NoraSawyer.com

Dust, by Arthur Slade • Wendy Lamb Books, 2003.

So much for judging a book by its cover! I picked up Dust expecting Steinbeck, and I got Ray Bradbury instead (though at second glance, that iridescent butterfly should have clued me in that something more-than-naturalism was afoot). The book was, for lack of a better word, mesmerizing. I picked it up intending to kill a few minutes reading the first couple of pages, and didn’t look up again until I’d swallowed it whole.

The story follows Robert, a young boy in rural Saskatchewan whose younger brother Michael disappears mysteriously one morning while walking to town alone. Michael’s disappearance is sudden and traumatic, but after the arrival of a mysterious stranger, Robert’s parents — along with most of the other adults in town — become oddly passive, eventually seeming to forget Michael entirely.

The book’s atmosphere aptly captures the somnambulant horror of the adults’ passivity, and Robert’s imaginative and far-seeing sense of the true dangers at play. As a reader, I sympathized with Robert’s lonely pursuit of truth, and loved the way he seemed, at times, to see the symbolic truth of the world, rather than the literal reality around him.

Children (and adults) who enjoy the magical prairie realism of Ray Bradbury or the spooky small town stories of John Bellairs will love Dust. I could see recommending this book to children as young as ten, though I imagine it finding its broadest audience in 7th graders on up to highschoolers.

Wondrous Strange, by Lesley Livingston• HarperCollins, 2009

There’s something to be said for ebooks — I downloaded this one from my library, and I have to say, with the borderline Twilight-meets-bosom-heaver cover, I’m not sure I’d have taken the genuine, real world book-book off the shelves.

But I’m glad I got my hands on it one way or the other. Wondrous Strange traces the journey of Kelley Winslow, an aspiring actress and headstrong orphan who has moved to New York City to pursue her acting career. All of seventeen, Kelley is thrust into the spotlight (quite literally) when the actress playing Titania in the way-way-off-Broadway production of Midsummer Night’s Dream she’s the understudy for breaks her leg. Despite her jitters, Kelley’s a natural for the role, a fact that becomes more and more apparent as strange things begin to happen all around her, from the horse that follows her home one night and takes up residence in her bathtub to the handsome and mysterious stranger who seems to be following her — and a little afraid of her as well.

Granted, this doesn’t sound all *that* far removed from the Twilight-verse, what with the destiny and the handsome strangers and the teenage girls with no parents to speak of. But several things kept the story from being just another teen romance with supernatural overtones. For one thing, this time it’s the female lead with the mysterious powers and the ability to save the day in the end (take that, sparkle vampire!). And for another, well, there’s Shakespeare in it. You really can’t get too far off the deep end, cheese-wise, when you’ve got the Bard on your side, and I loved the way that Livingston breathed life into some of the Midsummer Night’s characters.

One thing did bother me: Why did Livingson, “a writer and actress living in Toronto,” according to her about the author blurb, choose to set the story in New York (and why does every story take place in New York, as one of my MFA classmates used to moan during critiques.)? I mean, I get that it’s the city for actors and other dreamers, and it makes sense, in many ways, that the story is set there, but I couldn’t help but wish that the author had set the story in her native Toronto. I mean, if the actors there are writing stories like this, the city must have something magical going for it, right?

Teens — girls, especially — with a theatrical or creative bent will love this story. I could see it serving as either a gateway drug for Shakespeare, or a welcome refuge for those dreamy bookish girls who already know and love A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Sadly, even though there’s a well-written male lead and plenty of non-smootchy action, I can’t see very many teen boys getting past the cover. Though they might enjoy the e-book.

Starclimber, by Kenneth Oppel • Harper, 2009

Ok, it’s official: My name is Nora, and I’m a Kenneth Oppel addict. I started with Airborn, which had to read for school (had to! My hands were tied!). That was quickly followed by Skybreaker, and finally, FINALLY, when some snot-nosed kid returned it to the San Francisco Public Library, by Starclimber, which I devoured in one go this morning, not moving from my spot in the backyard until the book was finished, my nose was sunburned, and the dog had started to question whether he would ever get his walkies.

Like Airborn and Skybreaker, Starclimber follows the adventures of aspiring air pilot Matt Cruse and Kate de Vries, an heiress-cum-wildlife biologist with a taste for adventure. As usual, the two are thrown together in a situation that tests their romantic bond and their mettle, this time aboard the first astralnaut ship, a vessel in keeping with Oppel’s steampunk 19th-century Canada.

