Review of Keeper by Kathi Appelt

Appelt, Kathi. Keeper. Atheneum, 2010.

The beginning of this book finds 10-year-old Keeper and her dog BD on a very small boat in the middle of the night, scolding 10 crabs and waiting for the tide to rise so that she can free the boat from the pier it's tied to. Why is she on the boat? Why is everyone so mad at her? And what on earth do those crabs have to do with anything?

From that moment in time, the story begins swooping and spiraling, sometimes back in time a little to that morning before everything got ruined, sometimes way back to when Keeper was a little girl, or even farther back to when Keeper's ancient neighbor Mr. Beauchamp was a teenager in France, before catching up to Keeper again and taking her out to sea on that little boat. This indirect, circling-back narration is much like the flight of a crooked-winged seagull named Captain, who can't fly straight at something but must curve around to it.

The cast of characters is small, and each one of them has his or her unique history and part to play. White-haired, even-keeled Signe is Keeper's astonishingly young guardian, Dogie is the young proprietor of a local surf shop housed in an old bus, Meggie Marie is Keeper's long-absent biological mother (and possibly a mermaid), and Mr. Beauchamp is an old man who has never quite stopped hoping to be reunited with his long-lost love. And then then are the non-human characters, who (as anyone who has read The Underneath knows) are just as important as the human ones - the dogs BD and Too, the mysterious one-eyed cat Sinbad, the even more mysterious Jacques du Mer, and my own favorite, Captain the seagull.

Though the backgrounds of these characters couldn't be more different, the 10 years they have spent all living in the same sparsely populated region of the Texas coast has woven their fates together in some strange and unpredictable ways - and when Keeper frees some crabs that were meant for a very important gumbo, she sets off a string of events that ends with a most satisfying Happy Ever After for all involved.

The narrative style varies a bit from character to character and chapter to chapter, sometimes employing those short, choppy, emphatic sentences that were so effective in The Underneath, sometimes filling up paragraphs with dense evocative prose. A few of the 120 chapters are so short that they serve as little poems, as in Chapter 91:

"BD. BD. BD. BD. Her heart thumped.
Keeper called and called and called. No BD.
Only a fin.
Circling."

The narration gives Captain, strangely enough, quite a vast and baroque vocabulary for a bird who thinks about food with 90% of his brain and about his friend BD with the other 10%, and whose only spoken word is "c'mon!" Not only does Captain (or the narrator, rather - but still, it's clear that this is what is going through Captain's head) twice quote the poem Jabberwocky by exclaiming "calloo callay!" but his love for watermelon inspires this passage: "...his favorite, his most beloved, his all-time highest exalted sublime most delicious stultifyingly extremely wonderful marvelous fantastic yes yes yes: watermelon!"

Sometimes this kind of self-conscious language breaks the mood or splashes a bit of cold water in the reader's face. That "calloo callaying" seems downright silly to me, given that it's a seagull who is saying it - a seagull brimming with brio and personality, it is true, but not one that has read Lewis Carroll. And some other stylistic decisions seem mannered, as when Keeper (or the narrator on her behalf) spells out words periodically for emphasis, something that happens in the first few chapters and then is dropped for some reason. Or maybe it continues and I just didn't notice because by then I was fully immersed in the story.

That's the thing about Keeper. All that circling and swooping, all those characters with their small contributions that end up making one intense story - these serve as threads that draw the reader further and further in. By the satisfying and happy ending, I was fully committed, heart and soul, and so of course needed to blow my nose and wipe my eyes. The emotions of Keeper and Signe, and of Mr. Beauchamp, are so masterfully drawn that I defy you to stay unmoved.

And August Hall's artwork is a lovely complement to this tale that is anchored in reality but has some supernatural elements swimming in the depths. The jacket art, with Captain's wing providing white space for the author and title, is particularly compelling, but I am also fond of the drawing of a fierce Signe holding young Keeper - all the love that Signe feels for Keeper is there.

So - despite finding some of the narrative quirks not wholly successful, I'm recommending this highly for ages 9 - 12.

