Maggie Reads

Wonder (copy)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Moran) — Wed, 15 May 2013 16:46:00 +0000

My mom tells a funny story about the day I was born. It isn’t like “Ha! Ha!” but more like the way she tells it. See, I am a little disfigured on my face. I have had 27 surgeries to correct some of the flaws, but now that I am older, 10 years to be exact, the doctor promises he can reduce the number to two a year.

“So when I was in mom’s stomach, no one had an idea I would come out looking the way I look. Mom had had Via four years before, and that had been a ‘walk in the park’ (Mom’s expression) that there was no reason to run any special tests. About two months before I was born, the doctors realized there was something wrong with my face, but they didn’t think it was going to be bad. They told Mom and Dad I had a cleft palate and some other stuff going on. They called it ‘small anomalies.’”

The night I was born, mom’s regular doctor was not on duty. There was this pimple nosed skinny doctor working that my parents called Doogie after some old TV show. Two nurses waited on my mom and she said one was nice and sweet and the other was not nice and sweet.

Here is the funny thing. The not very nice and sweet nurse kept farting. She would give mom some ice chips and fart. She would check her blood pressure then fart. What is more incredible, mom said this big armed nurse never apologized for the behavior. She would just drop a bomb and walk off. Mom and dad were cracking up.

When I finally arrived the whole room became silent. The nice nurse grabbed me and ran out into the hall. Dad followed her out and dropped the video camera that smashed to pieces. Mom got upset and tried to get up but the not so nice nurse held her down with her big old arms.

They were practically fighting. Mom would yell at the nurse and the nurse would yell back and finally they both yelled for the doctor who was on the floor having fainted after my birth. This upset the not so nice nurse more and she started kicking him which released one of the biggest farts on record. So much so it woke the doctor up!

It turns out the farting nurse wasn’t so bad after all. The doctors came back into the room and told my mom that I was very sick and I may not make it through the night. That is when the nurse whispered in my mom’s ear, “Everyone born of God overcometh the world.” This same nurse held my mother’s hand when they introduced me the next morning.

Wonder by R.J. Palacio is not to be missed. It is a book both adult and tween and all those ages in between can enjoy. Auggie, our fifth grade hero, keeps the story funny and up lifting. He wants to make sure you understand he is normal and sometimes even wonderful.

Buddy: How a Rooster Made Me a Family Man (copy)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Moran) — Wed, 01 May 2013 18:02:00 +0000

For a while, I thought this nonfiction book was titled incorrectly. “Buddy: How a Rooster Made Me a Family Man” by Brian McGrory should have been titled Harry: How a Dog Made Me a Better Man. Readers are introduced to Buddy in the first chapter but then the story goes back in time and features Harry for six more.

In the first chapter, McGrory and fiancée, Pam, are sleeping in a new home in suburbia. A menagerie of animals resides with the couple and Pam’s two daughters from a previous marriage. Pam is a veterinarian. He says it all in the book’s dedication:

“To Pam, Abigail, and Caroline (as well as Baker, Walter, Charlie, Tigger, Lily, Dolly, Mokey, Lala, Smurf, Chaz, and the nameless frog – what a house)”

McGrory and Pam are sleeping peacefully when all of the sudden, Cock-a-doodle-doo! Cock-a-doodle-doo! In the darkness, McGrory reaches for the extremely loud alarm clock. He pokes and presses an object until he figures out where the sound originates.

Cock-a-doodle-doo! The sound is getting closer and McGrory’s fiancé shoots out of bed with an obscenity. In the darkness she steadies herself and heads for the door. McGrory follows the sounds of her footsteps downstairs until he hears the gay barks coming from a relieved chicken basking in her arms.

The next chapter begins, “The story of this rooster actually begins with a dog.” To celebrate another successful year of marriage (pre Pam), McGrory suggests a starter family per custom. He goes online and orders a golden retriever to surprise his wife on Christmas Eve.

On a cold Tuesday, McGrory arrives at Logan Field at 5:15 p.m. with great excitement. The baggage handlers point him nonchalantly to a small dog crate in the corner of the hangar. As he approaches, he does not hear a sound. Even closer and the crate looks to be empty. He has to get right to the door to see the little 11 week old puppy shaking against the back.

He slowly opens the door, “And there he was, aloft in front of me, his four legs dangling in midair, his luxuriant blond fur tousled in a way that would later become his trademark, his jowls loose, his jet-black nose set off against deep brown eyes that carried a mix of fear and – I swear I saw this – relief.

Folks, get ready for “Marley and Me” in the form of a rooster and a little dog.

Sweet By and By (copy)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Moran) — Wed, 24 Apr 2013 21:10:00 +0000

Addie Coulter has a very oppressive Mississippi life. Like the daily heat and humidity in her state, her daily activities weigh heavy and she feels like she is swimming through water. Sleep is no escape. Who can sleep when the air does not blow and the temperature does not drop below 90 degrees?

Addie’s normally independent mother, Rachel, is occupying a back bedroom. Rachel’s first stroke required Addie to house sit in her childhood home, but this second stroke has left her mother an invalid. It was easier to move Rachel into her house than to stay at the old house night and day. The chores are the same, but this means less commuting between the homes.

Alfred, Addie’s no good husband, came home late last night and she is tip-toeing around the house to keep from waking him. She is not sure why, but he is easy to anger when she starts showing. This pregnancy is another reason she is so worn.

Addie stirs her daughter, Emily, and they both sneak out to gather eggs. In the meantime, Alfred wakes and stumbles into the bathroom to relieve himself. Afterwards, he drinks some water from the bathroom sink to relieve his cotton mouth and unfortunately revives his drunken state.

Lurching, Alfred stomps into the back bedroom where Rachel stares at him in horror. All she can do is watch his movement, her voice lost from the last stroke is impossible to understand. She can make loud noises, but right now she feels it is better to not egg him on. It doesn't help.

Alfred is in full devil, making fun of her morning hair while poking her with an umbrella he found in the room. As Rachel silently screams, he suddenly grabs the ends of the bed sheet and gives a yank. Rachel lands face down tangled in the sheet with her nose bleeding. He staggers out laughing.

Ramona Bridges is another Mississippian author to watch. Sweet By and By is her first book and it won the Mississippi Library Associations best fiction award in 2012. The book jacket states, “She and her husband have three sons, and she is employed as a nurse at a facility for war veterans.”

