Bette Midler Loves Kids Lit!

I’ve always loved Bette Midler, and now I have another reason – she is a fellow lover of kid-lit. While innocently reading a copy of People Magazine in the doctor’s waiting room the other day, I came across this little piece.

Three of Bette's four "Books of My Life" are kid's books, and she chose all-stars. 

Her childhood favorite, Betsy Tacy and Tib, by Maude Hart-Lovelace, was one of mine too. The series is worth a whole blog entry on my part (and will receive due attention in the future). 

Bette identifies most strongly with Huckleberry Finn, of course, Mark Twain's quintessential American icon. The connection is an obvious one - Huck and Bette are both free spirits with heart. 

And the book that made her cry? The poignant White Fang, by Jack London. The Divine Miss M is not just a fan of kids books, they are the books that move her the most.

Her choices are wonderful books for kids, and each also offers a unique snapshot of life in an America that is no more. These are characters that have become iconic examples of our favorite national qualities - adventurous, kind, stubborn and persistent. 

Is Bette my kindred spirit? I like to think so - her beauty, talent...well, maybe our inner qualities are more in sync. But she is a good person, is truly funny and makes me cry whenever she sings. And she blogs too - check out her highly entertaining  "Bette Midler"!

Legends of lacrosse

The season is over. Not winter, nor spring. No, I'm talking lacrosse.

For the past thirteen springs, our household has bowed down before the god of lacrosse. We have bought equipment, we have taxied children to afternoon and evening practices and games, spent our weekends on the sidelines, brought coolers of gatorades and food ranging from snacks and pasta parties to full-out tailgates feeding fifty-plus young college men. We have sacrificed spring break for so long that I can't even remember what it was like to be able to visit relatives or plum locales in mid-April. 

Today the high school team ended its bid for the county championship, the club team finished a couple of weeks ago, and last week the college team fell in the semi-finals of the conference championship. If you are not a lax family, the previous sentence may sound like gibberish. But to us, these and other terms - checking, heads, shafts, crease, face-off, riding, long stick, and sideline - all have new meanings.

Lacrosse is the quintessential American game. The Native Americans played it throughout the East, from Canada and south to the Carolinas and beyond. It varied in form, and was often a form of battle between warring tribes. But it also produced some wonderful folklore.

My favorite tale comes from the Cherokee. In this tale, the animals challenged the birds to a game. As the birds took their places in the trees and the four-legged animals prepared themselves on the ground, two small mouse-like animals climbed the trees and asked the birds to join their team, explaining that the animals didn’t want them as they were too small. The birds found a piece of leather to attach to the legs of one, and created the bat. They took the other and stretched him, and created the flying squirrel. The two new creatures turned out to be valuable members of the team, and helped bring a victory to the birds.

The Cherokee called the game “anetsa” and tied a bit of leather to their strings in honor of the bat and the flying squirrel who helped them. Our boys and girls have lots of rituals too, including their “swag” such as socks worn a certain way, a band around the knee, hair ribbons and head bands for the girls; and they prepare as if for war, complete with war paint (blacking under the eyes) and war cries as they take the field.

For myself, I admit that between seasons I miss watching the grace, the speed, strength and agility of the game. But we can have a toss in the backyard. And now that I think of it, there are those summer tournaments…

Biblio Memories

 The Library in Ipswich Massachusetts, where I grew up, was an old brick building with a pretty ivy-covered entrance. The main entrance wasn't for me - it was, after all, to the adult section.  

When I went to the Library I turned right and made my way down a set of outdoor steps to the subterranean children’s section where I loaded up. The library was a short walk from home and I went often. It gave me independence. I could get there on my own and pick out my own books, by myself.

During my walks to and from I would inhabit other worlds – Heidi in the Swiss Alps climbing through the snow drifts; or Anne of Green Gables puzzling out her existence on Prince Edward Island; or a young Anne Frank, escaping from her attic hiding place and finding her way to freedom (in your imagination you can change the endings if you like).

