Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast

I’m going to do this week’s list the lazy-blogger’s way by pretty much just rounding up others’ reviews of these titles (others’ thought will be in this fetching shade of blue — woot! Fun with HTML colors!), since my oldest turns four this week, and we have some serious partying down for which to get ready, people.

If you’re new to this feature, it’s where I’ll talk about some books that were, for the most part, released last year, the idea being that your local library should have them (no reviews of advance copies, not out for two more months or so, are allowed here). In fact, every book on my list this week was one I retrieved from one library or another, so I’m really hoping yours will have them, too.

Let’s get right to it. Again, I’m going to include review excerpts from others, but only if I agree with them, of course of course of course. Heh. And these titles will cover a wide age range. I’m not going to narrow this week. They’re all over the place, the only common denominator being that they’re all what I think are good — or great — books. And, since there are so many more and these are but seven, do tell me what you’ve been reading this week with your own wee ones.

Okay, wait, so this was released this year, and you might have to wait a bit at your local library to get this one into your hands, but it’s worth the wait. OH MY, have you SEEN this book, the one that received Caldecott buzz — as in, 2009 buzz — during the first month of the year? This is the first book Nelson has both written and illustrated, and it’s a jaw-dropping wonder of a thing. Nelson, using an “Everyman” player as the narrator, tells the story of Negro League baseball from its beginnings in the 1920s through the decline after Jackie Robinson crossed over to the majors in 1947. Publishers Weekly calls it “a sumptuous volume that no baseball fan should be without” and adds, “while this large, square book (just a shade smaller than a regulation-size base) succeeds as coffee-table art, it soars as a tribute to the individuals . . .” Don’t miss Betsy Bird’s detailed review of it over at A Fuse #8 Production, including her memorable opening (“Nope. Sorry. Not fair. Kadir Nelson, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but you’ve completely overdrawn your account in the creativity department. I could accept that you are one of the greatest living illustrators making his way today. I didn’t even mind how young and talented you were. That was fine. But dude, did I actually have to learn that you were a remarkable writer as well?”) and closing (“It’s a one-of-a-kind book, the like of which you have not seen, nor ever will see again. A triumph.”) Kelly Fineman also covered this title over at the wonderful, new blog dedicated to nonfiction and authored by a whole slew of fabulous nonfiction authors and illustrators, I.N.K. (Interesting Nonfiction for Kids):

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I used to read To Kill a Mockingbird annually. Though I gave up that habit, without meaning to, I was always impressed by the fact that I found something new to love about the novel each year I read it. And, of course, I’m not alone. Harper Lee is the favorite one-hit wonder of a lot of readers.

In 2006, Henry Holt released the first-ever biography of Lee — who is, arguably, contemporary literature’s most elusive author — entitled Mockingbird: A Portrait of Harper Lee. An unauthorized biography, written by Charles Shields, it was met with mixed reviews. While School Library Journal wrote that “{s}tudents and curious fans alike will find material here to further their understanding of her work and life,” Publishers Weekly wrote, “{m}uch of this first full-length biography of Lee is filled with inconsequential anecdotes focusing on the people around her, while the subject remains stubbornly out of focus.” And in her 2006 Washington Post review, Meghan O’Rourke wrote:

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Last summer, Knopf Books released Tonya Bolden’s Take-off: American All-Girl Bands during WWII, and it’s taken me this long to review it. But that’s not because it lacks in any way: It’s a well-researched, engagingly-written piece of nonfiction. In fact, Bolden composes her narrative in true hep cat style, incorporating swing slang and a distinctive rhythm to her prose (in the introduction, while addressing the gap women filled after so many men were drafted into World War II, she writes, “{w}hat was a woman with a beat to do—a woman who’d rather riff than rivet? With scads of cats drafted and volunteering for military service, more chicks jumped at the chance to bandstand.”)

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Valentine’s Day may have passed, but since you’re probably still reeling from (or still eating) some of the delicious treats that are part and parcel of the holiday, I thought I’d tell you on this Nonfiction Monday about Delicious: The Life & Art of Wayne Thiebaud by Susan Goldman Rubin and published by Chronicle Books in December of last year. In May of ’07, Rubin brought us — also via Chronicle Books — a board book for the wee-est of children (reviewed here at 7-Imp) of the art of Wayne Thiebaud, an American painter born in 1920 whose work is associated with the Pop Art movement. This time she gives us an over-one-hundred-page look at his life, officially geared at ages 9 to 12.

My heart belongs to any painter who has been quoted as saying, “Cakes, they are glorious, they are like toys.” Yes, Thiebaud is probably best known for turning to paintings of gumballs, cupcakes, pies, cakes, and other culinary ecstasies. Read the rest of this entry �

In 2007, School Library Journal described author/illustrator Steve Jenkins as a “master illustrator,” and you’d be hard-pressed to find someone who didn’t agree with that. Steve — pictured here with his son on a summer road trip (“my mother said I look like a street person,” Steve told us. “My daughter granted, more kindly, that I could pass as a bohemian poet”) — has illustrated thirty nonfiction books for children, eighteen of them written by himself or co-authored with his wife, Robin Page. And the science teachers and librarians of the world are happy about this, because Steve’s books are titles that impart facts but do so in an enticing and entertaining way and with his signature eye-popping torn-and-cut paper collages.

