NoraSawyer.com

Over at Mightygirl, Maggie Mason has been posting a weekly mixtape of new songs she’s been enjoying. Here’s my take on it, looking at some old favorites:

Joni Mitchell: Overture/Cotton Avenue, from Don Juan’s Reckless Daughter

Lots of girls go through a Joni Mitchell phase. In my case, it was less with the folksy “I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now” and more with the jazzy-fusion-with-Jaco-Pastorius-on-bass of this album. Thanks to the cute drum teacher at my high school for lending me his copy — I’ve loved it for a good fifteen years now. (This starts slow, but stick with it).

Mary Lou Williams: The Devil, from black Christ of the Andes

My childhood nightmares were populated with the dancing skeletons from Disney cartoons and the sound of wind in the attic. This song is a little like that.

Takako Minekawa: Fantastic Cat, from Roomic Cube

This song will always make me think of dancing around the photo lab at school with my friends Amanda and Shana while wearing vintage dresses. Oh, 1998.

Iron & Wine/Calexico: He Lays in the Reins, from In the Reins

I used to listen to this in my office at New College, as I worked late for no money and the school fell apart around me.

Frank Sinatra: Young at Heart

object width=”425″ height=”344″>

My mother “heard” this song just after I was born, as she was dozing in her hospital room. I don’t know if that makes it my song or hers, but I’m happy to share.

It’s the last week of the semester. So, while I attempt to write two papers in as many days, finish my portfolio, and somehow get ready to go camping this weekend (seriously: what was I thinking?), here’s a poem I like by Dennis Lee, from Nicholas Knock and Other Poems (illustrated by Frank Newfeld, published by Houghton Mifflin in 1974, as groovy a hippy-child book as you could want).

A Song for Nimpkin

Nimpkin
  Nimpkin

Dance with
  Us,
Till our

  Lives
Go
  Luminous.

When the
  Slush is
In the
  Street,
Nimpkin
  Touch our
Soggy
  Feet.

Feed the
  Headlong
Green, in
  Case
We do not
  Leave it
Living
  Space.

Till the
  Green
World
  Gallivants
To the
  Voltage
Of your
  Dance.

Through the
  Swelter
Of
  July,
Nimpkin
  Soften
Earth and
  Sky –

Dancing
  Like a
Fallen
  Tear,
Deeper
  Into
Now and
  Here.

Please, in
  Autumn
Apples
  Fall,
Fruit and
  Leaf and
Earth and
  All:

Nimpkin
  Nimpkin
By your
  Grace,
Help us
  Live in
Our own
  Space.

Carlo’s Cricket, by Barbara Reid, illustrated by Ann Grifalconi • McGraw-Hill,  1967.

I wasn’t able to find an image of the cover online, so here’s a webcam shot of me, in the cafe in the lower level of the San Francisco Public Library, taking one last stroll through Carlo’s Cricket before I send it through the book return bin. Kind of a funny picture, but posing with my book while my computer beeped was making me feel self-conscious.

The book tell’s the story of Carlo, a young Florentine boy who gets his own cricket as part of the Festa del Grillo, an annual Ascension Day celebration that marks the arrival of spring in the city (and, a cursory Googling reveals, is now celebrated with electronic crickets). His parents buy him a pet cricket, and Carlo is entranced by it’s singing, until he accidentally leaves the cage open while he naps, and the cricket escapes. Carlo searches for his cricket all over Florence, providing a child’s-eye glimpse of the city in the 1960’s.

With beautiful and evocative illustrations by Ann Grifalconi (I particularly enjoyed how Italian Carlo’s parent’s gestures seemed — never have storybook parents appeared more chic), the book seems to have a golden glow about it, capturing both the warmth and celebration of Carlo’s Florence and the universal experiences of childhood. This seems like a wonderful read-aloud book, and one that will provide interest and evoke emotion in both children and those who read to them.

Reid’s story provides a vicarious wish-fulfillment/complication/resolution story that even young children will be able to relate to. The story is simply bu not repetitively told, and should appeal as a read-aloud to children close to Carlo’s age (five), as well as women in their thirties who enjoyed this book but did not remember it until they pulled it off the shelf.

The Cremation of Sam McGee, by Robert W. Service, Illustrated by Ted Harrison • Greenwillow Books, 1987.

