Like so many of Patricia Polacco’s picture books, this is a warm story about a significant time in her own childhood. The narrative opens with young TLike so many of Patricia Polacco’s picture books, this is a warm story about a significant time in her own childhood. The narrative opens with young Trisha taking a final tractor ride with Grampa, carefully avoiding areas in the fields where thatchers nest with their hatchlings. Trisha’s bubbie has recently died and Grampa has sold the farm. He will move to Indiana to live with relatives. The farm has also been home to Trisha, her brother Richie, and her mother, so it’s hard to leave all the farm animals and the natural world for Battle Creek, Michigan, where their mother has taken a teaching position. Grampa reassures Trisha that there will be birds in the city. He’s right: there’s a robin’s nest right outside her bedroom window in the old coach house they’re renting from an older lady. There’s also a library not far away, where Trisha discovers books that feature the paintings of famous artists, confirming for her that this is exactly the work she wants to do.
Trisha is taken under the wing of a nurturing librarian, Mrs. Creavy who secretively takes her high, high, high up in the palatial building to see the special John James Audubon collection. The grade-one nature walks that Trisha’s teacher, Miss Bice, has regularly taken the class on, the viewing of Audubon’s works, and Tricia’s own love of birds lead her to suggest that birds should be their class’s theme for parents� night. Her classmates wholeheartedly agree and insist that Trisha’s drawings of birds should be featured. Mrs. Creavy visits the joyfully decorated “bird-santuary� room, full of the children’s avian art. An official accompanies her, and Tricia receives a special honour. (view spoiler)[The Michigan state chairman of the Audubon bird clubs of America declares her the first member of the school’s bird club. Her classmates will all be members, too. (hide spoiler)]
Polacco’s narrative mentions her struggle with reading, and in her afterword she explains that only years later did she discover that she had dyslexia, dysnomia (an impaired ability to recall words, names, and objects), as well as dysgraphia (a neurological disorder of written expression characterized by problems with fine motor skills and writing ability in general). The sadness of being academically behind her classmates is communicated in the book, but the greater message of warm, encouraging, loving adults who nurtured her curiosity and talents shines bright.
Thanks to my GR friend Lisa for making me aware of this book....more
In a somewhat underwhelming book, Sykes presents a series of 35 pieces by authors on their favourite books. This is very much a collection of short esIn a somewhat underwhelming book, Sykes presents a series of 35 pieces by authors on their favourite books. This is very much a collection of short essays that reflects either the editor’s or her publisher’s commitment to “diversity, inclusivity, and equity,� so we get the views of writers of a variety of shades of skin, ethnicities, and sexual orientations . . . but seemingly more young than older authors. A number of the contributors were new to me—some, like Paris Lees, I judge to be minor, flash-in-the-pan, flavour-of-the-month sorts, who won’t be remembered for long. Based on their rather unremarkable contributions, I feel little inclination to seek out their work or the books that touched them.
The word “favourite� seems to have been interpreted quite loosely here. Some authors focus on formative books from childhood. Others identify recent favourites (e.g., Ann Patchett on Meg Mason’s Sorrow and Bliss) or titles that have influenced their own craft (e.g., Taiye Selasi on Penelope Lively’s Moon Tiger and Kit de Waal on Donal Ryan’s The Thing about December.)
Of the 35 short essays, only about a half dozen had any effect on me. William Boyd writes well about Joseph Heller’s ability to capture the absurdity of war in his novel Catch-22, reflecting Boyd’s sense of the Biafran conflict, which he had personal experience of as a young man. Sebastian Faulks discusses an intriguing adult novel he read as a nine-year-old; unfortunately, he has no recollection of the title, and whether his memory can, at this point, even be trusted on the particulars of character and plot is debatable. Deborah Levy’s wonderful and lively voice carries her personal essay on Dodie Smith’s classic I Capture the Castle, and Damon Galgut’s insightful piece on Denis Johnson’s Train Dreams is rewarding—it made me want to read the novella. So did Ali Smith on Tove Jansson’s The Summer Book, which concerns the relationship between a grandmother and granddaughter, a subject dear to my heart. Smith observes that it’s a work of “profound openness, where age knows everything anew and youth is profound experience. Saying this, or trying to describe the book in any way at all, doesn’t come anywhere near what happens when you read it: the calm, the joy, the depth, the understanding, the warmth of this slim little masterpiece about everything.� I’ve long intended to read this, and Smith has motivated to get to it soon.