She is also a born-again Christian and each chapter of the book opens with a Bible verse. Matthew 11:28 is fitting for her first chapter, “Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”

Choosing Civility (copy)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Moran) — Wed, 10 Apr 2013 16:59:00 +0000

I will be reading a lot of business books for a class I am taking and one particular book on etiquette caught my eye. I personally like to say “Good morning” or “Morning” to the people I work with.

My first job required it! When I came into Perkins Drugstore, I was to greet the pharmacist and customers waiting for prescriptions and those in the aisles. Whether, I was in a good mood or not (being a teenager at the end of a school day usually meant not), but my bosses wanted this open rapport from coworkers.

And yet, now I may not. I play a game of invisibility. “Is a glimmer of acknowledgment in a fleeting encounter so burdensome? Are we shy? Are we lazy? Are we prey to misguided pride? Are we so goal-directed that we won’t bother with anything that doesn’t advance our progress toward our goal, whatever that might be? Are our souls shrinking beyond repair?”

Wow! “Are our souls shrinking beyond repair?” is a statement that stings me.

I am reading Choosing Civility: The Twenty-five Rules of Considerate Conduct by P.M. Forni. Written in 2002, he also published, The Civility Solution: What to Do When People are Rude in 2009.

The second rule states, “A simple ‘Hello’ or ‘Good morning’ is the most basic form of acknowledgement. Every day when we arrive at our workplaces, we greet our coworkers. As a rule, we don’t infuse our greeting with particular intensity. There is no need to. A greeting is a minimal yet meaningful conferral of honor on a person for just being a person. With it, not only do we acknowledge and validate, but we also put at ease and wish well.”

On the radio this morning, the guest was talking about George Washington. He said that President Washington lacked leadership qualities in battle like making strategic mistakes, being indecisive or unable to make a decision at all. Many of his men left and joined the British. The one thing Washington did consistently was to be passionate about the cause of freedom.

I am passionate about libraries, but that does not excuse my short comings. George Washington said it best, “Every action done in company, ought to be with some sign of respect to those that are present.”

This is Not My Hat (copy)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Moran) — Wed, 27 Mar 2013 17:50:00 +0000

The Caldecott winner and honor books are here! While at the University of Alabama, I participated in mock Caldecott and Newbery award committees on several occasions. My professor served on both and all the books to be considered for the awards were mailed to her.

We did a vital job by indicating which books really stood out in the sea of material. Probably 450-600 Caldecott potentials and 75-150 Newberys in a given year, we divided the spoils amongst classes and got to reading. At the end of the semester, we rallied support for our favorites. The professor then used the standouts to cull from for final consideration.

Caldecott suggestions are scrutinized for all kinds of reason. A story with a plot is considered higher quality than one following basic themes like colors, numbers and seasons. A plot that can be developed with less wordage is favored since the target audience might wander off during readings.

Picture books that are considered tend to stay within the 32-illustrated pages format. Illustrations can make or break a contender, too. Water color, collage, oils, mixed media, pen and ink, even computer generated illustration are considered. The book “Wave” by Suzy Lee tells the story through water color and chalks without every using a word. It should have received an honor.

This is Not My Hat by Jon Klassen is the 2013 Caldecott winner. Klassen is an animator by trade, but found he resorted to favorite children’s books for inspiration in animation. His love for the Frog and Toad series is clearly seen in his nod to the green-mustard colors used in This is Not My Hat.

Klassen’s technique is a mixture of water and computer generated colors in a “camo” theme with a black background. His main character, a fish, looks like he is made of sand. The story involves little fish taking a hat from big fish while he naps. In order to keep the stolen treasure, little his is heading for the tall seaweed to try and blend in.

This is Not My Hat not only tells a story with a clever plot and calming camouflage, it also has a moral. A true Caldecott winner in every aspect, this book belongs amongst the greats.

Behind the Beautiful Forevers (copy)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Moran) — Thu, 21 Mar 2013 13:26:00 +0000

Abdul was on the run from the police, but he did not do it. He is not the type to take up the sword for himself let alone his father. The authorities have it all wrong. They are taking a statement from a vengeful woman now dying in a Mumbai hospital far away.

He is a good kid and the sole support for his family. All these years, he has kept his head down and worked quietly building his recycling empire. Abdul thought himself even cleaver for avoiding just these types of situations that occur far too often in the slums of Annawadi. How did this one catch him?

Were they persecuting him because his recycle business was making money? Were they trying to force him back into the trash to pick? Was it because his family was Muslim and not Hindu? Abdul’s thoughts were circling his head as he ran across the maidan looking for safety.

“The open lot was quiet, at least – freakishly so. A kind of beach front for a vast pool of sewage that marked the slum’s eastern border, the place was bedlam most nights: people fighting, cooking, flirting, bathing, tending goats, playing cricket, waiting for water at a public tap, lining up outside a little brothel, or sleeping off the effects of the grave-digging liquor dispensed from a hut two doors down from Abdul’s own.” Tonight, after the One Leg set herself on fire, everyone retreated to their huts.

Abdul shook his head of the thoughts and his crazy idea to run away. They would catch him no matter where he ran. The best option was to get a good night of sleep and walk to the police in the morning. He came back to the hut and entered his shed full of recyclables.

“The smell of the One Leg’s burning was fainter in the shed, given the competing stink of trash and the fear-sweat that befouled Abdul’s clothing. He stripped, hiding his pants and shirt behind a brittle stack of newspapers near the door.”

Katherine Boo’s Behind the Beautiful Forevers: Life, Death, and Hope in a Mumbai Undercity is a work of art. Announced in February of this year, it won the National Book Award for nonfiction.

My favorite quote comes from Abdul’s father, Karam Husain. “Your little boat goes west and you congratulate yourself, ‘What a navigator I am!’ And then the wind blows you east.”

God is with Me Through the Night (copy)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Moran) — Wed, 06 Mar 2013 20:57:00 +0000

We had a lovely visit with author Julie Cantrell last week during the Sycamore Bank sponsored Reading Round Table. We found her perspective on writing Into the Free very interesting. Can you imagine writing a book while raising two small children, feeding a husband, keeping a household and teaching full time? She actually got up at 3:30 a.m. and wrote until 6:30 a.m. five days a week!