For some reason, I was more conscious this time through of the full political picture on Oppel’s Canada-centric Steampunk universe. “Lion’s Gate City,” a thinly-disguised Vancouver, is mentioned as “the brightest light” in North America when seen from space, and the space race in Oppel’s universe is between France and Canada, powered not by rockets and cold war technology, but by electricity, space elevators, and towers to the stars.

Though certain aspects of Kate and Matt’s adventures seemed a bit formulaic at this point (”C’mon, Matt,” I found myself muttering “there’s never really a romantic rival”), their banter still seems fresh, and, as I noted above, I couldn’t put the story down, no matter what the cost to my complexion. The added treat of nods to our Canada (including a surprise appearance by Emily Carr) made the book all the more enjoyable.

Like Airborn and Skybreaker, Starclimber is one of those wonderful YA novels that is complex yet subtle, drawing readers in with a fast-paced and vividly told story while trusting the reader to make connections and appreciate the full complexity of its imagined world. The characters are three dimensional, with real and complex problems. Readers ten and up should enjoy all three books, and I’d imagine that even younger readers and their parents will find the stories enjoyable. I’m sorry to have reached the end.

The Gryphon Project, by Carrie Mac * Puffin Canada, 2009

Phoenix lives in a world not too far removed from our own.  She goes to school, idolizes her big brother, and tries not to dwell too much on her own death. It’s difficult though; she’s died twice, and her best friend can be clueless about what a sensitive subject her ‘death days’ are.

In The Gryphon Project, Mac has created an entirely believable universe where classes are sharply divided by how many ‘recons’ a person gets (the highest up are the threefers, who are brought back three times if they die before their time, right on down to the nofers, who live on the fringes of society, and once they’re dead, are dead forever.

When Phoenix’s brother Gryphon dies in a mysterious accident, she’s forced to confront the rules that determine who lives and who dies. The private company that owns the technology that controls recons, Chrysalis, believes Gryphon’s death to have been a suicide, meaning he might stay dead forever. Phoenix must discover what really happened, a quest that brings her face to face with the underlying injustices of the recon system.

This book was engrossing, the kind of story that sneaks into your thoughts and has you sneaking off for surreptitious reads throughout the day. I picked it up randomly at a bookstore while I was up visiting my grandmother in Vancouver, lured more by the bright orange “Canadian Author!” sticker than anything else.

But once I picked the book up, I couldn’t put it down. It deals with subjects I could talk about for days (the inequity of medical care, the ethics of extending life, the dicey confusion of life inside high school clique), and it does so in a fast paced, engaging, and most importantly non-didactic way (there’s nothing I hate more than a book that’s blatantly trying to teach me a lesson). Though set in a future world, the situations the characters face are believable, and have clear parallels in the contemporary world, making them seem all the more immediate.

The Gryphon Project deals with some heavy subject matter, but nothing that adolescents can’t handle, and nothing they aren’t already preoccupied by (death, love, and injustice? Welcome to the mind of a sixth grader). The publisher’s website recommends the book for readers ages twelve and up, and I have to agree — I could easily recommend this book to sixth graders on through adults particularly those who enjoy sci-fi with a bit social commentary thrown in, such as Scott Westerfield’s Uglies or John Christopher’s White Mountains trilogy.

Last Wednesday night, at approximately 7:00 PM, my grandmother lost her mind. This isn’t news, really; she’s been losing it, on and off, since she was first diagnosed with dementia a few years back. But this time it was on my watch, at the kitchen table where I used to munch on homemade granola while trying to decipher the French side of a billingual Cheerios box.

The last few days had been rough on grandma. She had a wax buildup in her ears, and the drops we’d put in in anticipation of her doctor’s appointment had only served to further clog things up, cutting her off completely. I’d taken to writing her notes to keep her up to speed on the days events, a slow, awkward practice that had been all but useless at her optometrist’s appointment earlier that day.

At six, Grandma woke from her afternoon nap in tears. I hugged her, shushing into her hair as if she were a small child. “What’s wrong?” I asked. I broke away and ran for the notebook. WHATS WRONG, I wrote.

“What’s Wrong!?” Grandma repeated, her hair wild, “What’s wrong is that this horrible tragedy has befallen our family!”

This happens a lot. A few years ago, grandma woke up in tears, convinced that my Aunt Carol and Uncle Michael had committed joint suicide. Since then, she’s been convinced that each family member has, at one time or another, died, usually horribly and usually by their own hand. Last Christmas, I got a phone call from her. She was convinced my boyfriend, Brian, had killed himself. “Congratulations, honey,” I told him later. “You’re family.”

