Archive for the ‘Children's books’ Category

DSCN7068“When the girl returned, some hours later, she carried a tray, with a cup of fragrant tea steaming on it; and a plate piled up with very hot buttered toast, cut thick, very brown on both sides, with the butter running through the holes in great golden drops, like honey from the honeycomb. The smell of that buttered toast simply talked to Toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cosy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one’s ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender, of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries.”
― Kenneth Grahame, The Wind in the Willows

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There is only one kind of love, but there are a thousand different versions.  

La Rochefoucauld (1613-1680)

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The Country by Billy Collins15798111

I wondered about you
when you told me never to leave
a box of wooden, strike-anywhere matches
lying around the house because the mice

might get into them and start a fire.
But your face was absolutely straight
when you twisted the lid down on the round tin
where the matches, you said, are always stowed.

Who could sleep that night?
Who could whisk away the thought
of the one unlikely mouse
padding along a cold water pipe

behind the floral wallpaper
gripping a single wooden match
between the needles of his teeth?
Who could not see him rounding a corner,

the blue tip scratching against a rough-hewn beam,
the sudden flare, and the creature
for one bright, shining moment
suddenly thrust ahead of his time—

now a fire-starter, now a torchbearer
in a forgotten ritual, little brown druid
illuminating some ancient night.
Who could fail to notice,

lit up in the blazing insulation,
the tiny looks of wonderment on the faces
of his fellow mice, onetime inhabitants
of what once was your house in the country?

The Mice Hear Simpkin Outside circa 1902 by Helen Beatrix Potter 1866-1943

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Calla lilies and greens in vaseChristmastide flowed gently here on the Cutoff, and we now find ourselves at Epiphany. I’m sure the three “wiseguys” would not have travelled through so many feet of snow and double digit, negative, temperatures to bring their honorable gifts. I started this post nearly a week ago, and here I am, revising it yet again before it goes out on the virtual waves of blogdom.

Our Christmastide activities were somewhat restricted as Tom recovered from surgery, however, we were gifted with more time to enjoy our decorations, holiday music,  movies and the gentle solitude for much of the season.

Personally, I have had more time to read mid-afternoon, teacup in hand, a Christmas cookie swiftly disintegrating into crumbs down my sweater. Somehow, the trappings about me seemed softer, my angel collection sweeter, and the smallest moments crisper.

I had time to peruse my collection of Christmas books at a more leisurely length, enjoying lush volumes with holiday decorations and traditions, reading the treasures of children’s books accrued, and revisiting longtime favorites, such as “One Christmas”, Truman Capote’s memoirs of a childhood Christmas and Philip Van Doren Stern’s “The Greatest Gift”, upon which my favorite movie, “It’s a Wonderful Life”,  was based.  If you haven’t discovered either of these gems, you must put them wherever all good book lists go, perhaps in abeyance for next December.

M. C. Beaton kept me entertained, as only she can, with a light Hamish MacBeth Christmas mystery, “A Highland Christmas”,  and I managed to rip through Alan Bennett’s delicious novella, “The Uncommon Reader”, which was a Christmas gift. Have you read this charming and funny story about how the Queen upsets the well-ordered royal apple cart when she starts spending all her time reading? Not known for literary pursuits, her staff, the prime minister, and the Bishop of Canterbury don’t know what to make of her and measures are, um, taken.

I’ve also enjoyed Bess Streeter Aldrich’s collection of short stories, “Journey Into Christmas”, which I first discovered through Nan’s blog, Letters from a Hill Farm. You can find her post about it here. Do wander around her blog where she writes about books, poetry, life on their farm, and often posts the best recipes.

Journey into Christmas

“Journey Into Christmas” was a present one Christmas. I enjoyed some of the stories then, but this year I delved deeper into this collection of homespun stories of simpler times and the soul of Christmas. I was so moved by one of Bess Aldrich’s stories about a family’s hard times at Christmas on the prairie and how the characters made “the best of it” that off to the library I went on New Year’s Eve day to check out her novel, “A Lantern in her Hand”. I ended up returning home with four of Aldrich’s books, which include two volumes of her short stories and essays.

The novel, “A Lantern in her Hand” is based on Aldrich’s own family stories of homesteading on the Nebraska prairie. It $(KGrHqQOKosFG-BUOBtpBR4)r(3JIw~~60_35brings to mind the Little House books, which you know how much I love. As I sit here, finishing up a post that has taken a pilgrimage of time to publish, I am warm and safe in our home amid this deep freeze we, and much of the United States, are in. Our shelves and freezer are full. We have any number of ways of communication at our fingertips, one of which I am employing right now. These are factual stories of a time that seems simpler, but, of course, really were not. I can only imagine the loneliness that must have hung over so many during the devastating winters of the early 1870’s, and truly admire the determination and pure grit that came to be known as the pioneering spirit.

I’ve not minded this gentle flowing Christmastide, with my Tom and my books and my comfort. I’ll hang on to it for a few more days.

Have you read any stories by Bess Streeter Aldrich?

Do you have a favorite or new Christmastide read?