After everyone left the book club and it was just the two of us, I asked Julie if I could purchase her two children’s books. We have an Early Childhood Development program and the students do story time with our collection. She mentioned them during her talk and I was intrigued.

The family had recently moved to Mississippi from Colorado and her small daughter was having nightmares. Julie told her that she need not be afraid, “God is always with you.” The following week they made a book together and the two would share it before bedtime.

Julie passed the book around to family and friends once it was no longer needed at home. After sharing it at her church, someone said she should publish it. She found Zonderkidz books and with stock photos published God Is with Me Through the Night.

Many moons and stars drawn on blue sky greet readers when the board page is opened. The title page contains a photograph of an adult and juvenile owl. The story begins, “At night I play with my family.” Below the sentence two polar bears covered in snow look to be playing patty-cake.

Through photographs of animals, Julie’s words come alive. For instance, above these words, “But sometimes after Mama kisses me goodnight,” an adorable picture of an adult seal touching noses with a pup appears. “I start to feel afraid” and readers see a small white terrier shaking in the dark. “I hear weird noises” features a tree frog with his head cocked to one side.

At the end of the story a short Bible verse from Isaiah 41:10 is included. “Do not fear for I am with you.” The picture on this page is a mother lion lounging in the grass with her cub’s head resting atop her own.

The companion book, God Is with Me Through the Day, is equal in quality to the first. I believe everyone in attendance will agree with me, to hear Julie’s talk was a blessing that day. Oh, and she donated her copies to the library.

End of Life Book Club (copy)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Moran) — Wed, 27 Feb 2013 18:30:00 +0000

Reading The End of Your Life Book Club by Will Schwalbe and wham, I am hit. I have this aha moment that leaves me speechless, and all I can do is nod my head in agreement.

Schwalbe tells the story of Bob. One of those close family friends that was always welcome in the house and always brought something different to the conversation. Well-read and well-traveled, he was easily the smartest person in the room; although, people around him would feel his equal. His curiosity knew no bounds.

At the age of 81, Bob suffered a massive stroke and was suddenly gone. The Schwalbe family never recovered and still brings him up in conversation. What do you think Bob would think of this book? How do you think Bob would react to this event?

Here comes my aha moment, “He [Bob] remains for my family the perfect model of how you can be gone but ever present in the lives of people who loved you, in the same way that your favorite books stay with you for your entire life, no matter how long it’s been since you turned the last page.”

I closed the book. I closed my eyes. In my mind I picture all those I lost from the Smith family sitting on a shelf together like different colored and sized books. Their stories all bundled up in their bodies waiting for me to take one down for story time, I cried.

My favorite book of all time is Where the Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak. When I was little, I would beeline for it in the library. I can even remember my mother saying no to the book and trying to place another one in my hands.

What my mother did not understand, nor I able to explain, was why “Where the Wild Things Are” was so important. The wild things were my uncles, aunts and grandparents on my father’s side. I was Max and I was afraid of the Smiths.

The Smiths were hairy or not, my grandfather being a shiny cue ball, and they all lived together in the same house two to a room. I thought them all loud and lumpy. Just like the “wild things,” they loomed in the old house that was equally dark and scary.

We buried the last of the wild Smiths yesterday. I was never able to tame them. Only age slowed them down, but I will forever hold their stories close to my heart like my favorite books.

The Sweet Smell of Decay (copy)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Moran) — Wed, 20 Feb 2013 18:57:00 +0000

Atmosphere, atmosphere, and more atmosphere. I enjoy opening up a book and falling flat-faced into atmosphere. The Sweet Smell of Decay by Paul Lawrence is full of it. Hate to say this, but at times one can almost smell the decay or filth that emanates in 1664 London.

In the book, hero Harry Lytle is described as looking exactly like his name. Sometimes this causes a little scuffle as he defends his short non-bald self. Other times he laughs it off and quickly changes the subject. There is an instant likability to him. Readers can identify with this humanistic approach to handling an insult.

Lytle has been dispatched to the seedier side of London by his father. He is to investigate his cousin’s (for whom he has never met) odd murder. A one-time beautiful creature all of 20 years, she lies stretched across the St. Bride’s pulpit with her once green eyes gouged out. She has lain there for seven days awaiting his arrival.

Aiding in the investigation is one time Constable and all time butcher, David Dowling. Unlike the famous Holmes and Dr. Watson, Dowling has all the wits while Lytle seems to be suffering from a constant hangover. The duo makes an incredibly odd yet cohesive couple.

As for the body, “Her face was white, so white that it must have been her complexion before death also. Pale orange freckles were still visible upon her nose and cheeks, though the rest of her face was now covered with a thin layer of green mould, which hid all subtleties of skin tone. What looked like moss had started to grow about the edges of the thin rope that was still tied across her mouth, biting into its corners so that she seemed to smile. It was not a happy smile, more like the smile of one that has swallowed a fly thinking it was a currant, yet would feign that it was a currant to those watching suspiciously.”

Can you feel the cold damp, mossy atmosphere? As you follow the duo on search for the killers, the atmosphere becomes aromatic. They speak of the London streets and its underground gaols as places where to hold your breath because of the smell is impossible. One would turn blue before the next door.

This is the first book in “an exciting new series of historical thrillers” by Lawrence. His second book, A Plague of Sinners, sports more rating stars from readers than the one I hold in my hands. If you are looking for a great couple of reads, check out the Chronicles of Harry Lytle.

Song of Achilles (copy)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Moran) — Wed, 13 Feb 2013 17:59:00 +0000

Patroclus is not sure where he got the two pairs of shiny dice. He knew the gift was not from his father the King nor his simpleton mother. He does remember feeling special for having them and very protective of their use.

While tossing them against a tree in the field, Clysonymus, the son of a nobleman, came lumbering by on the rocky path. He stood over Patroclus wanting to know what he was doing. Patroclus did not like the large, fleshy loud mouth of a boy and did not answer him. A couple years older, he was known to tease Patroclus in front of others by calling him stupid like his mom.

Patroclus gathered the cubes and placed them behind his back but it was too late. Clysonymus had caught a glimpse of sparkle in the sun and wanted to get a closer look.

“Let me see them.”

“No.” Patroclus did not want the grubby boy’s hands on them. He was the son of the king. It was in his right to keep things that he owned for himself. Clysonymus, even though a son of a noble, had no trouble pushing him around. Everyone knew the King would not intervene.

