Jeannine Atkins

When I told my husband I was off to have tea, walk, talk about writing, then do some writing, too, he said: “Oh, all of your favorite things.” Yes, raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens are fine, but doing the above with lovely Amy who many of you know as historymaven in one of my favorite places, Concord, MA: could a day get much better?

We met in the great bookshop, then tore ourselves away to walk to the river, cutting behind Hawthorne’s yellow house, passing not the garden that Henry Thoreau put in as a wedding present for Nathaniel and Sophia, but there were dried cornstalks and fat tired cabbages. Amy and I talked about our novels in progress while watching the sluggish river where Minutemen fired shots and the Alcott girls skated in winter. Here’s a picture of Amy by a tree on the river’s other side.



Of course we talked as we walked: the Alcott sisters, research libraries, nineteenth century novelists, eighteenth century scientists, and oh how hard it can be to hit the first third point of a novel, and the second third spot is no piece of cake either. Amy spoke of trying new-to-her techniques – index cards in her bag – and how since we are always new, and each writing project is new, doesn’t it make sense to keep trying new ways to create a structure?

We snagged a quiet table at the back of a lively café in town, ordered tea and split a big cookie, taking out our work. I’d told Amy I was nearing the end, then glancing at the well-inked pages, added, “Even if it doesn’t look very finished.” She marked and drew her own bold lines through her pages. Cutting is so much nicer when you have a friendly face across the table.

We reminded each other, lost in our own worlds, that there is a holiday coming up. I will get a turkey and cranberries and dig out the pumpkin roll recipe. But to me, yesterday felt like Thanksgiving.

I just saw the just slightly edited copy of an article about Margarita Engle’s verse novels and histories I wrote for Book Links magazine, to appear in their January issue. It’s called Green Paths and Open Views: The Poet Slave of Cuba, The Surrender Tree, and Tropical Secrets. The editor was so sweet, as was Margarita, who I interviewed by email. Book Links will print that interview with the article, and I’m happy others will get to be inspired by Margarita’s wonderful vision and imagination. I can't say the article was fast to write, still, compared to a book, not so much, and it's satisfying to see something complete.

And I got some possibly fun news about my book, Girls Who Looked Under Rocks. A big movie company wants to feature the book on the set and asked for rights to do so. I would be a proud mom in the audience if this happens. And hope the movie is a good one! Hey, the love interest is a woman naturalist.

Yesterday morning I enjoyed a walk seeing yellow leaves, red sumac, milkweed fluff, winterberry, West Brook, and an intrepid bit of blue someone planted on a bent tree intent on survival.



This morning I’m working hard on revisions, and in the afternoon tackling a presentation, so please join me if you can. Lorraine, I’m happy to hear you pushed past your stuck point yesterday, hanging out with Amy! And I’m ready to roll, after having the pleasure of witnessing Jo – in person! -- finish a draft in Esselon café yesterday. It’s not a myth after all. Even if one draft rolls into another, coming to an end is possible.

Also yesterday I came home with a bag of local apples, as did my husband. So apple crisp might have to be made. Cinnamon, nutmeg, a bit of maple syrup: maybe the smell will coax the muse.

Yesterday I saw my glowing niece Kelly at her baby shower, her organized sisters, my sisters-in-laws (good catch up on news), and one very cute four-year-old expert at ooohs and awws pulling tiny clothes and other merchandise of babyhood from gift bags. Kelly and Ben are expecting a boy in five weeks and I was told they have a name in mind but wisely aren’t about to reveal it. A friend used this strategy with her four children, as she said people feel free to tell you what’s wrong with the name of one in utereo, but if you’re holding the baby, may keep their opinions to themselves. (Family, I took photos I will try to figure out how to post on Facebook!)

Then I drove to Albany, where Debbi Michiko Florence d_michiko_f
was doing a book signing with Coleen Murtagh Paratore http://www.coleenparatore.com at The Book House of Stuyvesant Plaza http://www.bhny.com/ Great store! They draped the table with a lovely Asian themed red cloth which I thought Debbi should pack up, but she is too honest. Here she is signing while Coleen chats with Eric Luper eluper.