Underdressed and overwhelmed

"You'll be the only one in jeans," my mother predicted as we drove toward the Skirball Cultural Center, the venue for the 2010 Children's Literature Council Fall Gala.

I'm not sure why I forget every year that this tends to be a somewhat dressy occasion, though it's probably because, despite the word "gala," this event takes place in the morning and features a breakfast. Somehow, getting dressed up for a breakfast is something that goes counter to my soul. Also, I had just spent the whole week wearing skirts, pantsuits, heels, and even pantyhose, and now it was a Saturday - finally! - and I was taking four hours vacation after the Gala. And anyway, these were not some faded, holey jeans, but my "dress" jeans, in a trouser cut.

I felt underdressed.

Mind you, I wasn't the only one in jeans, but that was because when asked about the dress code by several folks who were attending the event for the first time, I said, "Oh, these are children's book lovers - anything goes!"

According to a librarian at my table, the Gala took place at night way back when, which I assume means in the 60's and 70's, before morphing into a lunchtime and then finally a breakfast event. Ah ha! "Gala" makes much more sense paired with cocktails than with bagels and orange juice.

But I digress. The breakfast was lovely, in a large room sprinkled liberally with (well-dressed) children's book authors and illustrators, librarians, teachers, and children's literature fans of all stripes. Discussion at my table ranged from the best locations for ALA conferences (New Orleans and Chicago won out) to predictions on the next Newbery winner (well, there weren't actually any predictions - but several of us opined that if The Strange Case of Origami Yoda wins, we will rejoice.)

Well fed, we made our way to the auditorium, where Jacqueline Woodson gave her keynote speech. Ms. Woodson is WAY at the top of my Favorite Authors list, and consequently I was too shy to say hi. "Your books rock my world" will be all I can say if I ever get up the courage to talk to her. Anyway, I forgot to take any notes on her speech and so can only say that she is as warm and intelligent as her books, and quite hilarious as well (Hope Anita Smith, who was there to accept the Myra Cohn Livingston award for her Mother Poems, kept raising one arm in exuberant testimony throughout the speech.) She was wearing a skirt (curse my jeans! curse them!) and a pair of boots that I instantly coveted.

Then there were some fine acceptance speeches from Marla Frazee, Hope Anita Smith, Mary Pearson, Andrew Smith, and Kathleen Krull - and then my dear ex-colleague Maureen Wade accepted the Dorothy C. McKenzie Award for Distinguished Service to the Field of Children's Literature (whew) for her 20-year work with our GAB volunteer program, which trains adult volunteers to read with children (for fun!) at the library. Woot woot! We love you, Maureen!

Since I seem to be obsessing about clothing today, please take a look at Ms. McKenzie's eye wear. Are those cats-eye glasses not FABULOUS?

After the gala, my mother and I toured the Noah's Ark exhibit. This is a must-see, people. If you live in Southern CA, get yourself over to the Skirball and check this out, with or without a child. It's magical, and if it doesn't transport you to a child-like state of wonder and joy, I'll be most surprised.

The moral of this story is that mothers tend to be right about matters of a sartorial nature. But the lesson I'm taking away from the morning is that I'll be well-dressed as long as I sport a pair of kick-butt boots and some jeweled cats-eye glasses.

Manifestations of Magic

I've just finished reading and reviewing a fine middle-grade/middle school fantasy for School Library Journal called Small Persons with Wings by Ellen Booraem (Dial, Jan 2011). I disliked both the cover of the ARC and the title at first sight, but the story was sparkly, snide, exciting, and very, very funny - I'll be recommending a starred review.

It got me thinking once again about the nature of magic (this is something we fantasy readers do a lot). In Small Persons with Wings, the eponymous creatures possess a native kind of magic that is part of their very being, called Magica Vera. However, after learning a new kind of magic, the Magica Artificia, that allowed them to create amazing illusions, they (being rather extravagantly interested in the appearance of things) didn't need the Magica Vera anymore and so stored it in a moonstone. However - this Magica Artificia runs off a sort of generator called a Circulus, consisting of a bunch of Small Persons zooming around and around in a circle. Stop the Circulus, and the Small Persons can no longer draw on the power of the Magica Artificia.