Clysonymus reached for them but Patroclus stepped back. This was seen as a cowardly move and Clysonymus advanced even further feeling superior. The hotness rushed into Patroclus and in one split second he shoved him as hard as his small body could. Clysonymus fell to the ground with a terrible thud. Behind his head blood spread on the rocks.

Later that day, Patroclus was found sleeping under a gnarled olive tree surrounded by his own vomit. The family of Clysonymus, an only son, demanded exile or death. It was this day his father disowned him and he was sent away, never to return to the small Greece kingdom.

The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller won the prestigious Orange prize last year for fiction. She has a masters from Brown University in Latin and Ancient Greek and “studied at the Yale School of Drama, specializing in adapting classical tales for a modern audience.”

I think author, Donna Tartt, says it best in her review, “Captivating…carries the true savagery and chill of antiquity.”

The Round House (copy)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Moran) — Wed, 06 Feb 2013 19:03:00 +0000

Joe Coutts has regret. As tribal council, Joe deals with the day to day legal aspects of living on a reservation. Just like his father before, when a crime is committed he has to determine who has jurisdiction. The regret stems from a crime that went unpunished because the land for which it was committed could not be proven. Tribal and white lands have two separate laws.

Joe recounts the story that made him so passionate to right wrongs. He was 13 years old on that fateful spring day. He and his father, Bazil, were digging up saplings that were too close to the house’s foundation.

“There were ash shoots, elm, maple, box elder, even a good-sized catalpa, which my father placed in an ice cream bucket and watered, thinking that he might find a place to replant it.”

Before lunch time, Bazil stands up and stretches his sore back claiming it as quitting time. Joe is astonished because his father, the perfectionist, sticks with a job until it is completely done. Why stop, but his father heads to the couch for a nap.

Joe takes the early break as opportunity to read some more of the forbidden book. His father calls it The Bible and Joe treats it as such. Slowly he takes it off the upper shelf in his father’s office and lays it gently on the kitchen table. He fixes a glass of water and opens Felix S. Cohen’s Handbook of Federal Indian Law where he last left off, “United States v. Forty-three Gallons of Whiskey,” and begins reading.

His father wakes from his nap and walks into the kitchen rubbing his eyes. Joe quietly shuts the book and lays it on his lap under the table. It is rather light in weight although filled to the brim with cases.

His father smacks his lips as if thirsty and Joe hands him his water. He drinks it and then locks eyes with his son. Joe instantly feels like an adult although he was just 12 two weeks ago. For a split second the gaze seems to have a hidden meaning. Is it a knowledge of being older for reading the book or has something just happened to age Joe beyond his youth?

“Where is your mother?”

I absolutely love Louise Erdrich’s, The Round House! It is the 2012 National Book Award winner, and worth every page turned.

Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk (copy)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Moran) — Wed, 30 Jan 2013 18:16:00 +0000

Less than five minutes in Iraq was all it took. The firefight at Al-Ansakar Canal made them all heroes overnight thanks to a Fox News crew embedded in the company. Bush is using the win to drum up support for the war and our heroes are back in America on a whirlwind “Victory Tour” through the country.

Dubbed Bravo Squad from the repeated airing of the fight, these eight young men are uneasy with the new fame. All manners of people recognize them with eager handshakes and talk of personal wars or thank them for getting back at those 911 dastards. Unfortunately, after the first 20 conversations on the same topic, the men are having a hard time focusing. Even after meeting with the President and his pale sidekick, Cheney, they are beginning to numb.

It doesn’t help that Bravo Squad spent all night drinking at a bar called Tiffany’s Finest where the girls are named after jewels. Billy Lynn spent most of his time with Emerald, but doubts she is seriously thinking of him as a boyfriend; although, she did make promises.

Sleepless and combating serious hangovers, the boys are all quiet until the limo arrives. Major bling blinds them as they bounce on the leather seats and fumble with the switches of the white Hummer. Someone has found the bar and Sgt. Dime approves one drink each to fend off the hair of the dog.

The limo is compliments of the Dallas Cowboys and they are heading to a Thanksgiving game. Bravo is part of the halftime extravaganza sharing top billing with Destiny’s Child. Albert, a Hollywood agent, has accompanied them during the two week tour and has big news. Hillary Swank has agreed to play the part of Dime. Bravo breaks into laughter as they point out she is without the necessary appendage.

Specialist Billy Lynn actually feels the individual rocks underneath his combat boots as he stumbles out of the limousine. His headache is extreme and he asks Albert for aspirin. The weight of the Silver Star seems unbearable as he morns the reason he wears it.

Billy Lynn’s Long Halftime Walk by Ben Fountain is full of cursing, womanizing, fighting, and heart-wrenching loss as our hero, Billy Lynn, spends the day wrestling with the idea of freedom.

The Yellow Birds (copy)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Moran) — Wed, 23 Jan 2013 18:48:00 +0000

It was raining cats and dogs on I-55. I sat behind my husband’s early 80s, F-150 making great time. Heading to Memphis to get a present for my mother, the plan was to get this last gift then head home to pack for our early morning Christmas departure.

The truck was my husband’s idea. I prefer a car in this type of weather, but mine was new and we were unsure if the “run flat tires” hydroplaned. These miracle tires allow me to take on a handful of nails without generating a flat. I can also drive at a normal speed until they can be replaced. I once hit something on I-240 that took a 1″x 2″ chunk out of my right back tire and dented the rim, yet I drove to my event without feeling anything amiss.

So, in the truck I sat, slowing down when the downpour was too much and speeding up when there was a break. The hydroplaning only occurred when I switched lanes. Yes, I was already unhappy with the hubby. I would much rather hydroplane in something a little closer to the ground.

Then it happened. I had passed a clump of traffic and was a half-mile ahead when I switched lanes from fast to slow. The collected rut-water sent me lurching towards the median instead of the right lane. I caught it, but with a jerk.

The truck came back into the fast lane then continued its turn. I was headed for a roll. My experience kicked in, not my instinct. My instinct is to grab the steering wheel and correct the turn, but that would have completely rolled me. My experience told me it was too late. I crossed my arms, took my feet completely away from the gas, and prepared for the worst.

A donut on the interstate, then I careened to the shoulder where I did two more donuts on the hill then rolled down to the ditch for a quick up the ramp followed by a slide back into the ditch.

