolid farmers admire the horse, and then some soldiers come by and tell the boy that this horse belongs to famous highway robber Dick Turpin. The boy must keep holding the horse until Dick Turpin comes back, at which point the soldiers will arrest the famous highwayman.

Ah, but it’s the way the story is told that had me racing through the entire book during one short lunch break. The young street urchin, shoeless and homeless, tells his own story (to someone whose identity we learn at the end) in spunky, straightforward, unsentimental terms. It begins “There are good things and bad things about being small. You wouldn’t know about that, though, would you, sir? Fine, tall gentleman like yourself. But it’s true.” The boy goes on to recount how his story, relating (as we find out) how he came by this magnificent horse, the famous Black Bess of legend, and why he is trying to sell her to his (quite dubious) audience.

The tone is breezy, describing the events of the story so vividly that the lack of action won’t be noticeable to most readers. The boy’s upbeat narration (in direct opposition to his miserable circumstances) is accompanied by detailed, slightly loopy illustrations depicting a raggedy boy, a glorious horse, and various eccentric characters (I almost said “Dickensian” but of course this story takes place in the 1700s, Turpin’s century).

Full of wry humor and a steadily building tension (will those two ruffians steal the horse? Will Turpin get away? Will the boy ever be warm again? Is the boy's story even true?), this book is a winner. Recommended for grades 4 – 6, including reluctant readers (this is easy to read and a mere 118 pages).

Added later - I gave this to an 11-year-old boy I know. Although he usually reads fantasy, he found this a fast read and said he'd recommend it to other boys his age. He was most impressed with the guttersnipe's terrible situation - no shoes, no home, no family.

One Year and Counting

I was on vacation in Minneapolis, managing (thanks to an Internet-free house and a 5-ton laptop) to blog only twice the whole week - and dang it, I clean forgot to mark my 1-year blogging anniversary on July 3. Here's my first post - can you tell that I really didn't know what I was doing? Not that I have much more of a clue, this blogging thing being a work in progress.

Here are two things I did in Minneapolis.
I interviewed a handful of friends and family members about their favorite books:

And I visited - finally! - Louise Erdrich's Birchbark bookstore. It turns out I had gone to the cafe next door several times without ever noticing the bookstore. Well, when I get hungry my focus gets very narrow indeed.

About that 5-ton laptop - I was so fed up with it that one of the first things I did when I got back to LA was order my Dream Netbook - the Asus Eee PC 1005Ha. Plenty of bells and whistles, 10 hours (!) of battery time, and a mere 3 lbs. I'll let you know how this beauty shapes up, just as soon as it arrives on my doorstep.

Review of Alyzon Whitestar by Isobelle Carmody

Carmody, Isobelle. Alyzon Whitestarr. Random House, 2009 (c2005).

This fantasy has an excellent premise. What if all animals, including people, emitted all sorts of information, from emotions to basic messages to the nature of their very essences, that humans can no longer sense? Perhaps early in our evolutionary past, these messages were an essential means of communication, but as we developed complex language and society, we gradually lost the ability to “smell” each other.

After bumping her head, teenaged Alyzon falls into a month-long coma. When she comes out of it, she possesses not only the ability to smell the emotions and essences of people and animals, but also a heightened awareness and understanding of the world that most people don’t. She soon realizes that, although some people “smell” better than others, there are some, including a good-looking classmate, who just smell “wrong.” It’s not long before Alyzon and some new, pleasantly-scented friends are involved in a dangerous battle against a sinister disease-like Wrongness that is bent on infecting as many people as possible in order to warp and darken their souls.

Anyone who has stared at a stranger in a crowd who suddenly turns around and stares back as if tapped on the shoulder knows that humans do seem to possess mysterious and primal senses, so the idea of communicating, both consciously and unconsciously, via hormones/pheremones (or “smells”) that we can no longer consciously sense is both intriguing and logical. I would have been perfectly content for Alyzon to explore her new expanded senses for 500 pages, but apparently some kind of plot was needed – hence the Wrongness disease and the nasty constorium of powerful people and thugs needed to spread it. When Alyzon is affected personally, as when her younger sister moves inexorably toward an angrier, darker state of mind, the plot is compelling, but it veers toward quite unbelievable conspiracy-theory weirdness toward the end. After a last-minute dangerous climax, the story is wrapped up so abruptly that I flipped back and forth to make sure I hadn’t missed any pages.

Alyzon’s steady and sensible, if rather naïve, personality, her large and unique family, and her steadfast friend Gilly (who smells wonderfully of the sea) are some of the many strong elements of this well-written, thought-provoking fantasy. A weak point is the ridiculous cover, depicting a glamorous, glossy-lipsticked girl who looks nothing like the rather ordinary, drab-haired Alyzon. Gilly dresses her up at one point to attend an event incognito – and thus we get the off-putting, sparkly jacket art.

Highly recommended for grades 8 and up.

Review The Magician's Elephant by Kate DiCamillo

DiCamillo, Kate. The Magician’s Elephant. Candlewick Press, 2009. (September) Illustrated by Yoko Tanaka.

In an allegorical novella reminiscent of an Eastern European fairy tale, young Peter is told by a fortune teller that an elephant will lead him to his long-lostsister. As Peter hadn’t even been certain that his sister was alive, this is excellent news, especially considering his grim life as a sort of apprentice to his guardian, an unbalanced old soldier who has cared for Peter since his parents died.

The only catch is that thre is no elephant in the town of Baltese – until, that is, a magician causes one to fall through the roof of the Bliffendorf Opera House. The sudden and anomalous presence of this elephant has a profound effect on all the people of Baltese, but most especially on Peter, his sister Adele, and a small and eccentric assortment of quietly anguished people.

Everything about this slim tale, from the quaint font style (Pabst Oldstyle) to the warm yet somber acrylic illustrations to the almost allegorical appearance of the elephant, brings to mind absurdist Russian/Eastern European tales like Gogol’s The Nose or Kafka’s The Metamorphosis, in which bizarre situations highlight truths about the human condition.

I cut my teeth on those kind of stories and so this tale of the fulfillment of heretofore unsuspected or buried hopes and desires felt familiar and comfortable. The writing is smooth, with just enough texture to keep one’s full attention, and the few illustrations I saw in my ARC copy were atmospheric and terrific. However, I can’t see many kids cottoning to the old-fashioned, almost mystical tone of this story, and the characters, including young Peter, remain strangely flat and enigmatic. There was altogether a distant, cool mood to the story that probably won’t appeal to kids who loved The Tale of Despereaux or Because of Wynn Dixie. Still, kids who persevere will be rewarded by an odd yet moving story.

Recommended for old souls in grades 4 – 7.