We made Debbi pose with her earlier book about China, (Japan sold out!) by the cool statue outside the store.



Debbi, Coleen, Nancy Castaldo naturespeak, Jen Groffjenlibrarian, and I enjoyed dinner afterwards: We got to hear a real-life love story, discuss libraries and reading what our daughters are reading, and cheer each other on about current projects. We ended in the too cold parking lot – Debbi, wrapped tight in her wool coat, couldn’t believe she once lived here – while looking forward to a time when we’d all meet again: maybe SCBWI conference in LA next summer? I’ve never been, but with a daughter in LA….



I brought home a few books and inspiration. So this afternoon, do I read, write, knit, convince my husband to see Wild Things with me, or all of the above?

The other night in a restaurant, three children and their too-loud dad were seated next to me. After dabbling in math about whether they’d be better off with kids’ meals or splitting adult plates, the dad began talking about his sadness that no one seemed to listen to him and that the family was losing all their traditions. “For example,” he said, “I think a good tradition would be for you to call me every night. And maybe stay over at my house on Tuesdays. It’s not really fair that Mom gets to have you most nights while I get every other weekend. I’m not saying we should have say thirteen and thirteen days a month, but four out of the twenty-six isn’t right. Is anyone listening? What did I just say?”

The oldest daughter said, “You think there should be more traditions in the world.”

I got my rice cakes and tofu and was grateful I’d never had to do math re nights for my daughter. And I liked this eldest girl. The world could use more traditions, and my favorite new one for fall are the Thursday lunches and semi-silent writing Jo established before heading off to teach. There are pots of tea, lattes, avocado salads, hearing the latest re book banning, and loving thoughts of friends who aren’t at the table for good or sad or simply distance-related reasons.

And while I can’t cheer a daily word count, I notice that week by week, I’m seeing edges of new chapters on those wooden tables.

So yesterday morning I wrote a blog entry about how great my day was going to be.

I met Jo and Ellen for lunch and writing, thinking of how beautiful Jo had looked last week, excited both about the class she’d be teaching in a few hours and the writing she was doing in the present. Yesterday Jo was as always beautiful, but worry creased her face as she told us about people trying to ban her first novel from a school’s reading circle. Who can be happy thinking about people who can’t tell fiction from a prescription for living, people who think being gay is wrong and something that should never be spoken or written about, people who think they have a right to keep thoughtful and beautiful books out of the hands of not just their children but everyone elses’. Well, it doesn’t change the world, but I hope anyone facing a book challenge can get to see Ellen Wittlinger’s eyes bulge and her face twist while you talk. We did go on to write, and it was a good afternoon, even if I wish we could have left Jo with more than hugs.

My supper with friends was the fun I had expected. We talked of children, husbands, books, and politics, and the weather was nice enough to sit on the deck by North Pleasant Street, where we saw gorgeous Clysedale horses pull a wagon with a dalmation prancing on top. Margaret and I made plans to hear Mary Oliver read poetry at Smith College next week, and Karen and I made plans to see Margaret perform as puppeteer in Eric Carle’s A House for Hermit Crab and Mister Seahorse at the Carle Museum.

Then I went to my writing group feeling good about my novel. They were nice about my latest chapters, but it wasn’t the kind of nice that was Oh wow just keep going. It was the kind of nice that was: here are some ideas of how to fix those chapters.

I left and woke up deflated, but as I work, I can see my vision getting clearer again. Even if my timetable once again got a little longer. I’m determined to work, and I did, and I will, but I’m writing this blog after having snatched up the phone and gotten a surprise call from my lovely friend Jess. She had some time off this afternoon and asked if I wanted to take advantage of the good weather. Well. Um. I looked out the window at the sun on yellow-turning leaves and suggested we climb Mount Sugarloaf.

I’d better get on my sneakers.