Murphy, the tragic character in The Yellow Birds by Kevin Powers, says going into battle is like an oncoming car wreck. As a solider, he is trained to handle all types of combat, but he cannot predict where the enemy will attack him. He can only do his best then ride it out.

The Dog Stars (copy)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Moran) — Wed, 12 Dec 2012 17:40:00 +0000

My life is simple now. I sleep outside under the stars with my dog, Jasper. I hunt for fresh meat once a week and grow tomatoes, potatoes, lettuce, and peas in my little garden. When not hunting, I take the plane up to secure the perimeter.

My neighbor, Bangley, moved in a couple of years after I took residence at the airport. He came with his little camper full of firepower. I am not sure where he lays his head at night, but I know it is close. He is there before I count to 200 when we have intruders.

The airport used to be one of those fly-in communities. You know, large homes facing the road but backing up to taxiways serving the runway. These houses provide us with wood for the campfire now and the solar panels keep our makeshift kitchen and fuel pumps working.

Nine years have passed since I left the city. I figure I have another 10 years before the 100LL begins to run low. Obviously, the fuel will become stale before then, so I found an FBO at a nearby airport that has shelves of additive to use when the time comes.

Next season, I will need to swap seeds with the Family to keep the garden healthy. The Family lives in a chain linked compound fortified with barbwire and razor within our perimeter. The entryway proclaims, “We have The Blood.”

A condition worse than aids, they look like the walking dead. Intruders are no problem and I personally never get more than 15 feet near. We trade goods like a warring nation laying them in the DMZ.

Bangley calls them Druids and rags me nonstop when I land. He is more scared of their disease than any armed intruder. Now, to appease him, I land near an overturned delivery truck full of pop and grab him a couple cases of Coke before coming home.

Like I said, life is very simple and I am thankful for my little freedoms. Unfortunately, since turning 40, I am starting to forget things like the constellations. I do not remember their names or placement in the night sky. Without a book to consult, I now lay back and make my own animals with the stars. Jasper, at my shins, approves.

Do not miss this apocalyptic adventure titled, The Dog Stars by Peter Heller.

More Christmas Books (copy)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Moran) — Wed, 05 Dec 2012 18:43:00 +0000

We have more new Christmas books for children! First up is Santa’s Hat by Linda Bleck. This brightly colored book features Santa, Mrs. Claus, the elves and a couple of Scottish Terriers. It is the day before Christmas and Santa cannot find his hat.

The search goes throughout the North Pole as Santa tries on replacement hats. One is too silly, one too wide, one too scary and one too tight. Bell and Bow, the two Scotties, share his curiosity and enthusiasm. Finally, the elves give him a hat for Christmas. Now, he wonders, “Where is the naughty and nice list?”

The bestselling team of writer, Deborah Underwood, and illustrator, Renata Liwska, have joined forces for another soon-to-be favorite, The Christmas Quiet Book. All the animals are doing quiet things possibly to ensure their names stay on the nice list.

The book begins, “Christmas is a quiet time: Mysterious bundles quiet. Searching for presents quiet. Getting caught quiet.” In each illustration the colors are muted browns, grays and off whites that add to the hushed atmosphere. “Christmas morning quiet” is the last line, but I have my doubts.

Melanie Watt returns with Scaredy Squirrel Prepares for Christmas. This time Scaredy Squirrel is a chapter book filled with quizzes, lists, decorating secrets, and maintaining a hygienic dessert table.

Fun ensues all the way through to the last chapter where Scaredy explains, “If all else fails…Play Dead! For a mixture of panic and fun, he suggests also playing dead in snow. By adjusting your body every 30 minutes, you can make a snow angel along with the illusion of dead squirrel.

Just Right for Christmas, written by Birdie Black and illustrated by Rosalind Beardshaw is what the title implies, “just right.” The king smiles proudly as he totes the perfect Christmas red cloth through the market place. With this material, his maids make a beautiful long cloak for his daughter. When they are finished, the material is bundled up and placed outside the back door.

Jenny, the cook, sees the bright red mass and decides to make a jacket for her ma. She also leaves her red remains at the back door where Bertie Badger finds them. This continues on for two more animals until the Christmas red is shared with five different households.

Share your love of books with a little one this Christmas and let us keep passing the re(a)d along.

Christmas Books for Boys (copy)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Moran) — Wed, 28 Nov 2012 18:54:00 +0000

With Christmas season nearing, we ordered some new children’s books for our Early Childhood Education Program and for the faculty and staff who have little ones. I was looking through them and realized they would be perfect for little boys.

First, Snowboy 1,2,3 by Joe Wahman and illustrated by his wife Wendy, opens with a snow boy not quite big enough to be a man – he is made with only two balls of packed snow instead of the traditional three – sitting on a soft field blanketed in white.

Snowboy is decked in red socks, green and red mittens, a crazy-green Ignatius Reilly cap, and a bright red bow. The rhyme starts, “One snowboy all alone. Two children unaware. Three ancient apple trees. Four apples in the air.” Boys will enjoy the antics of Snowboy and might even want to build him during our next snow fall.

Second, Hugless Douglas written and illustrated by David Melling features a bear cub named Douglas. He spends his days hugging things that aren’t comfortable or hug back. The rock is too heavy, the tree full of splinters, and the bushes full of scared sheep hiding from him. It isn’t until mom wakes from her hibernation later that day that Douglas gets the satisfying hug he so desperately seeks.

Third choice for new easy books for boys is Goodnight, Goodnight, Construction Site by Sherri Rinker and illustrator Tom Lichtenheld. Opening lines, “Down in the big construction site, the tough trucks work with all their might. To build a building, make a road, to get the job done – load by load!”

Mississippi boys love trucks! This book has them all: crane, cement mixer, dump, bulldozer, and excavator. And like the popular Pixar Cars series, these trucks have human characteristics. They smile and laugh, chew rocks, and yawn, but most importantly they sleep hence the title.

Lastly, it is the two turtledoves song with a nautical theme titled, A Pirate’s Twelve Days of Christmas by Philip Yates and illustrated by Sebastia Serra. The little cabin boy has a secret Santa who gives him something different every day. Cabin boy is surprised by “a parrot in a palm tree!” The book continues, “On the second day of Christmas a gift was sent to me: 2 cutlasses an’ a parrot in a palm tree.”

It isn’t too late to get some books for boys this Christmas season!