Somewhere in the depths of my memory, the phrase “the men who moil for gold” was locked away like a bit of ore, or maybe like a ghost ship, sighted on occasion and wondered over by those who noted its presence, only to forget it as it disappeared again, its meaning and origins shrouded in mystery.

So, thank you, Ted Harrison, for creating a book so bright and alluring that I pulled it off the shelf, reviving the memory not only of Robert W. Service’s phrase, but of the poem itself, which tells the tale of a poor Tennessee boy who freezes to death in the Yukon, and conveys it with a morbid humor.

Reading Service’s poem, I was struck by the way it captured a certain flavor of child-logic, where the dangers of the world (freezing to death in the Yukon, being bound by a promise to carry a man’s body on your sled), are inescapable and yet oddly comforting, making sense of the chaos of life and death and cold. Harrison’s illustration of Sam McGee, dead but finally warm as he basks in the flames inside the furnace of the Alice May, is both humerous and haunting, as liable to induce giggles as it is nightmares.

I was a very easily-frightened child. But I remember is the odd sort of comfort that could be encapsulated inside the fears that kept me awake at night, starting at every shadow. In the story Sam McGee, a very literal and sublunar afterlife awaits a cold and lonely Tennessee boy, providing him with comforts that his poor cold body can know and enjoy.

The Cremation of Sam McGee is the sort of book that will appeal to a very specific need in a child’s life, one that thrives songs and poems that make a joke of the dark without shying from its horrors. Children as young as eight and as old as twelve should enjoy this story, simply and straightforwardly told in Service’s evocative verse and illustrated by paintings that make a rainbow of the darkness. Younger children will enjoy the book as a read aloud, though the presence of the word ‘moil’ in their subconscious might cause mild confusion later in life.

Tales of an Empty Cabin, by Wa-Sha-Quon-Asin (Grey Owl). Published by Dodd, Mead & Company, NY, 1936. 323 pages.

One of the first things I did upon going back to school was take advantage of the San Francisco Mechanics’ Institute’s special student membership rates. I love this old, private library in the middle of San Francisco’s financial district, with it’s quiet reading rooms and narrow stairways with brass railings that wind up through the stacks and make me feel like I’m aboard some sort of non-metaphorical frigate.

But one of the things I like best about the Mechanics’ Institute is its odd collection, which includes books written by the ghost of Oscar Wilde, as well as volumes on cocktail-crafting written by mid-century flâneurs. This collection, as it turns out, is pretty thin on  the Canadian Children’s Lit front, with two exceptions: an annotated edition Anne of Green Gables, and a copy of Grey Owl’s Tales From an Empty Cabin, which has been on the shelves since 1937.

(Another thing I love about the Mechanics’ Institute? They still stamp books when you check them out. There’s my stamp at the bottom of the third column, just inches away from the stamp from the first time the book was checked out, in January 1937 — Probably pretty soon after it was purchased, if the stamp on the opposite page means what I think it does. And don’t worry — I renewed my book online. It isn’t overdue).

And while I’m showing you scans of the book’s interior, I might as well show you Grey Owl himself, as he appears opposite the book’s title page.

If you’re thinking that Grey Owl looks more like Bill Nighy than any non-Englishman has any business looking, you’re on to something. Grey Owl, revered in his lifetime as an ambassador for both Canada’s First Nations culture and conservation, was born Archibald Stansfeld Belaney near Hastings, England, a fact not made public until after his death.

The revelation dimmed Grey Owl’s star for quite some time, until renewed interest in his conservation work revived his popularity in the 1970’s. But Grey Owl remains a controversial and difficult figure, embodying both the lingering effects of the British colonization of Canada and the preservation of First Nations culture.

I’ll admit I approached the book with a measure of scorn (So you’re an Indian, are you, Archie?). But reading the stories in Tales from an Empty Cabin, I found myself being drawn further into Grey Owl’s world, into Canada’s disappearing frontier and the people — be they First Nations families clinging to their traditional ways, white fur trappers, or Englishmen in search of a more authentic existence — who made it their home. Grey Owl’s stories capture that, with a sensitive, if sometimes a bit grandiose, voice that conveys a genuine love for Canada’s disappearing traditions and wilderness.