I’ve been prepping for our annual Friends of the Library sale, to be held here in Whately, Mass. this Sunday from 10 to 3. Our three person board and the librarian usually manage, but my adrenalin shot way up when we got an email from someone saying she’d like to volunteer. Yay, unbelievable, I wanted to scream, but settled for thank you. Announcements have been sent, posters put up, and books mostly sorted, though there will be some early Sunday morning quandaries: is this health or fiction, a cookbook or poetry?

And the always welcome last minute entries. Last night my yoga teacher asked if it was too late to bring a box or two of books. She said she usually brings them to the hospice shop, but her mother finds them there, thinks this is the kind of thing Alexandra likes, buys them, and brings them back to her. She told me, “I have to give them to a place where my mother doesn’t shop.”

This morning I’m walking dogs with Mary, then writing on the porch which might actually get hot. We’ve become a regular Thursday lunch and writing group at Esselon Café before Jo Knowles jbknowles teaches her class at the Eric Carle museum. After catching up over salads or sandwiches, Jo orders her white china pot of black tea, Ellen admires the elegant swirls in her latte, and we open our laptops. There’s free wireless, so sometimes we log on, and if we’re lucky, good news is shared: two weeks ago, Jo found out Jumping Off Swings went into its second printing, and we cheered and lifted our by-then empty cups.

Tonight I’ll bring my laptop to the library before meeting other friends. Two years ago, Karen, Margaret, and I were all teaching the same class at UMass and all had daughters leaving for college, so we started meeting now and then to talk about the books we were reading, our students, and how much we missed our girls. This fall the class we taught was cut and our beloved daughters our pretty well launched: Margaret’s daughter left the dorm for her first apartment in Burlington, Karen’s is back in NYC after a summer working organic gardens in Italy, and mine is working, studying, and this week having irksome battles with AT&T in LA. But, wise women that we are, Margaret, Karen, and I still meet to talk about anything at all over a beer or wine and sweet potato fries.

Then I’ll be on to my writing group and get their take on my chapters 10 to 13. I know a novel isn’t like a slope that you slog up then slide down, but somehow seeing the end getting closer makes me feel the writing is coming with at least some breeze on my back.

I’d heard about the beauty of a grove in our town where legendary picnics were held before my time. When we heard the president of our local historical society had never been there, Whately Walkers, our little group that meets weekly to walk – yes! – and often discuss old houses and new flowers we pass, decided we had to find our way to Whately Glen. The morning began with Paula reading an excerpt from her old WPA guide. We were ready for the Old Man in the Cliff and Maiden’s Leap and a twenty-five foot waterfall.



We parked near a barn.



Then we trekked down the path we’d been told to follow and saw a brook. And a big field of goldenrod and purple asters. Maybe this is it, we said. And agreed it was pretty. But, really, was it Whately Glen? We wandered further, and found a big rock. When we looked hard, there was sort of maybe a face. Could that be the Old Man in the Cliff? We walked some more through the woods, and even over a narrow, ramshackle bridge. “What we’ll do for history,” Paula said.

When we turned around, we agreed we saw what we’d come for, but there was no celebration. The “I’ve Been to Whately Glen!” t-shirts we’d joked about earlier weren’t brought up. There are other woods, brooks, and fields of goldenrod and purple asters around.

So I say thank goodness for story.

And friends you’re happy to go any old where with.



Whately Glen! Maybe one day I’ll be telling my grandchildren about all the good times that were once held there.

This week my daughter started an internship in the marketing department of a toy company. She’s very excited to have been given her own cubicle, email account, phone extension, and garage clicker, and to have a great boss who took her out to lunch the first day and introduced to her to many people, including a woman whose office includes lots of photos from Twilight. Emily’s been working on press releases and catalogue copy. She told me, “I have to describe the product and make it sound great, put in licensing information, layout dates, which keep changing, who to contact, all this stuff in just a little space. You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to get everything into just a few sentences.”

Um, actually I would believe how very hard that is.