Anyway, through written notes and handsigns, grandma’s caregiver and I managed to urge her downstairs to dinner. Apollonia, the caregiver, had made chicken and rice for grandma, and had heated up some leftover ravioli for me (I’m a vegetarian).

“Some people told me,” grandma said, “that all the food from yesterday was poisoned.”

“Apollonia just made this,” I said. And then I wrote, NOT FROM YESTERDAY. THIS IS ALL FRESH.

“Anyone could be a poisoner,” grandma said. “I have to watch everyone. Even you,” she said, pointing an accusing finger at Apollonia. “The sweetest smiles can sometimes hide the darkest hearts.” Apollonia’s smile faded.

“The food is fine,” I shouted. THE FOOD IS FINE, I wrote. APOLLONIA IS HERE TO HELP.

It bothers me sometimes how grandma treats her caregivers. She’s often polite, quietly following their instructions and letting them do thier thing. When she’s upset, though, she can explode, accusing them of interfering at best and diabolical intentions at the worst.

“It is her illness,” her weekend caregiver Emilie said to me yesterday. “But you’re human. Sometimes, when she is mean, you can’t help but be hurt.”

So I wish I’d stood up for Apollonia. I wish I’d told my grandmother that she shouldn’t say that, that Apollonia had been cooking for an hour. I wish I’d told her how Apollonia brought me a fresh mango when she came back from her break, and how I’d pretended, for a moment, that I was Apollonia’s granddaughter, safe and secure in the kitchen with a grandmother who still thought about me as someone who needed coddling. But in the moment, all my attention was on grandma.

Eventually, I managed to coax her to eat some crackers, and then some chicken and rice, and a bowl of ice cream with strawberries. But she was still worried, about my Aunt Lynn (”she works too much”), about her appointment with the eye doctor (”Are you sure he didn’t say I had cancer? And he asked so many questions about the family history — more than would be normal”) and about my cousin Nicky, who for some reason she was convinced was facing racial discrimination at school (”It’s so terrible,” she said. “They want everyone to be white and protestant.” “But we are white and protestant!” I replied. And then I wrote it down, because she couldn’t hear me).

This went on for quite a while, culminating with her and me searching the attic for the man she thought she had showed around the house one night when my uncle Brian was here (”It was very late,” she said, “but Brian is a sound sleeper”).

I’ve noticed that when she worries like this, she tends to not only cry a bit, but breathe heavily as well, in short, shallow breaths, a primal sort of reaction to the adrenaline conjured up by her fears. I tried to comfort her as best I could, and she really did seem to calm down, even though I don’t think I assuaged her worries at all.

The mistake I always make is thinking I can fix my grandmother, coax her back and convince her to stay. Though the next morning, when she finally woke up, she was better — so good that, when bedtime came, I didn’t want to let her go — there is no keeping her. Bad dreams disturb her sleep, leaching into her days and clouding her memories with tragedy and worry. The ghost wins again.

Inferno, by Robin Stevenson • Orca Publishing

Readers of this blog (if I do decide to make my Reading Log posts public instead of just saving them for my professor), have probably already guessed that I’m a little obsessed with Dante’s Divine Comedy. I’ve got more translations than anyone should reasonably own, I turn to the Inferno for comfort and guidance when I’m feeling gloomy. Heck, I even did my undergraduate thesis on Dante. So when I learned that a book called Inferno, starring a female protagonist named Dante, had won was a finalist for the BC Library Association’s Sheila A. Egoff Children’s Literature Prize? I had to check it out.

And Dante (or Emily, as her mother and teachers insist on calling her, despite her name change) is a girl after my own heart. Frustrated with life in the suburbs, feeling trapped in school and missing her best friend/girl friend, who has moved away and is ignoring her Facebook missives, she turns to Dante’s Inferno for solace. It’s not that she’s blindly raging (though she does rage to her maddeningly unsympathetic English teacher that “this place is hell”). Rather, she sees Dante’s hell as a story that calls for responsibility, for self awareness, and for a justice that transcends the desire for revenge or comeuppance. In short, it’s a healthy, helpful book for a high school girl to be reading.

One of the themes of Dante’s Divine Comedy is that no one is saved — no one makes it through life, or to the better parts of the afterlife, alone. Without Virgil, Dante would have never been able to make it out of his dark wood. Without Beatrice, he would be unable to gaze upon the perfect spheres of heaven. And when Stevenson’s teen Dante meets a girl named Parker, who appears first handing out anarchist literature at her school and later at a support group for teen girls, she begins a journey as well, one she could never — or perhaps would never — have taken on her own.