The idea of magic being simply there for the plucking, with no consequences and no danger of the stuff running out, has always bothered me a bit. After all, magic is at least as useful and powerful, and quite a bit more dangerous, than most of our natural resources, and we take care to conserve those.

Diana Wynne Jones, though one of my favorite fantasy writers, is a bit too free and easy with magic for my taste, but still, her system makes sense. I see it this way - in her magical worlds (for instance, the one in which Howl's Moving Castle and its sequels take place), there is simply more magic all around than in our world. Perhaps it's a gaseous element that fills the air. It's available to use, at least in a limited way, by anyone who can cast a minor spell - and so, in the House of Many Ways, Charmaine's dad the baker uses spells to enhance his recipes. But there's only so much a regular person can do. It takes an extremely talented person to use the magic in really powerful ways, and these folks become wizards and witches. And so huge harm can't really be done by your average person - but what if a magically talented but unschooled or greedy young person accidentally misused magic? In fairy tales, they'd get a bunch of sausages stuck to their nose, and this is the sort of result that one finds quite often in Jones' fiction - but I can well imagine much grimmer outcomes.

In the Harry Potter books, the witches and wizards have a native talent for magic that I assume we Muggles don't have. Apparently it's mostly - though not entirely, as witness Hermione and others born to Muggle parents - genetic. I imagine this magical talent to be like a talent for music. We're all born with some kind of ability to enjoy and even make music, even if that consists of humming only - and most of us could be trained to sing or play an instrument passably and to learn quite a bit about music. Some of us will become quite accomplished, thanks to native talent, hard work, or both. And so it is for witches and wizards - all possess magical talent that is nourished and groomed because their whole world is built on magic. As for Muggles - we're like a bunch of tone-deaf unmusical dullards in comparison.

I am particularly fond of books in which magic functions like a force to which physics-like laws must apply. If you expend this much magic, it must come from somewhere - perhaps from the magician's own body (resulting in hunger, exhaustion, sickness, etc) or perhaps from someplace else. There needs to be cause and effect, because surely any force that is so powerful must affect something if it is used. The Shifter by Janice Hardy treats this idea with particular creativity.

And what about the magic of illusions as opposed to magic that truly changes the nature of a thing? The first might change a rock into a piece of pizza that looks, smells, feels, and tastes like the real thing. A skilled magician might even keep the illusion so real that you could actually pass the rock all the way through your body without ever realizing you were digesting a rock. But still - it's a rock, and you won't get any nutrition from it whatsoever. But to make the rock actually become a piece of pizza would surely be a powerful, disruptive, and costly piece of magic. Ursula Le Guin tells us, via A Wizard of Earthsea and other books, that magic does indeed have a cost and is not to be used lightly.

But does magic have to be so hard-won as in the Earthsea books (man, Ged's school is tough) or in the terrifying and thrilling Resurrection of Magic series by Kathleen Duey? Any readers who crave a magical boarding school after reading Harry Potter will find an antidote to that longing in Duey's Wizardry Academy from Hell (not its real name - but it should be).

Strange and eccentric magical powers and creatures are a joy to find. What could be more odd and delightful than the ability of Beka Cooper (from the series by Tamora Pierce) to hear dead souls carried by pigeons and to communicate with dust devils on street corners? There's no need to limit one's imagination - which is why those of us who read fantasy prefer it above any other genre!

At least we haven't had THIS problem at LAPL

(at least, not yet). Yikes!

Review of The Kneebone Boy by Ellen Potter

Potter, Ellen. The Kneebone Boy. Feiwel and Friends, 2010.

There is a subgenre of children's literature that needs a name. It isn't fantasy - there is no magic and the setting is contemporary. And yet once could hardly call it realistic, either, as there are usually credulity-straining events and an atmospheric tension. Could we call it Contemporary Gothic, perhaps? The Series of Unfortunate Events would be a prime example.