Then we went on to discuss colons, semi-colons, and if there is ever a correct time to put a period outside of the parenthesis.

Visiting my daughter means seeing about as many movies in a week as I ordinarily see in a year. And where I live, you don’t check the bathrooms for empty stalls and see a row of gladiator sandals, but more orthopedic-looking footwear, like mine. Em and her roommate Colleen like seeing the trailers, though they wonder when there will be another longer one for New Moon. Not that they don’t love seeing Jacob turn into a wolf and all, but they’d like a bit more. We also got to see the trailer for Where the Wild Things Are, which I enjoyed, but it reminded Colleen of having to dress up as a Wild Thing for Story time at the bookstore where she works. Not one of her favorite moments.

Of course they’d seen Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince at midnight in July, but I’d waited to see it with them, and even after a month, the audience was enthusiastic. I enjoyed it, more than Inglourious Basterds, whose blend of the absurd and violent didn’t work for me. Lots of eye closing, ducking, and my daughter swinging her arm in front of my eyes.

The three of us also saw Julie and Julia, which I loved. Meryl Streep and everybody else were great, not to mention good shots of Paris and various kinds of chocolate. I loved the publishing drama –the waiting, the not hearing, the rejections, the triumph. When I started to write this, I was thinking the girls liked the romance, while I liked the writing references; but now I see how much they blended, both in the movie and my life. We weren’t a bubble bath valentine couple, but my husband was and is supportive of my work-passion wherever, if anywhere, it went. Priceless. I remember shortly after we met how it was being able to write with him in the room that made me think this could last forever. Like Julia Child’s husband, he knows what it means to carry in a piece of mail with a publisher’s address in the left corner.

(500) Days of Summer had a great blend of love and irony, wonderful on the details of a relationship and how memory sharpens, blurs, and does somersaults. Things move backwards and forward and sideways instead of in the usual arc, which was fun.

Post Grad is about an English major who didn’t land her dream job in publishing ten minutes after getting her B.A. Um, a plot I’m familiar with. Sadly none of the strands really wound together, holes abounded, and a lot of the humor was stale. If you crave romance and books, see Julie and Julia again.

I went back to L.A. to see my daughter in the brief time she has between summer classes; she can’t make it back here since her fall internship begins days after the summer one ends. Emily will be going from being part of a marketing team for cool and pricey (three figures) sunglasses to part of team marketing cool and cheap (one figure) toys.

Her roommate Colleen shares my July birthday, and she’d told me she couldn’t think of any better way to celebrate the end of her teens than by seeing Harry Potter at midnight. I saw the photo of her with wand and scar. She and Em took me to see the Harry Potter of the Half-Blood Prince last night. And Colleen sweetly had this present waiting for me: the Twilight books being one of her other obsessions. I'll have something to do on the flight home.



I thought I might be cleaning their apartment, but they’d cleaned in prep for my arrival. Not even a dish in the sink and there was rumor of a vacuum. Emily had texted me to ask what I’d like and stocked the fridge: yogurt and fruit and granola for my breakfast, which is not a meal the girls make much of. Colleen told me that her favorite memory of our trip to London was me fetching them coffee and saying, “Time to get up girls.” Yeah, that and the Tower of London. So yesterday I got drinks from Coffee Bean. They were grateful, and it was fun for me since at home I can walk in lovely woods but can’t count on seeing humans, and I like a morning beginning with pithy baristas and dogs and babies by the patio tables on the sidewalk.

I even made their calendar! (Mama J, that’s me).




And, priorities in place, never mind she has a fall scheduled up with classes and work, beside the calendar Em made a collage and list of fall movies, with must-sees in bold.



Yesterday Em helped me start a page Facebook! Yikes. It might take me a while to know what I’m doing, but if you’re on, please friend me!

Today both girls are working, so I'll write and make dinner. Tomorrow we plan to go to the Getty.

This morning I stopped in the coop to buy a small stack of tea boxes with a mint theme and a cup of coffee. I settled in the café area with my revision of Chapter 5 (ouch) and was observed by a mom, also with coffee, and a girl, about three, who was tearing into a bagel. I became a cautionary tale as the mom pointed out how I wrote on paper.