The Swerve (copy)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Moran) — Tue, 20 Nov 2012 18:07:00 +0000

Poggio Bracciolini was not a fancy man. He was short in stature with a middle-aged paunch. To the Germans he passed along his travels, he must have looked strange. Germanic people were not used to his Italian tunics and tights. His leather boots were a little too thin for the winter.

The year was 1417 and Poggio found himself to be unemployed from his life’s work. He had slowly risen in the papal service of secretary to popes by his clear penmanship. His technique of writing was considered a work of art. The official title was “scriptor” of documents; although, his last post was the stately position of Secretary to John XXIII.

With the title came the power of knowing and Poggio was privy to secrets of which John XXIII had many. These secrets held even after the pope’s name was stricken from all papal records. And, while Poggio toured Southern Germany, his fallen master sat rotting in a Heidelberg prison.

A man with no family ties, Poggio now had the time to pursue his new vocation. He was now acting as a book hunter. Not the fancy books you might think either. He did not search for the painted chapters and jewel encrusted tomes. Those books were all behind lock and key. He did not seek the illustrated medical or celestial books of the day, but something less desirable.

Poggio was on a quest to find ancient Latin text. His inspiration came from 80 years earlier when an Italian found Livy’s “History of Rome” and other forgotten greats such as Cicero and Propertius.

“The recovered text were copied, edited, commented upon, and eagerly exchanged, conferring distinction on those who found them.” All this discussion became the study of humanities and Poggio considered himself a “humanist.”

That winter day in 1417, Poggio stopped in the once wealthy Abbey of Fulda. His letters to friends did not mention this destination, but he would have considered it a place to pick up a few bargains. What he found was a text written in 50 BCE by the noted scholar Titus Lucretius Carus.

The finding of the book “On the Nature of Things” was to be a miracle of which the author did not believe. “[Lucretius] thought that nothing could violate the laws of nature. He posited instead what he called a ‘swerve’ [or] an unexpected, unpredictable movement of matter.”

Pick up this Pulitzer Prize winner, The Swerve by Stephen Greenblatt. It is an unexpected joy to read.

Como Civic Club Part I (copy)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Moran) — Wed, 14 Nov 2012 20:06:00 +0000

I had a lovely time speaking at the Como Civic Club last week. The program was to be “Mississippi Authors - Then and Now,” but I shifted focus after reading Into the Free by Julie Cantrell. She is one of the bright now writers supporting my theory that our shared Mississippi experience produces outstanding talent.

Last week’s Book Talk was Into the Free, but while researching Cantrell for the presentation I was shocked to read the book’s reviews all promoting it as Christian fiction instead of Southern literature. Even her publisher David C. Cook specializes in the genre, but Southern(ness) oozes throughout.

While I focused on the dichotomy of good and evil in the book, others saw the presence of God. Author, River Jordan, said, “Julie Cantrell writes with the beautiful hand of someone who understands the soft nuance of God’s brushstrokes on the human heart.”

Sure, I would have accepted it as Christian fiction if not for the violence. For instance, father beats wife. Starving dog buries puppies. Mother commits suicide. Yet main character, Millie, sees her dead friend Sloth during times of stress. The introduction of a ghost even hints to the subgenre of gothic within Southern fiction.

One of the members of the club asked if the book would be suitable for teens. An excellent question since Millie enters the story as a 10-year-old and progresses to her teenage self. It is the perfect coming of age story one finds in Young Adult novels.

Cantrell cautioned during an interview with Adele Annesi, “Because there are some rough scenes, I recommend that parents read the novel first for any child under 16, but many parents have asked their daughters as young as 13 to read this book because it opens communication about many important topics such as sexual abuse, racism, classism, substance abuse, faith, love, conformity, and personal choices.”

Yet, one more genre can be added to this book. The story takes place during the Depression when gypsies spend a week celebrating their fallen matriarch. The historical fiction is based on true events surrounding a Romany group who lost their “Gypsy Queen,” Kelly Mitchell, and laid her to rest in Rose Hill cemetery. It is said that approximately 20,000 attended the 1915 funeral in Meridian.

Into the Free is a Mississippi Must-Read genre!

The Healing (copy)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Moran) — Wed, 07 Nov 2012 18:05:00 +0000

She stands there in the middle of the door frame without speaking. Her eyes bulge at the sight of her mother’s lifeless body on the cot. I was told her name is Violet.

Her mother came to me just two weeks earlier and the girl was quiet but curious. I could see her looking all around the kitchen taking in the unfamiliar tools of my trade. Her mouth slack as she studied the jars of herbs and spices stacked on shelves near my sink. I am pretty sure I caught her taking in a large breath trying to save the smells for later scrutiny.

Now, she stands as if part of the screen door. I could move her open and closed with the push of my hand on one side of her small shoulders. Her mother’s blood has left dark stains on the baby blue dress she wears and her expensive leather shoes will be salvageable after a good scuffing.

Violet comes from money, but now she is apparently mine and soon to be without. The man did promise me to mail all her clothes before he high-tailed it out of my front yard leaving a dust trail a mile long.

What can I do? I will have to take her; otherwise, I might be in big trouble. Jail can be a cruel place to an old black woman.

Why did her mother ignore the instructions I gave her? I repeated it over and over, “Make tea with my mixture every morning for twelve days and the baby will leave your body naturally.”

She knew what she was doing by drinking all of that mixture in one sitting. She had to have known it would kill her. Why was her life so worthless?

All that Gran-Gran knows of healing and sight she learned from a slave named Polly Shine. She might be able to help Violet with medicines, but her sight is of no use. She touches the little girl’s shoulder and only sees blackness. Her gifts are now lost somewhere in the thick wrinkles of her troubled life.

Born in Laurel, Mississippi, Jonathan Odell writes as if telling a favorite bedtime story. You will be tucked under covers all snug and fighting off sleep to hear every word.

His latest book, The Healing, opens in a cold, 1930’s cook house filled with the notions and potions of pre-Civil War plantation life. Readers experience both Depression Era and Plantation Era life as Odell flows between the two worlds effortlessly.

Food Trucks (copy)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Moran) — Wed, 24 Oct 2012 17:40:00 +0000

Last week, Commercial Appeal sponsored a Friday Food Truck Rodeo in their Union Street parking lot that included Central Barbecue, Fuel, Mark’s Grill, Rock 'n Dough Pizza, and Kona Ice. Tips collected went to aid United Way of the Mid-South.