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3992wein_code_name_verity-1“Code Name Verity” by Elizabeth Wein, is a masterpiece of historical fiction, deceptively categorized as Young Adult fiction. It begins “I AM A COWARD” as Verity writes on pieces of paper from a once elegant French hotel, now Gestapo headquarters, where she is being held and tortured after the plane she was ferried in crashes in a French field. It is the fall of 1943.  To stay alive, Verity, a  wireless operator, is penning British code secrets. Each secret she exposes gives her back an article of clothing. She is shunned by other prisoners as she tells her story, Under the watchful eyes of Fräulein Engel, who must translate her writing into German, Verity buys time before her eminent execution, as she weaves a tale of friendship with Maddie, the dead pilot.

Verity, aka Queenie, and Maddie have a friendship unlikely in 1943. Verity has royal blood dating back to Mary Queen of Scots and William Wallace. Her life has been one of culture and finishing schools. Maddie is the daughter of immigrant Russian Jews. She can dismantle an engine, and put it back together; a precise mechanic who dreams of becoming a pilot. One girl becomes a secret agent, the other becomes an aviator, ferrying spies and resistance fighters. It is their friendship that gives them hope and the strength to do what needs to be done. That friendship made me laugh, gasp and it made me cry as much as it made me marvel at the human spirit.

The first half of the book is told through Verity/Queenie’s writing, which begins first on the hotel stationery, then on recipe cards, musical scores, even on prescription pads that bear the name of a Jewish doctor. Through her writing, Verity gives away war secrets as she tells her and Maddie’s story. She also, almost casually, comments on the torture she is subjected to, or of the torture to others that she is forced to witness. With very little description, the horrors of being a prisoner of war are revealed.

Abruptly, Verity’s story ends, and another’s begins, picking up the pace, revealing all manner of clues that were always in Verity’s writing.  To tell you much more would be to expose the whole story. It is the one conundrum that almost every review I read about “Code Name Verity” expresses.  This is a tightly wound tale – and you will not realize how tight it is until this point in the book.  I simply could not put it down, so riveted was I to these pages.

I wish there was a different way to categorize books in the young adult category. YA covers anything between the ages of 12 – 18, though I’ve seen the category go up to 25. That is huge range of skill, knowledge, reading maturity, and it is so confusing. “Code Name Verity” will be found in the young adult section of your library. Don’t be fooled. While it is aimed at readers younger than perhaps you or I, it is a book that is very much for adults as well.  It is in paperback, and, depending on where you call home, has several different dust jackets. I did not like the one pictured here, which is the cover on the copy I read. After I read “Code Name Verity”, I felt it was a fitting cover, after all.

I encourage you to give “Code Name Verity” a try.

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250px-Sadako_and_the_thousand_paper_cranes_00A Thousand Splendid Suns

Anne of a Thousand Days

The 1,000 crane legend

One Thousand White Women; The Journal of May Dodd

Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes

A Thousand Days:  John F. Kennedy in the White House

One Thousand. A pretty large number for a gal who lives along a winding road that is, in fact cut off. It is a number that I never imagined accumulating when, on a Saturday afternoon in October  of 2009, I sat down, turned on the computer, and thought “I think I’ll write a blog”. I had no idea how to begin, or where I was going. It took me quite a few posts to figure out how to add an image, then a photo, and, joy supreme, when I finally figured out how to download music. For someone technically challenged, it was, well, it was a challenge, indeed.

Slowly, I found you and you found me – and here I sit on my one thousandth blog! Wow! Yikes! Shazaam! OMG! etc., etc., etc.

To each of you who take the time to stop by and visit here on the Cutoff, one thousand thanks and thousands more. You have enriched my life, become my friends, and have followed me along this road called life.

Now, a challenge; can you think of a title to a book, a movie, a song, whatever you choose that has 1,000 in it?

Here’s a song that Tom remembered.

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200px-CharlotteWebThere is a rhythm to making tea that I enjoy; water plinking into the kettle, the tick, tick, tick of the flame igniting, the blue haze of warmth, followed by the slow roll of water, slowly picking up steam. It is my early morning routine. Tom usually sets the kettle up, along with a cup and saucer, before I come down the stairs. They patiently wait for me each morning. The least I can do is patiently wait for the water to boil.

This morning, I wandered, looking out windows and doors to see what wonders nature performed while we slept – or what pots the chipmunks had been rummaging around in. The pots on our deck were looking a little worse for the wear after yesterday’s heat. Still in my pajamas and not wanting to haul the garden hose around, I grabbed the newly emptied milk carton that was sitting, with the same morning patience as  my teacup, to be recycled.  I filled it up with water, opened the door to the deck, and watered my thirsty plants; the hanging petunias, the upright salvias and Lantana, and the sprawling morning glories, which we boasting a few heavenly blue blooms.

Zeus and Athena, two hanging wall pots with the faces of ancient gods, were last on my quest. High up the bricks, they are a little tricky for any heavy watering container, so, are usually the last to get drinks. As I stepped up on the riser, I was enveloped in sticky webbing. The spiders, I thought, are out a bit early, weaving their webs.

I went inside, my tea perfectly brewed, the computer alert and humming, my new day beginning. It was then that I discover that today  is the birthday of E.B. White, the author of Charlotte’s Web.

Of course, but of course, the spiders were out, spinning a morning web in honor of Mr. White’s birthday.

Now, where did I put my copy.

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