I looked up, and she explained that Sasha prefers writing on tables and walls.

“So are your pens kept hidden?” I asked.

“No. They really are better for writing. Sasha can’t press as hard as you need to with a crayon, and she doesn’t see me with crayons, so they don’t hold much interest.”

“So,” I asked Sasha, “Do you like writing or drawing more?”

We discussed the pros and cons, and she decided singing was best. So her mom asked her to sing. She asked for a mike. Her mom got a plastic spoon which the girl waved with one hand and the by now severely mangled bagel with the other. Because of the request for a mike, I’d readied myself for a performance. But one line and the song was over. I was reminded again of the power of brevity as I went back to model writing on PAPER. And marveled at the patience of parents of the very young.

Thanks for those who asked about salamander migration, which we'll hear more about next Wednesday at S.White Dickinson Library from Scott Jackson, who studied the way salamanders left vernal pools en masse to breed on a spring night. For a while, bucket brigades helped them cross roads in their path, but he helped build tunnels to make their route safe. You can read more here.

http://www.fhwa.dot.gov/environment/wildlifecrossings/salamand.htm



In other news, it was a busy week with friends and relatives gathering for Easter. I'm polishing the workshop on writing poetry drawing from the past which I'll be giving at the NESCBWI workshop on April 26. I did a blog interview with writer Linda Cotta Brennan about my book, Anne Hutchinson's Way, which she'll post tomorrow, April 16. http://lcbrennan.blogspot.com/

But my favorite part of the week was when driving with my daughter to see our friend Pat in the hospital, Emily reached over, lifted a strand of my hair, let it drop. Then we looked at each other.

My husband just finished reading Drood, a novel by Dan Simmons based on the later life of Charles Dickens, told through the point of view of his friend and rival, author Wilkie Collins. He loved all 771 pages of it, enough so that I want to read it – and take a trip to nineteenth century London – but that very thick spine discourages me. How will I read anything else – for weeks? I not only write slowly, but read slowly, too. I think my husband may loan it to a friend – good – and get it out of temptation’s way.

Of course Peter hated leaving that world that engrossed him for a while. The novel made him curious about Dickens, so he found another book about him. Around page ten the author had someone “throwing rocks and stones.” What’s the difference? my husband asked, annoyed enough that he’s unsure whether he’ll keep reading.

How much does a bad phrase bug you? Will it make you shut a book forever? A friend of mine told me she’s reading a book she likes quite a lot, but about every ten pages, something rings untrue. She gave herself permission to write in the book. “I bought it, it’s mine now, and it makes me feel better to edit and grumble across the page.”

In other news, those little white specks coming down from the sky can't really be more snow, can they?

Whoever thought of putting some kind of computer in a car that makes a flame-colored wrench appear on the dashboard when it’s due for service was kind of genius. Especially when I see that scary wrench late at night, I’m pretty ready to call for an appointment. No pretty birds here at Northampton Honda, but they’ve got desks and free wireless to use while my car gets fluids changed. And they offer bicycles customers can borrow if they bring their own helmet. How cool is that? The Schwinns, leaning against the wall, are the first thing you see by the garage door.

Now if I could only get them to turn down the music, not to my taste, I could write as happily here as anywhere. Hoping it will turn to white noise soon….

I’ve been reading Lisa’s revision angst with great empathy lisa_schroeder. I think most of us have been there. Today she gave herself a very stern talking to, followed up with the mom-tactic of a bribe. Get this done, girl, and you get a pedicure and two books from Powells.

Come on, Lisa, how can you resist? For inspiration, here’s a picture I took the last time I got a pedicure, at Peter’s Nails in South Hadley, MA.



I won’t mangle the spelling of this sweet young woman’s name, but she’s here with two love birds named Romeo and Juliet. There’s a great fish tank, too. I was told they just returned the big fish to Dave’s Pet and Soda City, after it had gained four pounds in four years.