What is a food truck rodeo? It is group of food vendors like ones seen at State Fairs without all those pesky rides and cheesy stuffed-animal prizes. These gatherings of rolling kitchens are not the “roach coach” of old, but fancy, clean vans that have chefs behind the wheel.

Food trucks are popping up in the least likely of places and drawing crowds. Pete and I have walked a sand dune trail in Oregon, a volcano rim trail in Hawaii, and rain forest trail in Costa Rica only to be greeted by a food truck at the exit. It is the perfect spot where perception of exertion and the need to refuel collide.

We are not talking traveling corndog vendors, sidewalk pretzel pushcarts, or rolling lemonade stands, but full-lunch menu offering wagons. These offerings are usually on the healthy side, too. One of our stops along the coast on Puako Beach Drive sold fresh-cut chilled pineapple as dessert.

History has yet to be written on the current popularity of food trucks, but Heather Shouse, author of Food Trucks: Dispatches and Recipes from the Best Kitchens on Wheels, found during her travels that most drivers cite Kogi as inspiration. Kogi started late 2008 providing a Korean twist on the popular taco to Los Angeles locals. Lines formed around the block.

Shouse breaks her book into regional locations for favorite food trucks. She concentrates on the West Coast and Pacific, Pacific Northwest, Midwest, South and East Coast. In the South she visits New Orleans, Durham, Miami, Austin and Marfa, Texas.

Shouse enjoyed her time in Austin and features six different culinary cart offerings: East Side King, Lulu B’s, Gourdough’s, Odd Duck, Flip Happy Crêpes, and The Best Wurst. Her format includes a brief history of each food truck and its chef. She then writes about the specialty dishes of each truck with one chef approved recipe to share with readers.

Be sure to read the sidebars where she tells you a little funny about the truck or culture where it parks. Shouse titles these off topics, “Side Dish.” I hope you get a chance to attend a food truck rodeo, but do checkout the book while you wait.

Sense of Place (copy)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Moran) — Wed, 17 Oct 2012 19:24:00 +0000

I have written about “Sense of Place” before. I try to point out when an author uses the technique to create a character out of places like farms, towns or churches in a story. Sense of place can be grander like our famous Mississippi authors who use words like the Delta or South to conjure a feeling.

Sense of place is not necessarily a positive character either. Small towns have a reputation for being constrictive in “Coming of Age” stories. For instance, it was a cumulative of small town ideas that made Shelly run to the city. She could get lost in a city. In the city no one would know her name or her family, etc.

Last night I sat amongst likeminded Mississippians discussing the plays of Tennessee Williams in the Cutrer Mansion in Clarksdale. Our leader, Professor Colby Kullman, instructs at Ole Miss. The plays we focused on were Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and Streetcar Named Desire.

Since we were in Clarksdale, Colby spent time on the characters and their hometown connection. He had a lovely picture of the real Baby Doll who was a classy lady and not the floozy portrayed in the screenplay by the same name. We learned that Brick from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof was the name of a bully that harassed little Williams in the neighborhood.

Colby startled me when he started talking about geopathology. I had never heard the term. It is defined in Chaudhuri’s book titled Staging Place as “the problem of place.” It, “informs realistic drama deeply, appearing as a series of ruptures and displacements in various orders of location, from the micro- to the macrospatial, from house to nature, with intermediary space concepts such as neighborhood, hometown, community, and country ranged in between.”

Instead of “Sense of Place” in Tennessee Williams’ drama there is the “Painful Politics of Place.” He used the Delta and its colorful inhabitants to create tension in his early plays. You might not see the loam of the fields or the lazy river through the stage windows, but they are there creating this negative force as palpable as an evil person.

On a positive note, although the plays depict a strangling of the natural self, they do provide Clarksdale with a steady stream of visitors. The world is fascinated by the Delta and people are willing to travel far to experience its sensations. Thank you, Tennessee Williams.

Into the Free (copy)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Moran) — Wed, 10 Oct 2012 17:55:00 +0000

We live in cabin two and my best friend, Sloth, lives in cabin one. Do not be fooled by the nickname though. Six years ago Mr. Michaels shot clear through his right foot cleaning his rifle and all that is left are two toes like a sloth. Two-toed Sloth stuck although Momma still refers to him by his real name.

Sloth is about the bestest friend anyone could be lucky to have. We go on all kinds of adventures whether working in the garden or hunting squirrels. I hardly ever see him mad. Just the other day I pulled out a carrot thinking it was a weed and he did not yell or hit me. He merely replanted it then showed me the difference. Momma says he has the patience of Job.

We all live on the Sutton place but Sloth, Momma and I are not sharecroppers. Jack pays rent to Mr. Sutton for Momma and me when he is home from working on the crew of the Cauy Tucker Rodeo. Sloth shares his vegetables and game caught on the place.

Speaking of Jack, he is part Choctaw. This is the reason we do not live with Momma’s folks. They put Momma out as soon as they heard about me. It is okay, but it sure does make Momma sad. Well, that and the fact that Jack is mean.

I was sitting up in Sweetie, our Sweet Gum Tree, having told Sloth I wanted to think instead of go fishing with him when I noticed Jack’s truck spitting up gravel and smoke getting to cabin two. Within seconds he is out of the truck and up in Momma’s face, choking her with the pot roast she was making especially for him. I turn away from the kitchen window.

He is making little sense and I climb a little higher in Sweetie. I bet he has been drinking. I hear Momma rush through the screen door and I am staring again at the violence as Jack trips her from behind and begins to kick her. Within another minute, Momma is unconscious and Jack is in the truck heading back towards town.

Next morning I tell Sloth all about Momma who is now laid up in her bed. I end my story by telling him I should have gone fishing. He looks me dead in the eyes and says, “Millie, when faced with fishing or doing something else, choose fishing.”

Into the Free is written by Mississippi resident, Julie Cantrell. She fills it with historical references such as the gypsies who traveled the south but buried their own in Meridian’s Rose Hill Cemetery. This Depression Era story is not to be missed.

Grit Lit (copy)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Moran) — Wed, 03 Oct 2012 21:35:00 +0000

“Honey Boo Boo” is all the rage. Whether you like reality television or not, “Honey Boo Boo” is a fresh take on the genre. A spin off from the popular “Toddlers & Tiaras,” the show runs back to back episodes on the weekends and features a sassy seven-year-old named Alana Thompson.

