I cannot remember NOT reading.  I cannot remember a time when I didn’t have a book in my hands.  Books and reading were a place where I found family.  I was not an orphan child but I was an only child and while I don’t remember pining for a younger sibling I populated my world with book characters and imaginary friends.

Early on I discovered mysteries, Nancy Drew, Trixie Belden and then quickly graduated to the Dame Agatha Christie and her wonderful characters.  Miss Marple was lovely and there are far too few Tommy and Tuppence novels but my favorite was Poirot, the Belgian detective with the mustache and clever mind.  Oh how I loved Poirot.  Captain Hastings was tall and dashing but not nearly as brilliant as Monsieur Poirot.  A perfect sidekick. 

In high school and college there wasn’t a great deal of time of leisure reading but the summers were full of Dorothy L. Sayers and Lord Peter Wimsey.  I longed to be Harriet Vane.  I don’t know how I found American mystery writers.  I think perhaps a love for Lillian Hellman led me to Dashiell Hammett and I fell instantly in love.  And for the first time I didn’t just fall in love with the characters but with the author himself.  Hammett WAS that tough, compassionate, tall, dark slightly dangerous detective who would be exciting as anything but keep me from getting into too much trouble unless of course I was the murderer in which case….dame or not, I’d get socked in the jaw or even shot if need be.  I read them all: Hammett, Chandler, Mickey Spillane, Rex Stout.  And then I moved on to more modern fare and John D. MacDonald and his detective Travis McGee.  But I was back to being in love with the character, not the author.  And then…and then I found Robert B. Parker.  Spenser is my favorite detective of all time and his supporting characters feel like my next door neighbors.  Set in Boston, the Spenser novels feel like coming home.  Spenser’s  relationship with Susan, his not-wife, and Hawk, his true friend are at once simple and intricate.  The witty dialogue, bare bones narrative and complex dance of relationship keep the pages turning long after I know who killed whom and why.  Robert B. Parker died today.  In homage, I will begin at the beginning and read them all in order, one more time.

And so it goes

You know you’re a junkie/youth services librarian when….

• You start crying when you see a video of Virginia Hamilton talking about the importance of sharing books with children.
• You get up ridiculously early on your day off to watch/listen to/read tweets about award announcements
• Time slows down like it does for a child at Christmas and she is absolutely certain Santa will never arrive
• Watching last year’s announcements is almost as much fun as it was when you watched them the last time
• One of your favorite times is sitting with grandchildren and making a book list of what they should read next
• When you are convinced that it just isn’t long enough and go back and watch past years because you need more

 And this year’s winners are (to name just a few)….

Michael L. Printz award for excellence in Young Adult literature goes to Going Bovine by Libba Bray.  This one is funny and poignant and a wonderful read.  I was equally excited by the honor books, especially Tales from the Madman Underground.  The language in that one is not for the faint of heart but it is a hero’s story in every sense of the word. Don’t miss Adam Rapp’s Punkzilla – not an easy read, his work never is, but once again Rapp finds hope in the bleakest of situations. I was rather surprised that Laurie Halse Anderson’s newest Wintergirls got nothing and disappointed that Nick Burd’s Vast Fields of the Ordinary was overlooked.  Still, for what it’s worth, I think the Printz committee got it right.

In my humble opinion (well, maybe not humble) Newbery Medal should have gone to one of the books chosen for an honor,

The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate, which has some of the most beautiful writing I have read in a very long time.  Still, I am not disappointed that the medal will be worn proudly on the cover of When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead.  This is a wonderful piece full of wonderful characters and a mystery that needs science to solve it.  At its heart, though, is the growing and changing relationship between two best friends.  For those of us that work with middle school kids, this is something we see daily and it is stunningly drawn here.

And last, but certainly not least, is The Caldecott Medal.  I am so excited I could spit because, yes indeed, the winner is……

THE LION AND THE MOUSE by Jerry Pinkney.  It isn’t a surprise but it’s the same sort of excitement as unwrapping the box that holds the thing you want the most for Christmas.  There’s always that suspense that maybe this time it just won’t be there, that it won’t live up to your hopes, that maybe it isn’t flawless after all.  But there it is, nestled in the tissue, perfect in every way.

And so it goes.

I have taken to checking the weather every day – an exercise in futility when living in NE Ohio but at least it’s exercise of one kind or another.  I was given an outside thermometer that I can look at in the morning and see a small piece of what the day holds.  The routine is fairly simple – 1. crawl out of bed; 2. watch dogs hop about; 3. pull on sweatpants and sweatshirt either over pajamas or not; 4. stagger downstairs; 5. flip on coffee; 6. check thermometer; 7. apply appropriate outerwear based on reading of thermometer; 8. walk dogs, return home, remove outerwear, give dogs treats, pour coffee, check weather report on computer; 9. laugh.  So I got to step nine this morning, rubbed my eyes and read it again… “Patches of frog.”  WHAT?  Patches THE frog?  No.  Patches OF frog?  Patches of WHAT?  Squint.  Oh, FOG.  Patches of FOG.  Note to self:  Step 8.5. Put on glasses.  Ah.
And so it goes.