Lisa, keep on writing. We await a picture of your pretty toes and books!

I was a shy girl and I didn’t really lose it until I had to stand in front of seventh and eighth graders. I remember the moment of wondering, aghast: what made me think it was a good idea to become a teacher? Quickly followed by: you’d better say something, or this class is lost.

That was decades ago and I no longer think of myself as timid. But while I can speak in public, have I really lost that quiet and scared girl? A few days ago Melodye newport2newport posted a picture of a fortune telling eight ball, like one I used to covet, and generously offered to pose questions for us. I felt scared. What if the answer was awful? I did ask a question, and true to my nature, the eight ball stuck in a qualifier, but the answer was good. Melodye suggested this was some reward for pushing beyond my boundaries to ask, and that bravery might be our theme for 2009.

Today Jo jbknowles posted about some of her dreams for the new year and her uneasy but brave efforts to make them bigger. I know that feeling. We don’t want to annoy any listening spirits, be they good or evil, who might want to knock us down if we sound greedy for things like happiness, or having more people hear our voices.

It’s hard to display our hopes and make them look big and fabulous and like we mean it. But why not? Wishing you BIG dreams for 2009.

Linda lurban recently raised discussions revealing that few of us actually sit for hours with hands rolling along with a pen or tapping keys. Sometimes this happens, but mostly, inspiration and concentration come in bursts. I know around here there’s a lot of tea pouring and dog-letting-out-and-letting-in and refilling birdseed and making grocery lists. Writing happens, life gets tended to, and sometimes thoughts come in that life part, during dog walks or driving.

People are also discussing how long they work on one project, or if they mix them up. I know I’m a mixer, though not often in a single day. This month, I’m revising something I’ve taken in and out for a few years, and expect in January to get back to a project I’ve spent much of the past year on, with breaks to revise my book of verse coming out in 2010.

Stopping and starting works for me, as the breaks give me a distance, which helps me see the flaws. And maybe approach from a new angle. When I feel I’ve hit some kind of wall, I often pick up another project that may have been calling me in some ways. Can I call that the muse? My mind went back to it on several walks or car rides, till gradually its voice seemed to squeeze out my current project.

If there’s a deadline, if I’m fortunate enough to know someone is waiting, I can manage to take notes coming from these other voices, then put them aside. But without that deadline, I often let inspiration set my schedule. Trying not to listen can make the new and not so new, everything, feel stubborn. Fewer words will come. Last year I felt sad about a friend’s illness, until it became almost all I could think about. Finally I opened a new folder on my computer and began to write about my friend, ways she coped, and memories. Doing this, sometimes for whole days, but more often just part of the day, freed me up to get back to my historical fiction. I gave the thoughts the attention it wanted, no, demanded, and could move on.

Those notes, written to get out of my way, are now a stack. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll do something with them. I called them distractions, way off topic, but someday I’ll take them out. Maybe they’re the best words I ever wrote.

We were happy that our daughter got here between snowstorms, as the past three days have been full of stuff falling from the sky. Em arrived in loafers, which at least weren’t flip flops, but don’t exactly do the job in the Massachusetts version of December. Which she doesn’t find enchanting. She’s become a California girl, but thank goodness we could offer her time with our little dog who sprawled on her legs while we watched Finding Neverland last night. And hot chocolate has got to be better with snow flying, right?

Many many years ago I was teaching sixth grade when Geraldine Ferraro ran as vice presidential candidate. I don’t remember much from decades past, but I’ve always carried within me the smile of one of my students, an African American girl, who was so revved up by news of that election that might put a woman in high office. “Anything can happen in America,” this girl used to say. And looking at all the hope on her face, I believed her.

Then kind of forgot, though I’ve read a lot of yes-we-can sort of books and have written some, too.

My daughter, calling a friend across the country last night, said she could hardly hear him on the phone, so surrounded was he by revelers, most of them first time voters. The world is really changing. Today I am that sixth grader I remember, her face brimming with hope. And it’s a very very good feeling, this pride in our country.