Alana and her three sisters live in McIntyre, GA, with mother, June Shannon, and boyfriend to June plus live in father to Alana, Mike Thompson. Mike, aka Sugar Bear, has asked June several times for her hand in marriage but she refuses. The show has taken criticism for June’s unwed status and the fact that all of her children have a different father.

The Learning Channel (TLC) hosts the show which has made it a target for jokes. What are we learning exactly from watching “Honey Boo Boo?” One could say you are learning about the rural-poor white families of the south. A segment of Southern culture we refer to as rednecks, but we all know not necessarily poor. For instance, Art and Entertainment (A&E) channel features a family of extremely rich rednecks in “Duck Dynasty.”

“Honey Boo Boo” is the lighter side of redneck. June is an avid coupon-clipper and spends most of her income on Alana’s participation in beauty pageants. It is like visualizing an oxymoron. Think the word low-fat dessert as chunky Alana struts and prances for the crown. The poor thing cannot execute a cartwheel but her mother fills her with hopes of one day being Miss America.

Alana is a beautiful child both inside and out. Sugar Bear’s patients abounds. June smiles and is jovial although she is usually the butt of most jokes. The daughters play and tease but are never mean. These are all good people.

I got my hands on new book Grit Lit: A Rough South Reader this week and have enjoyed a little heaven in my favorite genre. It is the opposite of “Honey Boo Boo” redneck. It is the bad, the violent, the mean genre of the working class south called, Dirty South, and it is the place to be for local reality reads.

Most of the authors are Mississippians and North Carolinians. One of the editors is our own Edgar-Award winning Tom Franklin who currently teaches creative writing at Ole Miss. The book includes well-known authors to this genre and some surprises including Dorothy Allison, Larry Brown, William Gay, Harry Crews, Lewis Nordan, Ron Rash, Lee Smith, and Daniel Woodrell.

Paraphrasing Tom Earley who once said southern literature can be broken down into two categories: One, the sweet mint-julep side of the tracks and the other side where beer bottles are slung from trucks. Having watched “Honey Boo Boo” and noticed her trailer right beside the tracks, one is left to wonder if Alana might be Miss America.

Light between Oceans (copy)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Moran) — Wed, 26 Sep 2012 17:08:00 +0000

Isabel looks over the edge of the cliff and slightly swoons at the vastness that is her view. She loves the little island and her life, but the loneliness and sadness sometimes takes her for a brief moment only to be released as the feelings crash on the rocks.

Tom was also watching the same waves from the above tower. “The water sloshed like white paint, milky-thick, the foam occasionally scraped off long enough to reveal a deep blue undercoat. At the other end of the island, a row of immense boulders created a break against the surf and left the water inside it as calm as a bath.”

“He had the impression he was hanging from the sky, not rising from the earth. Very slowly, he turned a full circle, taking in the nothingness of it all. It seemed his lungs could never be large enough to breathe in this much air, his eyes could never see this much space, nor could he hear the full extent of the rolling, roaring ocean. For the briefest moment, he had no edges.”

Isabel turns to walk down the hill, her path leading straight to the new driftwood cross and rosemary bush she planted last week. In her hands she carried a watering can left by a previous light keeper. It was a fine April day and she hummed a little tune as she drew closer.

The island’s graveyard had three little plots Isabel tended daily. She remained a happy soul even though her losses were beginning to mount. Tom was wary. He felt she portrayed one thing with her smile but worried her feelings jagged, lying beneath unseen like an undertow.

Isabel heard it after watering the bush and standing the cross upright. At first she thought it her imagination. Hearing an infant’s cry 100 miles away from civilization was not possible, but she stood.

Looking towards the mainland of Australia, she yells, “On the beach – a boat!” Tom makes great haste and is at her side within seconds having seen the apparition moments earlier on his last scan. “It’s a boat all right and – oh cripes! There’s a bloke, but–”

You will be entranced by M. L. Stedman’s first book, The Light Between Oceans. Set in the early 1900s, this book is destined to become a book club favorite.

Greek Myths (copy)

noreply@blogger.com (Maggie Moran) — Thu, 20 Sep 2012 13:19:00 +0000

One of my favorite books growing up was D'Aulaires' Book of Greek Myths by Ingri D'Aulaire and Edgar Parin D'Aulaire. The funny thing about it, I never read it. I flipped through and made up my own stories with the illustrations or drew the characters like the D'Aulaires. Their illustrations look like pencil drawings filled in with coloring crayons.

In Ann Turball’s book, Greek Myths, she explains that her father loved the old stories and shared them with her. His favorites were the stories of Homer, but she was partial to Pan.

“I was captivated by Pan and by the mysterious nymphs, fauns, and satyrs, the spirits of woods and streams. I liked the way they could change shape, go from woman to tree, god to river, so that life and nature became one.”

Turnball continues, “To the ancient Greeks, the whole land – rocks, trees, rivers, caves, springs – was alive and inhabited by nature spirits. Tmolus was a god but also a mountain. Arethusa, a nymph with human form, could turn into a stream and emerge as a new spring. Pegasus, the winged horse, created springs with a stamp of his hoof. Hades lived in the Underworld and burst forth from fiery fissures in the earth.”

In Turball’s book, she tells the stories in a timeline fashion. She says that many stories standalone like Archne, but others flow into the next like a continuing episode such as Minotaur leading into Ariadne on Naxos.

My favorite is her retelling of “Phaethon and the Chariot of the Sun.” Phaethon finds out he is the son of the sun god, Helios, but his friends all call him a liar. In order to prove his lineage, he leaves Ethiopia and travels east to where the sun rises.

Once Helios sees Phaethon, he knows without a doubt that is his son. Celebration ensues, but Phaethon feels unsatisfied. He begs his father to allow him to chariot his horses through the heavens where everyone will see him and know he is the son of Helios.

Helios agrees but regrets it instantly knowing the horses will be too strong to control. As the story goes, Phaethon cannot control the chariot and the chaos sets both the heavens and the earth aflame. Zeus steps in and kills Phaethon before he destroys the world. In his guilt, Zeus raises the dead Phaethon to the heavens where he is known as the Charioteer constellation.

I bet Ann Turnbull loves the D'Aulaires' book, too. Wonder if she drew any of the gods or goddesses?