Aside from these few highlights, Sykes’s book was nothing special for me. I can’t say I’d recommend it. A positive: it’s very short and very quickly read. ...more
In this Quebecois novel, originally published in French in 1993 and recently reissued in English by Steerforth Press, an unnamed middle-aged man knownIn this Quebecois novel, originally published in French in 1993 and recently reissued in English by Steerforth Press, an unnamed middle-aged man known only as “the Driver� travels in a bookmobile for the provincial Ministry of Culture. He has followed the same route every year through the remote villages along the St. Lawrence River’s “North Shore,� distributing books to the networks of readers that have been established there over time. This summer is to be different. Feeling the approach of old age, the Driver knows he hasn’t the psychological fortitude to cope with the inevitable decline of his body. This will be his last trip. (view spoiler)[The reader learns that he has brought with him a long flexible hose, which can reach from the back of his vehicle to the driver’s side window. (hide spoiler)]
Before he is to leave Quebec City, he is drawn to the performance of a troupe of musicians, jugglers, and entertainers who have come from France to present at the annual summer festival held near the Chateau Frontenac, an iconic hotel overlooking the majestic St. Lawrence River. He meets Marie, a beautiful woman around his age. She’s the manager for the troupe and a kind of director, who always sits or stands in the front row where she can subtly signal the entrances and exits of the performers. The Driver and Marie have an immediate, almost spiritual connection. Marie has a boyfriend, Slim —an acrobat, tightrope walker, and juggler—but there are suggestions that things may be changing between the two of them.
Before returning to France the members of the troupe want to travel, see something of Quebec and perhaps a little of the States, too. They decide to buy an old bus, outfit it for their needs, and accompany the Driver on his route. Once they get going, Marie often travels in the bookmobile alongside her new friend. They have gentle talks about books and life. When not with Marie, the Driver attends to his book networks, collecting the volumes that were selected, read, and passed from one reader to the next in the chains of bibliophiles, and assisting people with their selection of new books for the months ahead. The Driver has read every book he carries, and he knows his readers well. One of the pleasures of Autumn Rounds was encountering names of writers and books I’d never before heard of. Unfortunately, many of the works of Quebecois writers, if they even make it to English-speaking Canada, are not widely known.
This is a delicate, intimate, and gentle novel about books, their ability to connect people, and the mysterious gifts of love and friendship we may be given when we least expect them. It’s lovely. ...more
I approached this book with a certain tentativeness and was not charmed by the folksy down-home tone. Sadly, it was as gimmicky as I feared. The love I approached this book with a certain tentativeness and was not charmed by the folksy down-home tone. Sadly, it was as gimmicky as I feared. The love letters were generally more tolerable than the breakup notes . . . but not by a lot. I have now officially lost faith in this genre. ...more
I read to page 44 and was completely bored. Self-dramatization seemed a poor substitute for interesting content. Just too light-weight to spend more tI read to page 44 and was completely bored. Self-dramatization seemed a poor substitute for interesting content. Just too light-weight to spend more time on.
I wonder why it is that some people believe their experiences are in any way worthy of a memoir. The experiences I read about here were run-of-the-mill; insight was notably lacking, and books themselves seemed secondary to dull reminiscence. ...more
A "just-right" picture book to introduce students to the great risks slaves in the American south took in order to learn how to read. Well worth buyinA "just-right" picture book to introduce students to the great risks slaves in the American south took in order to learn how to read. Well worth buying....more
I abandoned the book about halfway through. Absolutely dull. In fact, dull as ditch water and dishwater combined. The "revelations" from reading were I abandoned the book about halfway through. Absolutely dull. In fact, dull as ditch water and dishwater combined. The "revelations" from reading were milquetoast, cliche, and simply not worthy of being contained in a book. I do feel for the author in the loss of her sister, but I am doubtful that racing through 365 books actually heals one's grief. My advice: do not waste your time on this! If you must have a look, consider borrowing the book from the library. It's surprising to me that this work has received the praise it has. I found it gimmicky and unconvincing and I can't even recommend it for stylistic reasons. Bland....more
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