Grey Owl was a complicated man, one who learned the Ojibwe language and was accepted into their culture, living as one of them for many years. Was he a fraud because he lied about his origins (claiming to be the child of a Scottish father and an Apache mother), or did his authentically Canadian — if not First Nations — life transcend his English origins?

This is a difficult book, not just because the prose is written in a style that probably seemed dated fifty years ago. But it is a good book, and one that tells us stories that do belong in any examination of Canada’s history, even if not all those stories are ones the author intended to tell.

Young readers in love with the wilderness and interested in life in the woods before the invention of the SUV will enjoy this book, as will older readers interested in questions of identity, nationhood, and storytelling. Recommending this book, however, seems tricky — it’s not exactly First Nations, though it does tell stories from and about First Nations cultures. It’s not exactly for children, though children may very well enjoy it.

Ultimately, I think this is a book that finds its own readers, be they bored children spending a rainy afternoon in an old summer home, or students of history on the lookout for something that captures a moment in a nations history summed up in the life of one man. The prose is complicated but readable, and it does deserve to be read, on its own or within the full context of Grey Owl’s history.

A Man Called Raven, by Richard Van Camp, illustrated by George Littlechild • Children’s Book Press, 1997. 32 Pages.

From the same writing and illustration team that created What’s the Most Beautiful Thing You Know About Horses, A Man Called Raven is a more straightforward story than Horses, following two brothers who encounter a mysterious stranger after they attack a raven with an old hockey stick. The stranger tells them a story about ravens, and challenges the boys’ perspective on the world and their place within it.

The story is well-told, and Littlechild’s colorful illustrations provide a fitting take on a story that is both magical and modern, applying timeless legends with the everyday choices children make about how to live and work in the world. I’m a huge fan of both Van Camp and Littlechild’s work, and though What’s the Most Beautiful Thing You Know About Horses is still my most favorite, A Man Called Raven has its own undeniable magic.

Recommended for readers 10-12, A Man Called Raven should appeal to readers who enjoy myths and legends and those concerned with animal welfare and ecology, as well as readers interested in First Nations and Native American culture.

The Root Cellar, by Janet Lunn • Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1983. 229 pages.

Time is not kind to library books. Their corners and edges get dirty and worn, smudges mysteriously appear on covers and spines and never completely go away.

And then there’s the design of the books themselves. Book covers date so quickly, particularly ones that show kids wearing contemporary clothes (Though now that I think about it, my fashion sense was shaped by the twenty-years-out-of-date clothes featured on the covers of some of my favorite books growing up. Plus classic Doctor Who).

So I worry about the San Francisco Public Library’s copy of The Root Cellar. Published in 1983 and saddled with an (in my opinion) charmingly dated pink and green cover, it sits between two more recently published — and far snazzier looking — books by the same author. Can children look beyond its retro patina and see the wonders within? I hope so. I know I just had to take it home and love it up a bit.

The book tells the story of Rose, an orphan (a red headed orphan, no less!) sent to live with her aunt’s family in southern Ontario after the death of her grandmother. Well cared for but never shown much affection, Rose is initially put off by her aunt and her rambunctious boys, and by the ramshackle old house they all live in. She keeps meeting people that no one else will acknowledge, and who seem to disappear in ways that don’t quite make sense.

Then Rose discovers an old root cellar, and when she comes up, it’s the summer of 1862. She meets Susan and Will, the boy who lives in the house and the hired girl who works there, and as the summer continues, she becomes more and more involved in their lives, two hundred years before her own time.

Reading this book, I felt myself going into a time warp of sorts — I wans’t sure if I’d read it, years ago, or if Ruby and her story just seemed familiar because I’d been reading so many time travel stories of late. Regardless, it was a good story, and well told, with vivid depictions of both the real and present world.

Readers from 3rd grade up to 6th grade, will enjoy this book, particularly fans of Kit Pearson and other purveyors of fantastical stories. Fans of another red-headed Canadian orphan might also enjoy the book — there’s something of Anne in the fantastic stories Rose tells Susan and Will, though in Rose’s case, imagination has nothing to do with it. (Which makes me wonder: is Anne of 2010 AD the next Pride and Prejudice and Zombies?)

Destination Gold, by Julie Lawson • Orca Books, 2000. 210 pages.