After visiting my friend Pat’s school last week, I went home with her while she called her nurse, hoping for good news, but because of former tests, not really expecting to hear about the miracle she’s long prayed for. After she hung up, we cried and walked. This week she’s making plans to try another experimental treatment at Yale. Yesterday I waited for her call following a doctor’s appointment. Her first words: “Good news, Jeannine! It hasn’t spread to my liver.”

She had more news, less good, but looking on the bright side is Pat all the way, and I realized if you’ve spent your life looking for silver linings, you may well spend the last chapters of your life that way, too. Or not. We humans are full of surprises. I went to bed thinking about how with so much else out of control, we really do get to shape our life stories, or at least decide what we want to stress, what we want to consider as climax, or let enter our dialogue, set a tone.

And while there are times when it’s obnoxious to try to see the good with the bad, and I’ve been called on it, hey, it’s a scheme that kind of works. Yesterday I got to see other dear friends, Jo, Peg, and Ellen for lunch. Yay!

And then Jo even wrote about a moment which I couldn’t put into better words, so go read her blog! jbknowles Reading "Friends, Strangers and Maple" was like seeing a photograph that for once seemed all me. About a gray-bearded gentleman who shuffled over to our table in the farm store cafe, clutching his truly-stuffed and ruffled notebook, recognizing us as kindred souls but not asking for the name of our agent or even change for a cup of coffee. He’d just run out of names after all those words. And was most happy with the perfect one Jo gave him.

A few days ago I told my nineteen-year-old daughter that I was going with friends to see Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist. There was a pause before Em said, “Isn’t that a little young for you?”

I thought it was kind of sweet she didn’t phrase it as: aren’t you old for that?

I recently heard Carol Christ, the president of Smith College, speak about fantasy in nineteenth century literature for children. She called Alice in Wonderland her favorite children’s book, in part because of the way it speaks to both adults and children. She mentioned the rabbit hole as perhaps symbolizing the regression of adults, going back into the womb. Hmm. I’m more apt to think about how we wind our ways around words or add layers as we read books we read as children and find more than we first did. It’s not about going back in search of lost boys or lost worlds, but maybe realizing those people and places have been with us all along.

Or something. Sorry. I just mean to say that regression isn’t a word I care to use, and that things are more complicated than moving back or moving forward, and that we may never completely peel away all the people we’ve ever been. It’s why fairy tales stick with us, and why we find more in them as years pass. We don’t have to move beyond, but just let things accrue. I told my students who are studying picture books about my just-hit-up-the-candy-store feeling, part guilt, more elation, the first time I checked out library books not intended for my child, but for me. Yes, you can find pretty or funny pictures even in the stacks of college libraries, which not only have a cataloguing system that’s more complicated than the Dewey Decimal most library-lovers grew up with, but have the jackets removed from books, almost as if to keep the stacks less colorful and shiny.

“There should therefore be a time in adult life devoted to revisiting the most important books of our youth. Even if the books have remained the same,… we have most certainly changed, and our encounter with them will be a new thing.” -- Italo Calvino, The Use of Literature

And C. S. Lewis, wrote, “When I was ten, I read fairy tales in secret and would have been ashamed if I had been found doing so. Now that I am fifty I read them openly.” (“On Three Ways of Writing for Children)

The idea of growing up suggests a movement toward a better state. Yes, in some ways, but not entirely. It’s good to read books written for young people and good to hang out with them. I like walking with my contemporary, Mary, as we discuss political campaigns, cholesterol, and calcium, for instance, but yesterday I had fun walking with my thirteen-year-old neighbor, hearing her philosophy on squirrel chasing dogs – they can’t help it, it’s like a video game to them. And did I know anyone who might want some chickens she needs to get rid of? They’re past laying eggs but make nice easy pets, and she has 28, a lot to get in each night. When our dog leashes crossed, instead of passing over the leads as Mary and I do, G. leapt over them, without a break in the conversation.