I remember the desperation of being curled up on the couch at home with a book I was about to finish and realizing the library was already closed. It was torture to be unable to get a new book until the next day – or even after the weekend. I had no Facebook or Candy Crush to alleviate the boredom until I could get the next book in the series. And anyway I didn’t want something else to do. I wanted the glorious feeling of being completely engrossed in a story. 

As I look at my bedside table overflowing with books I haven’t had time to read, I reach back in memory to that boredom, that listlessness of wandering dramatically through the rooms in our house. I wish.

The library in my grown-up town is very different from that little space in Ipswich. This one has a light and airy children’s room with computers and story time. There is a café off the main lobby where local writers gather or moms with strollers clog the passageways. A large section is devoted to books on tape, and another to DVDs of movies. The elderly sit side-by-side with school children at computer monitors, surfing the web and checking their email. The entrance is not ivy covered, and the bricks are in the walkway, inscribed with the names of benefactors from a long-ago fundraiser. The card catalogue has been replaced by an on-line catalogue, through which one can check if a book is available here or in another library, in another town.

I imagine my old Library in Ipswich has evolved, too, and has many of the amenities one would expect in 2014. But I prefer leaving it intact in my memory, as it was when a young girl relied on its bountiful shelves.  

Sense, Sensibility and Sisters

Last week, on a quiet afternoon, I was tempted to watch the Emma Thompson  version of Sense and Sensibility. Jane Austen loved sisters. Her two most widely known books - Pride and Prejudice, and Sense and Sensibility – are more about sisters than the love interests they develop. In both books, the one truly significant relationship in the life of the heroine is the one she has with her sister.

In the climactic scene in S&S, Elinor sits by her sister’s sickbed, believing her to be fading fast.  Her panic is overwhelming – “Anxiety and hope now oppressed her in equal degrees.”  In the movie version, Elinor is more transparent: “Try, Marianne, try.  I don’t know what I should do without you.”

I love that version because she can’t resist being the big sister even in this moment of life and death – telling her to “try.” And really, in general big sisters can’t resist being big sisters. Trust me, I have four of them. 

Here we are,  several years ago (ahem). You can see that Ginger is actively big sistering me.

As I go through life, I have found that I collect sisters: my college roommates, friends from an old job, local friends, book club, sisters-and-cousins-in-law. I seek them out because my “sisters” provide the framework on which I make judgements about my world, vent frustrations, and learn what I’m supposed to do.  They help make sense of the world and give me the sensible answer, and respond with sensibility, whether I am right or wrong.

Mostly, though, when I am with my sisters, I laugh. And laugh.  I am my most entertaining, my silliest, my most fun self when surrounded by sisters. I feel most appreciated, most “Helen.” And let me tell you, my sisters (all of you), I appreciate you back.

How To Read

When I was about six or seven years old, I went to my reading coach (my big sister, Anne), and asked her advice. I wanted to read big books – chapter books, but it seemed a daunting task. Never one to sugar-coat, she gave it to me straight.

“You have to just read every second you can – when you are waiting for something, in the car, before dinner and after. Carry your book with you and just read anytime you can.”

Her advice did not end with the how. She also suggested the first book I should read. “Little House in the Big Woods.” I loved the image of the children all falling asleep on one big bed when the family gathered for Christmas, and the detailed renderings of life, seen through the eyes of a small child. I loved the illustration and the cover of Laura holding her doll.

I jumped in. It worked, and I was hooked. I read and read and read – in the car, under my covers, while walking to school. I read while others were in conversation all around me. I read every one of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s beautiful and quintessentially American books.

I wonder, now, if I would have been able to read so deeply in today’s environment, with so many distractions. I am prone to them myself, reading much less now than I used to. Sometimes I feel guilty when reading – as if I am wasting time and need to sneak off to read. I can't seem to find all those little moments, or if I do, there is a task that must fill it. 

In the summer, when we travel to my husband’s family in Greece, I spend time planning the books I will bring, and generally alternate – serious, light, serious, light. And I fall back into that all-consuming pleasure, that reverie of reading from which nothing can rouse me.