As a librarian, I have a love-hate relationship with pop-up books. Obviously, they are books; thus, my eternal love. It is the lifespan of pop-ups that causes me such grief. When purchasing them for the library, I automatically think I am wasting taxpayers' money. How many children will enjoy the book before it becomes a broken mess?
The act of placing the book behind the counter to save it from wear and tear also defeats the purpose of providing the book. If a child cannot read it because I hold it hostage in a protected area, he will never benefit from its use. Removing it from the "safe" shelf for story time does ease my guilt, but it remains inaccessible to that child who may need a little visual stimulus to foster her love of books.
Pop-up books can be seen as gimmicky. A child benefits from the bright colors and sing-song words in a regular children's picture book. Pop-ups are icing on the cake. There is no proof that a pop-up stimulates the brain, but one can guess that twinkle in her child's eyes might mean something is taking place – possibly fun.
It is with a heavy heart I suggest David A. Carter's pop-up books. I realize their little book bodies will be bruised, torn and mangled. They will encounter many dirty-little hands pushing tabs, grabbing at dangly spots, and catching piecer-parts that fly. These books are doomed. Woe is the book that encounters a known slobberer.
Born in 1957, David A. Carter began his career in the 70s as a graphic designer. He was fooling around at work making little paper bugs when he thought of creating a book for children. His first book, "How Many Bugs in a Box?" became popular and in 1987 he started his own business making "buggy" pop-up books.
Fast forward and we find Carter creating pop-art, pop-ups. His latest titled White Noise opens with the line, "Rainbow bubble blast and crackly white noise." As the child opens the cover he sees red, yellow, blue, and black dots rising from the page. It reminds me of a retro 50's table cloth or glass tumbler design. The three dimensional art makes noise as white gears scrap across black dots.
Yes, I did purchase it for the library along with, Blue 2, Yellow Square, 600 Black Spots, and One Red Dot. Hopefully, these books will have a longer shelf life with adult students.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Pop-Ups (copy)
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Promises I Made My Mother (copy)
It was a delight to hear Sam Haskell speak at the Senatobia Lunch with Books yesterday. He flew in special from New York to promote his excellent new book, "Promises I Made My Mother." I was late but after listening to him for just a minute I was struck by his gentle mannerisms and charming good looks. No wonder he won the hearts of finicky people like Bette Davis and David Frost.
Sam Haskell was born in Alabama but he soon moved to Mississippi and considers Amory his hometown. As a child he believed anything was possible and he continued to have faith when others began to doubt. In the prologue he uses the Cheer Man as his example.
In 1964 Amory had all of three television channels from which to choose and nine-year-old Sam was a scholar of all. The Cheer Man was a commercial airing that year to promote the washing detergent. The spokesman dressed in bright orange and sporting a detergent box hat was seen walking through a neighborhood asking, "Do you use Cheer?" Finally he gets an answer when one lucky housewife shows off her box. The spokesman then hands her a ten dollar bill and all is right with the world.
This commercial, this image, this event was going to happen to young Sam. His mother used Cheer and he knew it was only a matter of time before the Cheer Man came down the street and stopped at his front door. He jumped into action – so as to be ready for the blessed day – by making a poster declaring his undying love for the product. With money saved he purchased all the paint and mini rocks to place on his poster which became a garish three by four foot sign that he proudly displayed above his bedroom headboard.
Soon his artwork became the butt of his father's jokes. "Son, show the guys what you plan to do when the Cheer Man comes?" Sam would eagerly display his masterpiece only to be met with snickers and guffaws from the crowd.
It was his mother who kept the dream alive although time passed and the Cheer Man commercial cycled off the air. Eventually, the poster came off the wall to reside under the bed and then moved to the closet. His mother never once pointed out the impossibility, but told him it was a beautiful dream.