And here is another. The three Hardscrabble siblings (note the outrageous Dickensian name) live in Little Tunks (I would point out the absurdity of this name as well, except that there are far stranger English place names). Their mother disappeared 5 years ago under mysterious circumstances when oldest sibling Otto was 8. Lucia, the middle sibling, and Max, the youngest, hardly remember her at all. Otto, though, stopped talking when his mother left and only communicates through a unique sign language that he and Lucia created.

Their father, who makes his living traveling around the world painting portraits of deposed royalty, leaves suddenly on another business trip, and the siblings, after a series of mishaps and adventures, end up in the seaside town of Snoring-by-the-Sea, where their aunt Haddie is staying in a folly on the grounds of Kneebone Castle.

Mystery #1 - Why did the children never know they had an aunt Haddie? (they only found out by accident when they read a letter meant for their dad)
Mystery #2 - What happened to the children's mother?
Mystery #3 - Which of the siblings is narrating the tale?
Mystery #4 - Who lives at Kneebone Castle?
Mystery #5 - Who is the Kneebone Boy?
Mystery #6 - ...well, there are many more mysteries, the further along in this delightful and convoluted tale one gets. The reader will discover the answers to these questions and many more, including several extremely unexpected ones.
One question to which I didn't discover the answer (and more than likely I missed it, since I forgot that it was a mystery until I finished the whole book) is why cats swarmed all over the Hardscrabble household in a downright unnatural way. See? Almost a fantasy, but not quite.

Our narrator sprinkles the tale with plenty of Briticisms, commentary (usually snarky) on the odd characters the Hardscrabbles encounter, and fascinating glimpses at the interactions and relationship of the intense, intelligent Hardscrabble siblings - whom the reader gets to know well and like quite a lot. Although they are fiercely loyal, they squabble enough, and in a reassuringly normal way, to keep them rather down-to-earth. The narration also makes clear fairly early on just who our narrator must be.

This is one of those books that manages to feel both modern and old-fashioned. There are bits and pieces of Enid Blyton, E Nesbit, Edward Eager, and more (can it be a total coincidence that Ellen Potter's first name begins with E??) - and yet the brisk, knowing narration and fascinating characters (especially Aunt Haddie) have a contemporary edge.

This is a mystery that readers will absolutely devour, I have no doubt. And the jacket art appeal even to my choosy, stylish 16-year-old, who agrees with a character in the book that Otto is quite "dishy."

Highly recommended for ages 9 to 13.

There were giants in those days

Seven of us youth services-oriented Central Library folks went out for drinks after work last night. We drank, ate pub fries, and regaled each other with hilarious and affectionate anecdotes of some of the larger-than-life librarians who retired in the past year. In fact, a major theme of the evening was the halcyon days of LAPL, when the Library Punch at holidays parties was spiked, when Fairfax and WLA branches had regular staff softball matches, when a branch might decide not to charge its needy patrons overdue fees and no one in Admin would notice, and when eccentricity and - more to the point - initiative and creativity were not only tolerated but celebrated.

This could have devolved into a pity party. 2010 has been one of the hardest years in LAPL's history, with retirements, lay-offs, and a hiring freeze leading to chronic staff shortages and reduced public hours. We all have increased workloads and responsibilities, and more uncertainty and turmoil are in the cards for the next few months.

And yet... our little group at Casey's Pub laughed, drank, marveled at the Librarians of Yore, and went home in (for me, anyway) rare good spirits. It reminded me that when I first began working at LAPL as a "student librarian," we were in dark times. The devastating Central Library fire of 1986 had destroyed much of that collection and rendered our historic building unusable, and all the Central Library staff had to be farmed out to branches. And then the budget woes of the late 80s/early 90s hit and we were slammed with a years-long hiring freeze and greatly reduced book budgets.

But we had fun! Sure, there were grim, inflexible, or downright scary supervisors ready to squelch us, but our institutional culture still had enough freewheeling flexibility (and staff members) left over from the 70s to allow for all kinds of weirdness and joy to flourish.

A great swelling of bureaucratic control and risk aversion over the next couple decades has led to a culture of distrust and cynicism among many workers. An uprising of hope when we got a new City Librarian was almost extinguished by the horrible budget woes that hit us over the past couple years. And now, as I said, we are overworked and facing a future as a newly lean and vastly altered library system.