As a Californian, I can be a bit myopic about the gold rush. Wasn’t it something grizzled men in overalls did before founding the Mechanics’ Institute, inventing the cable car, and establishing a football team?

But, of course, Canada had one, too. And that’s where 16-year-old Ned Turner is headed. It’s 1897, he’s supporting his mother and sister following his father’s death, and the Yukon holds the promise of easy gold, free for the taking.

Of course, things aren’t nearly that simple. Almost immediately, Ned falls in with a fellow traveler whose offer to show Ned the ropes seems to steer Ned directly into trouble. And the trail is long and hard, giving lie to the promise of easy money.

Interwoven with Ned’s story is that of his sister, Sarah, and of a strange girl named Catherine, who’s determination to reach the Yukon is fueled by a desire to leave her past behind.

I was honestly surprised by the brutality of this book. The trail north is harsh and remorseless, and Lawson spares little detail of the cruelty heaped upon both man and beast by both the wilderness and their fellow travelers. Though Ned, Catherine, and Sarah survive and even flourish, their journey is by no means an easy one, and sensitive readers (like me!) might need to take a breather from time to time.

Despite its occasional harshness, this book is appropriate for middle schoolers (honestly, I sometimes think middle schoolers are better equipped than adults for this sort of thing — they’re no strangers to man’s inhumanity to man!). Both boys and girls should find plenty of characters to root for here, and villains to hiss at. Girls especially will enjoy how much better suited Sarah turns out to be for life on the frontier compared to her brother. The book also brings to life a significant moment in the history of western North America, making it a valuable educational resource as well as a gripping read.

What if…? Amazing Stories, selected by Monica Hughes • Tundra Books, 1998. 199 pages.

I don’t often balk at a book’s cover, but this one gave me pause. With an illustration that probably looked dated when the book was published in the late nineties and a font that screams “I was hip once, you whippersnappers,” the book reminded me of everything I didn’t like about 1998. Or maybe everything I liked a little *too* much. No, I don’t want to put on gold lamé bellbottoms and throw a rave in the dorm’s common room, thankyouverymuch.

But my design-related post traumatic stress aside, this is a very good book. Centered around the theme of the “fantastical, the highly improbable, and the seemingly impossible,” it includes stories ranging from fantasy to science fiction and even mild horror (more ghost stories than gore).

Short works from Canadian authors ranging from Allison Baird to Tim Wynne-Jones tell stories that alternate from heartbreakingly tragic to eerily crafted and even downright funny. “The Tunnel,” the third story in the volume and written by Sarah Ellis, made it hard to fall asleep last night. Lesley Choyce’s “Book of Days,” the book’s final tale, had me in tears. Forget Canadian, forget fantastic. These stories are just plain good.

Fans of Ray Bradbury’s Martian Chronicles and The Illustrated Man will enjoy the light fantastic touch in a lot of these stories. Readers who enjoyed the light spookiness of Paul Yee’s stories will find a lot to love here, too. Though I definitely enjoyed some stories more than others, there were no weak links here. Recommended for middle schoolers and teens.

As Long as the Rivers Flow, by Larry Loyie, with Constance Brissenden, illustrated by Heather D. Holmlund • Douglas & McIntyre. 48 pages.

It’s the summer of 1944, and ten-year-old Lawrence is becoming a young man. He’s learning the old ways of his people, sitting quietly enough to fool a beaver into not seeing him, caring for a baby owl, and helping his mother smoke hide. But this way of life is soon coming to an end — Lawrence overhears talk that he and the other children will be sent to school, where they will have to speak English, and live away from their families.

As Long as the Rivers Flow presents a child’s-eye view of a lost way of life, simply and matter-of-factly conveying the day-to-day reality of traditional Cree life. The reality of Canada’s residential schools, and their disruptive effect on this traditional lifestyle, is imparted not only in the story, but through the pictures as well, as expressive watercolors give way to black-and-white photos from the author’s own childhood in a residential school (sort of like a reverse journey to Oz).

Readers seven through twelve will enjoy their time in Lawrence’s traditional Cree childhood, and feel a sense of loss experienced as those traditions are forcefully taken from Lawrence and his siblings. This book both teaches and tells a story, providing a much-needed perspective on an important period in First Nations history.