Readers will find the Cheer Man cometh and directly to the Haskell's front door thus proving all things are possible. Sam returned to Mississippi yesterday after a successful career in Hollywood culminating as Worldwide Head of Television. Yes, all things are possible.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Saving CeeCee Honeycutt (copy)
Cecelia "CeeCee" Rose Honeycutt was twelve-years-old when she realized life with her mother was getting worse. There were hints like the three straight weeks her mother went cuckoo crazy for shoes that resulted in overflowing shoeboxes in both bedroom closets. Another time she caught her mother sitting at the kitchen table sporting her favorite pink robe with candy apple stilettos peeking out from under the hem. One embarrassing time CeeCee arrived home from school to find her mother perched on the stoop wearing a ball gown and tiara.
CeeCee's father was no help. He was a travelling salesman who took every opportunity to get out of town and away from the family. He cut up the credit cards and yelled for her to take her medicine, but still she over shopped and walked around bewildered. When the money became tight, CeeCee's mom began to shop at the local Goodwill for prom dresses.
Many times CeeCee came home to a quiet, dark house. Climbing the steps she would see her mother immobilized in the upstairs bedroom pouring over a scrapbook filled with memorabilia and too lethargic to turn on the house lights. Other times she might catch her mother in a rage where fragile vases and china plates were flung around like a water sprinkler.
On this ominous day CeeCee would have to face facts. Returning from the library, she opened the front door and was greeted with a smelly gray smoke. She rushed into the kitchen to see a pot of macaroni and cheese overflowing onto the stove top. Upstairs she found her mother with the scrapbook poking a finger at one of the pictures. "My life is here; this is my 'real' life."
CeeCee looks into her mother's eyes and asked, "Momma, what's my name?"
"Why, CeeCee Rose of course and your friend is Nancy Drew."
"Well, sort of. Nancy Drew is a character in one of my books."
Camille Sugarbaker Honeycutt is stuck in 1951 where she remains forever the Vidalia Onion Queen. With an absent father and all her people in the South, who will take care of CeeCee? Her life is perched precariously on the ledge of an abyss and her mother is slowly elbowing her off.
Saving CeeCee Honecutt by Beth Hoffman is a new southern novel that brings the crazy back down home, because everyone knows our southern roots include insanity.
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Shop Class as Soulcraft (copy)
During my pre-teen years I worked for my father's carpet cleaning business. Less residential and more commercial, my time was spent cleaning offices and bathrooms. Father loved to skirt the law and those pesky child labor ones - he felt - didn't apply to a family run business.
I may have already told this but my parents' families were an exercise in opposites. My mother's privileged and father's questionable, I faced an early education in the "haves and have nots" with ample examples. Benefits for me included material wealth such as toys and clothes from one side and precious freedom to run amuck from the other. Life was good.
My dad's mother worked factory. Granny Smith filled my ears with words like skeleton shifts, mandatory overtime, assembly line, and various adjectives for a terrible thing called a manager. As I began to understand her wordage, I jumped to the conclusion she worked assembly line.
It wasn't until I began to clean the offices at Hoeganaes that my thoughts were corrected. This factory worked in metals and there were giant furnaces along the north wall and the floor space was filled with single-worker machines. On weekends we entered through the truck bay and headed to the office area. They ran a skeleton crew and every blue moon I might catch Granny Smith out on the floor or in the break room.
One day my dad asked me to pick up the trash along the machines within the factory. Granny Smith was in the middle of the room and it took me sometime to reach her. As I neared, another man was cursing his machine. It was making a horrible noise and beginning to steam. He called out, "Edna Mae, this one is breakin' down!" She hit three or four buttons on her machine and ran to his aide. With my mouth on the ground, she grabbed an oil can and began to tease and tempt the humongous dinosaur into submission.
It was the look of pride on her face as she returned to her machine that I will never forget. I closed my mouth and continued working until I reached her and she gave me a big ole hug and kiss. Her coworkers, realizing my family connection, began to spout her accolades. Smiling shyly she threw some choice words back at them and the room hushed except for the purring of the machines.
What is happening to our society as we export our factory jobs to other countries? What is left for the class of people who take pride in their own hands? Matthew B. Crawford tries to answer these in his new book, Shop Class as Soulcraft: An Inquiry into the Value of Work.