Maybe it was my unorthodox but strangely satisfying dinner of Strongbow cider and fried potato wedges last night, but I'm feeling optimistic. Back in the late 80s, we took responsibility for our own sense of joy and accomplishment in our work. We didn't wait for Administration to make things easy for us, but rather worked hard and made time for fun, even if it had to happen after work. A sense of humor was practically a requirement for the job.

I start to hyperventilate when I contemplate the monumental tasks and challenges facing me, the Youth Services department, and in fact the whole library system in the coming year. But the very fact that we're going to have to be strong and self-reliant to even survive, much less flourish, makes me know we can do it.

The beleaguered, exhausted LAPL staff of the last few months is destined to be the next wave of glorious Library Legends. Our grace under pressure, our style and savoir faire, our unrelenting willingness to see the absurdity and humor in any situation - these will help us create a new LAPL that not only gives the best service possible to our communities but is actually an amazing and energizing place to work.

Less pity parties, more pubs! Celebrate the past, laugh at the present, and welcome the future!

And please, draw me another pint of that cider...

One kid's thrill is another kid's chill

NPR had a segment this morning on scariness in children's television and how, while producers of kids' tv shows want to thrill kids without terrifying them, sometimes one can't predict what will scare kids. A funny example was an Arthur episode in which one character describes what happens when you bottle up your feelings, and demonstrates by shaking up a bottle of soda. The other kids imagine Francine's head flying off and landing in someone's yard - which seemed silly and funny to the grown-ups creating the show but apparently super-scary to hundreds if not thousands of young viewers.

Children's librarians are well aware that some kids are more easily frightened by others, and as a result lots of us tend to go easy with our Halloween programming. My audience was usually quite young, so I stayed on the Plumply Dumply Pumpkin end of the scariness spectrum, and never got much scarier than an interactive telling of The Little Old Lady Who Was Not Afraid of Anything - and even then I kept watching my audience to see if I should make my clomp-clomps and clap-claps goofy rather than ominous.

How lovely, then, to get to tell and read stories to older kids, who WANT to be scared! For them, it was always The Peculiar Such Thing and Sopdoll, and any number of other folk tales, told with maximum suspense and creepy sound effects.

But one can't always predict what will scare a kid. When I took my older daughter to Knott's Berry Farm, she did just fine on her first roller coaster ride on the "Jaguar". What really freaked her out, though, was the atmospheric lead-up to the ride, which took the line through a dimly lit, Aztec-like temple full of eerie noises. In fact, any dimly lit and somewhat mysterious place had her clinging to me in terror, even if it was a museum - this one in particular literally made her run for the door. Granted, it's a weird museum, but scary? I wouldn't have thought so.

We had a coffee table book of Life photos in the house when I was a kid, and I pored over it incessantly, even obsessively. The context for most of the photos was unknown to me, so I just took the photos at face value, aided (sort of) by the short captions next to each one. Some photos were obviously tragic and disturbing (dead soldiers), some were obviously funny (a baby with spaghetti on its head) - but some I couldn't interpret at all.

It strikes me as odd now, but this photo filled me with dread. The caption used the term "pied piper" and said that he was leading the children away - and I knew the terrible ending to that particular tale. What was going on here? The photo seemed light-hearted on the surface, but I sensed very dark and sinister depths and was chilled everytime I looked at it.

Kids can't quite distinguish between real life and fantasy until at least age 5 (and in my case much later - and in fact I'm not sure I've ever quite figured out the distinction) - so we need to be careful about sharing spooky books with young kids. But on the other hand, a child may shudder with fear at a story or illustration that would strike almost anyone else as innocuous.

So this Halloween, read and tell stories to little kids that are thrilling but not too chilling - and when in doubt, throw in a bit of humor and silliness, give kids a warning and an out ("this next story has a scary pumpkin in it that says 'boo!' - so if you hate pumpkins who yell 'boo!', you could cover your ears at that part"), or even talk with kids afterward about the story to let them relieve a little nervous tension.

Just please don't tell any stories about pied pipers.