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As a student in a graduate library school program, I was often reminded that Black History Month is of course important but that children’s librarians need to remember to avoid excessive tokenism. In other words, don’t pull all the books with black protagonists out for merely one month. To be sure, there has been controversy over such things, designating one month in the year dedicated to the history of one race, which can be reduced for some people to a perfunctory ritual with little meaning (this same tokenism can apply to poetry and the month of April as well as all the other months designated with themes).

Having said that, though, we are coming upon Black History Month, and there are some fabulous picture book biographies from last year and this year which feature prominent African-Americans. And the fact remains that — even if a librarian does a fine job of presenting a wide variety of so-called multicultural books throughout the entire school year and fully integrates African-American history into her regular curriculum, no matter the month — he or she is still expected to pull for teachers titles with African-American protagonists or ones created by African-American authors (as well as create that “Black History Month” book display). So here then are a small handful of outstanding recent titles, most of them new, that will work well for that cart o’ books for teachers and for that book display (which quickly will be raided if you’ve got the right books).

First, you’d be wise to treat yourself to this first biography, Piano Starts Here: The Young Art Tatum (Schwartz & Wade; January 2008), which already has garnered several starred reviews (Kirkus, SLJ, Booklist). I am so in love with this book, particularly the illustrations, that I can’t possibly gush about it enough. This is the first book which acclaimed Caldecott Honor-winning illustrator Robert Andrew Parker (himself a jazz musician) has written as well as illustrated, and it’s well worth your time and your students’. With an immediately engaging first-person, present tense narrative, we meet the young Art Tatum, who grew up to be a legendary jazz pianist and whom Count Basie called the eighth wonder of the world, in his home in Toledo where he was born. We also meet his mechanic father, his mother (“She often sings in the church down the street, but she isn’t singing here. She has too much cleaning to do”), and the rest of his family and friends. Though the young Art has “bad eyes” (“day and night, dark and light, don’t really matter to me”), he savors sounds and smells and plays on his mother’s piano as soon as he can reach the keyboard on tiptoe. Read the rest of this entry �

Author and teacher Anastasia Suen over at the blog Picture Book of the Day has randomly declared Mondays as Nonfiction Mondays for any bloggers who’d like to join in. Just like with Poetry Fridays, the idea is that, if you post about a nonfiction title on a Monday and send her the link, she’ll round ’em up over at her blog and, voila! You’ll have a cornucopia of posts about nonfiction titles.

I, for one, love this idea. I can still hear the words of one of my grad school children’s lit profs, knocking around in my head, reminding me that librarians, print journals, etcetera and yadaya don’t give enough attention to nonfiction titles. ‘Tis certainly true here at 7-Imp. Arguably, we should devote more to it than just one designated day a week. But for now I’ll leave it to an author who writes nonfiction to help whip me into shape with, at the very least, some Monday posts about nonfiction — when I can get to them, that is.

And here’s a fabulous nonfiction title I’ve been wanting to blog about for a while. It’s called Ox, House, Stick: The History of Our Alphabet by Don Robb and illustrated by Anne Smith, published by Charlesbridge last year. As the Booklist review pointed out, this title will find a happy home in both social studies and language-arts units. In describing the development of our Roman alphabet from the time of early Sinaitic peoples approximately 4,000 years ago to the present day, the book covers a large scope yet impresses with its conciseness. And the aged 9 to 12 readers at which the book is aimed are gracefully eased into the subject with an introduction about how people communicate; a discussion of symbols; and how we got from drawings that represented words to letters. The following spread explains in nine short paragaphs how through “caravans, commerce, and conquest” we developed what has become the modern alphabet, beginning with the 4,000-year-old carvings found on a rock wall in Egypt’s Nile Valley and ending with Rome, A.D. 100 — with stops in between to the
Sinaitic peoples of 1500 B.C.; the Phoenicians, who adapted the Sinaitic alphabet to their own language; and to the Greeks of 800 B.C. Read the rest of this entry �

The parenting-manual section of a bookstore mostly gives me the willies. Perhaps I’m not being fair and perhaps I should read more of these titles. I’m almost sure of this; I’m almost sure that a handful of them are truly helpful, but approximately 99.999% of the parenting self-help books really make me want to run screaming from the bookstore. (I feel compelled here to add: Should one of my children have a really serious problem, I am sure I’d be turning to a book or two, and I know that I am quite blessed to have healthy girls.) I’ve said it before — at my “Mother of All Books” post from this time last year — and I’ll say it again: We mamas are flooded with parenting manuals (and magazine articles — oh, the magazine articles! Make them go away!) about how to be a better mother (“10 Ways to Lose That Baby Weight,” “15 Ways to Make Your Child Smarter,” “Is Your Child Eating Enough?” “Help Your Child Get the Most Out of Play,” you get the picture) — with the implication here being that we’re just not good enough and also trivializing the intensity and complexity of mothering.