This morning’s light comes slowly.
In the dark I rub my eyes
once
twice
Rats, I thought.
I’ve broken the thermometer
because that reading can’t be right.
I stepped outside
bundled
sure it was broken.
It really is almost 40! 
It isn’t broken.
It’s almost 40.
If it stays the snow will melt
and I will be on patrol
plastic bag in hand
cleaning up after the dogs
and loving it.
The joys of the January thaw.

Many of the books in this order were replacements of much loved classics that had seen better days:

Katy and the Big Snow – Virginia Lee Burton

Glad Monster, Sad Monster and Go Away, Big Green Monster – Ed Emberley

The Amazing Bone – William Steig

Herb the Vegetarian Dragon – Jules Bass and Debbie Harter

If I Ran the Circus, Yertle the Turtle and I Had Trouble in Getting to Solla Sollew – Dr. Seuss

Nestled between the replacements were two books that are going to be classics in their own rights some day.  That’s my prediction anyway…

Sophie Peterman Tells the Truth made me laugh out loud.  Older siblings are expected to love and adore their younger siblings but Sophie cuts right to the chase and explains EXACTLY why they shouldn’t.  And she’s not kidding.  Even when those younger monsters get a little older and might actually be kind of winsome there’s a perfectly good reason not to tell anyone you might LIKE the little thing.  Robert Neubecker’s India ink illustrations are digitally colored and wonderfully expressive.  The relationship between text and illustrations will make this one a keeper!

I’ve already raved about Jerry Pinkney’s almost wordless The Lion and the Mouse.  It’s still my pick for the Caldecott Medal.  There are many other fine, fine almost wordless and wordless books that were published in 2009 and Susan Gal’s Night Lights is one of them.  Few words are needed as one little girl and her dog explore the light that only exists when the sun goes down: the porch light, lantern light and firelight to name just a few. The charcoal and digital collage illustrations focus the light in the same magical way that night does.  Light and shadow are so expertly depicted, that on this foggy winter’s day I got a little taste of summer and it feels wonderful.  This is Ms. Gal’s first foray into picture books and I certainly hope it isn’t her last.

And so it goes.

It was exam week at the OK Corral and Library.  The schedule was all topsy-turvy and the kids were befuddled with snow days and the relief of teachers NOT going on strike as a contract agreement was reached.  It was one of those times when the students actually realized how much their education mattered or at least how much the routine of school comforted them.  I too was breathing deeply as it appeared we were approaching something that looked like a normal week thus I looked up from what I was doing when someone said “See you Monday, Mrs. Norman.”  “Huh?” I replied, “What’s wrong with tomorrow?”  “No school tomorrow.  Teacher’s work day to get grades in,” and the student skipped gleefully out the back door.  Really?  My heart beat a little faster.  Really?  No students tomorrow?  I dug through the piles of detritus on my desk and unearthed my calendar.  Shuffle, shuffle.  Flip to January – I was in April planning National Library Week.  Yee HAW!  No students on Friday and Monday off.  Wahoo!  Do you know how much work I get done when there are no students!?  I will not waste today.  This is like a big box wrapped in red paper and a bow! 
The unreliable weather folks call for drizzle and warm air. The children will all stay home and curl up with good books that they will read and retunr on time – we all have our fantasies, leave me to mine please.  And I will have an uninterrupted day of planning and plotting and will be able to complete my thoughts without putting out unexpected fires.  Yes!
And so it goes.

I love listening to the winter weather forecast for NE Ohio.  It makes me smile because most of the time the forecasters get it wrong.  “There’s a 105 cance of rain today.”  Hullo!  Look out the window!  The cats and dogs are falling out of the sky.  But nothing is quite so entertaining as the surprise in voices that report “Sunshine this morning,” in the depths of a grey winter.  I expect them to follow that sentence with “Honestly folks, that’s what it says right here on this piece of paper.  Sunshine!  You remember that, right?  It’s that yellow orb that glows in the sky.”  We all get a little giddy at the prospect of sun carrying hope in the deep winter days.
As we live our lives and go through our days in these times, we all carry our own burdens and joys.  I would ask that we take one small moment to hold up the land and people of Haiti, who are most surely in need of whatever we can give them. 
And so it goes.