This was a great read, well paced and well written, with compelling characters and situations that, while extraordinary, never seemed unbelievable. Stevenson captures the high emotions of high school, alongside strong, believable relationships and a protagonist who acts rashly at times, but always maintains a strong inner core I’d be proud to emulate now, never mind when I was a teenager! I’d recommend it to high schoolers and adults.

Arctic Stories by Michael Arvaarluk Kusugak, illustrated by Vladyana Langer Krykorka • Annick Press, Ltd., 1998. 40 pages.

Agatha lives in Repulse Bay, in Canada’s Arctic Circle. Her tenth year turns out to be pretty eventful: She saves her community from a giant flying object, befriends a bird, and even goes to school, leaving her small community for the larger English-speaking world.

Told with humor and illustrated with whimsical, welcoming pictures, Arctic Stories is a very approachable book. Mining incidents from the author’s own life, the book gets the experience of being a child right; Agatha is sympathetic and believable, and though her circumstances might be outside the experience of many readers, her experiences seem universal and relatable.

Recommended for readers grades 2-4 by the School Library Journal, these stories are simply and evocatively told, with a glossary of Inuit terms and plenty of context clues to help readers figure out unfamiliar words and phrases. Children interested in traditional lifestyles of the Arctic (how do you keep your socks from freezing when you’re sleeping in an igloo?), and readers looking for stories that range from anecdotal to outright heroic will enjoy this book.

So, I’m up in Vancouver at my grandma’s, and even though I’m happy to be here, there are some definite lags in the conversation — Grandma’s in her own world a lot of the time, and I’m often at a loss to draw her out.

I usually turn to old photo albums. I worry that I’m boring her, though — we have the same conversations about the same photos, and even though I enjoy hearing family stories, I sometimes wonder if her dementia’s not as bad as it seems & she’s just humoring me. Like maybe she thinks I’m simple.

Anyway, tonight we were looking at some pictures of her as a girl, and I asked about the dog she was holding. We’d talked about it before, but never got past its name until tonight. “Oh, Poochie ran away,” she said. “I was actually kind of relieved.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Yeah, he gave my dad asthma, and he never behaved. I thought it would be easier. See, there was this movie about a very glamorous husband and wife who solve mysteries…”

“THE THIN MAN!” (Good thing grandma’s deaf. I really shouted).

“Yes! The Thin Man. They had this little dog that was so well behaved.”

Anyway, I’m going to try and find a rental place that I can run over to while grandma’s napping tomorrow. Hurrah for Myrna Loy!

Last night, I was playing Quiddler with grandma and her caregiver Emily. The game is a lot like scrabble: Each player gets 5 cards with letters on them and has to try and make a word.

When grandma’s turn came, she stared at her cards for a while, looking increasingly upset. Finally, she said, “I think when we were at the florist today, she said something.”

“Really?” I asked, worried that she’d say the florist had told her the hosta were poisonous, or that the playing cards had been treated with arsenic.

“Yes,” she said. “I think she showed me a plant, and its name was Q-U-O-E-G.”

Skybreaker, by Kenneth Oppel • Harpercollins 2005

After finishing Kenneth Oppel’s Airborn, I was almost afraid to look online. I wonder if he’s written anything else? I thought, without much real hope. I wonder if maybe there’s a sequel?

Reader? There’s a sequel. And, miracle of miracles, the library had a copy. And it was in. Not just yes-here-it-is-on-the-computer in, either, but actual, on the shelf and in my tote bag IN.

The book finds Matt Cruse, Airborn’s cabin boy hero, enrolled in the Airship Academy and serving aboard a cargo ship. A freak storm brings him face to face with a long-lost airship — the almost mythic Hyperion. Soon, he’s teamed up again with Kate de Vries, who is convinced the Hyperion contains a wealth of zoological and scientific samples, as well as a band of other adventurers, each with their own motivations for finding the lost ship.

I’m trying not to give too much away here, because everything in Skybreaker is a delight, including watching the strands of the plot unspool and come together. There are some echoes of Airborn in the plot structure, and perhaps a few things come together a little too neatly, but overall, this is a great, dare I say rip-roaring, read.

I’d recommend this series to readers ten and up, especially reluctant readers looking for something approachable. Both Airborn and Skybreaker are cinematic in scope, with relatable characters an exhilaratingly paced plot. These are the kinds of books that make for life-long readers!