But today I make an exception. I will be reviewing an actual parenting self-help book from a woman who . . . well, I just think she’s got it goin’ on. She is one of only a few exceptions I will make when it comes to books like this. I mean, just look: She’s got me straying from children’s lit for a moment and reviewing an actual non-fiction title.

We here at 7-Imp, thanks to the blog itself, have had the opportunity to talk to some of our very favorite authors, people we would otherwise not have had a chance to talk to, and we are truly grateful for such correspondence. (I’m talkin’ getting an email out of the blue from authors like The One, The Only Haven Kimmel, whose writing we adore, and having to pick ourselves up off the floor.) But when parenting educator (and president of Better Beginnings, Inc., a family resource and education company) Elizabeth Pantley emailed me to tell me about her new book on discipline, I just about squealed. Okay, so I did. She is a SUPERSTAH in my world. I think I jumped up and down. Here is a picture of her below; I hope she doesn’t mind me lifting it from her Amazon profile. I just want to hug her neck. Here’s why: Read the rest of this entry �

I have two things to say right off the bat about this exuberant and breathtaking picture book: 1). I want you to just try to read it without humming along, and 2). ART TEACHERS, TAKE NOTE. Ashley Bryan has created spreads in this book that are truly brilliant in all their color and wonder — and all with construction paper and scissors (the latter depicted on the book’s end pages). I swear, I could pore over the illustrations in this book for hours (and, elementary art teachers, how empowering is it for children to see art work like this? No fancy-schmancy oil paints or expensive art equipment needed, thanks very much. Just paper and a pair of scissors. Not that it’d be easy, mind you, to create art quite like Ashley Bryan does, but it’s still empowering to introduce to children such an accessible medium).

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It’s the first Monday of the month, and that means we get to highlight what we think is a Wicked Cool Overlooked Book. Colleen at Chasing Ray will probably have a round-up of other WCOB titles today, so — if interested — head over there.

How about we open this co-review (and, yes, brace yourselves: it’s actually a nonfiction title we have read here, people) with another review? ‘Cause, you see, we like this review and think it pretty much hits on the book’s good points. The book of which we speak is Adrienne Martini’s Hillbilly Gothic: A Memoir of Madness and Motherhood (Simon & Schuster: Free Press; 2006; library copies), and in the interest of full disclosure, Adrienne is a friend of Eisha’s. And Jules also met her once through Eisha (and has corresponded with her just a wee bit since then). But, if you’ve ever read our review copy policy, you’ll know that we only review books we want to review and that we don’t just do favors for friends. Okay, so we got that out of the way. Onward and upwards then . . .

So, back to what I was saying: Since we usually like to begin co-reviews with a brief summary of the book, here is Publishers Weekly’s review of Adrienne’s book, which we feel succinctly summarizes what you’re getting when you read it (and, as we already mentioned, pretty much nails all the things we liked about the book):

Martini, a journalist and college professor, summons her blackest comedic chops to rehash her free-fall into postpartum depression—and the newfound understanding of her own upbringing that buoys her back up. Still mired in the oppressive Appalachia that chafed at her in childhood, she checks herself into the Knoxville psychiatric hospital shortly after giving birth, acquiescing to the “hillbilly Gothic patchwork” of suicides and manic-depression that scourge her family history. As her newborn daughter battles jaundice, her mother hovers intrusively as she awaits the mystical ability to breast-feed; Martini ponders her maternal fitness with a panicked despair nimbly rendered with dry humor and candid self-appraisal. Her misery, so jarringly at odds with the “bundle of joy” in her arms, throws open a window on her own mother’s severe depression, helping Martini to make peace with her family and its legacies. Unflinching honesty, mordant wit and verbal flair (she comes apart “like a wet tissue” after giving birth) save this memoir from soggy self-pity. In its humor and empathy, it’s a nonjudgmental resource for the thousands of mothers battling the “baby blues.”

Jules: I’m going to give Eisha the honor of launching into our commentary on this memoir, since she was the one who told me about it and since she finished it before I did. I will quickly say, though, that — although I think this Publishers Weekly review nails the book — there is a distinct difference between your average, run-of-the-mill “baby blues” and what Adrienne experienced. The reticence surrounding postpartum depression is what makes people make uninformed comments like the last one in this review. Okay. There. I said that. Don’t want to diminish Adrienne’s soul-wrenching experience by letting that sentence in the review go unnoticed before we’ve even said what we thought about the book here . . . Okay, hit it, E-dawg. Read the rest of this entry �