It’s a winter urge to bury deeper into the cave of warm blankets and stay there.  My bed was a particularly warm and cozy place this morning.  Funny how it takes time to find the right combination of blankets to sleep comfortably in a new home.  I have finally found it for the winter and that’s a good thing however…my bed is a comfy place.  (NB I have moved successfully from the loveseat.)  Still I arise and unbury myself reluctantly and go through morning chores.  I like to think of chores.  I’m an old farm girl after all and chores is what one does – even though I am not on a farm anymore.  On these winter mornings my chores are more complex in the preparation than they are in the summer.  Walking the dogs takes bundling and boots, while they dance about crossing there legs wishing their human had fur and could just walk out the door.  Still our morning walk on days like this when the world isn’t icy or excessively windy is ours alone.  The sky is dark and the air cold.  The smells and scents are fresh and alive.  We return home to warmth and treats and coffee and the fresh air has us all ready to begin the day.  Chores are no longer the tedious things of childhood but a solitary time to quietly begin the day.  But then again, maybe I am romanticizing the entire thing and I really want to be a bear and wake up when the white stuff begins to melt.
And so it goes.

There’s nothing quite like that first cup of coffee in the morning – hot and creamy.  I have come to value these quiet moments of thought and reflection even more than I did before.  It’s hard some days to get centered and balanced and this quiet helps.
When the days began to grow dark in the early evening I found it disheartening to come home to a dark house.  I bought night lights but that didn’t quite do the trick.  Still a rather gloomy entrance home.  A dear friend suggested that I get a timer and I loved the magic of a light glowing when I walked in the door.  Still, that wasn’t quite it.  Christmas rolled around with lights and sparkly places and although I was sad to see the lights go, I wasn’t at all sorry to take to tree down.  Hmmmm.
About a month or so after I moved in the same dear friend (and another one too!) came and hung the art and treasures on my walls.  With some minor tweaking since then, my living room has become a quiet, restful place.  On the ledge that runs around the room and into the kitchen I have placed glass objects that I love.  Some of them were my mother’s, some I have found at thrift stores and antique shops.  Much of it might be Depression Glass.  Most of it is red and pink. (OK ALL of the glass in the living room is red and pink.  The amber is in the kitchen.  I don’t have a place for the green yet.)  In the summer the light coming through the window shone through the glass and it sparkled with sunshine and light.  Alas, the dreary days of winter arrived as they are wont to do and the shiny summer glints were lost in the dark days.  “Put Christmas lights on the ledge,” the dear friend (csm) said.  After some initial hesitation on my part, but sad at losing the warm joy of those lights, I did just that and cleverly plugged those into the timer and voila!  The glass sparkles and glistens as I come in the door at night, reflecting warmth and coziness.
I love this room – where more often than not candlelight glows and glass twinkles.  A basket of yarn waits for me and books introduce me to the lives between the pages.  This is a special place – my special place.
And so it goes.

FYI:  “Interlude” will be the title of blogposts that are book reviews only.  This will make them easier for me to find and easier for you to skip if you have no interest.

I love book awards.  There is some argument that there are too many but I say “The more the merrier!”  Anything that brings attention to print material in these days of screens and curling up with a good machine has value in my not-so-humble opinion.  The William C Morris YA Debut Award (http://www.ala.org/ala/mgrps/divs/yalsa/booklistsawards/morris/morrisaward.cfm) is in its second year and the name is self-explanatory.  I read Hold Still by Nina LaCour, this year’s winner, this weekend. I stayed up into the wee hours to finish it and that hasn’t happened in a long, long time.The characters are brilliantly drawn.  Their development is sincere and realistic – both adults and teens. The author’s ability to create a setting that is both general and specific pulls the reader into a place that is right around the corner but genuinely West Coast – no mean feat while sitting in snowy Northeast Ohio and reading about a place in Northern California.  At the heart of the novel is Caitlin, strong and vulnerable and sorting it all out.  She is perfectly crafted and her growing understanding of the suicide of her best friend Ingrid moves with perfect pacing through the stages of grief.  There are moments that glisten like new snow – Taylor during the performance of Romeo and Juliet, her parents trying to find something, anything, to help her heal, and the ebb and flow of relationships as Caitlin tries to find her feet in an Ingrid-less world.  This is a wonderful, wonderful first novel.  Three rousing huzzahs for this new talent.

This being said there is a problem with this book.  It’s in the building of the tree house.  Caitlin knows that she needs bolts to fasten the house to the tree.  She buys bolts.  Twice.  Then, alas, she never uses the bolts.  Never talks about using the bolts, the sounds of the drill, the use of the drill.  In fact she actually hammers a bolt into the wood – Can’t be done, darlin’.  Maybe nobody else caught it.  Maybe it is my experience of iving with a carpenter or building stage sets for a million years, but it jarred me out of the story every single time. 

Still, this one is worth reading, I’m just not sure it should have earned an award.  Now, Nick Burd’s Vast Fields of the Ordinary on the other hand…. More about that one later.

And so it goes.