Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Y'all Twins? (copy)

On a quiet neighborhood lawn in Oxford, MS, five kids were fighting the heat of a 1954 summer by making mud pies. The group was instructed by Kat to place them on the stove she and her sister, Margaret, made out of bricks. The pies were stacked like hamburger patties waiting for a grill.

Carol, the oldest in the group, thought she might talk one of them into taking a bite. “Here,” she said. “This is good for you. And it tastes so good, too.”

The sisters were not impressed and responded in unison as twins often do. “Yuck, no way!”

As Carol ran home in a huff, the sisters were called by their older brother, Bill. A familiar sound was coming down the street and the trio had to hide. Clop de clop. Clop de clop.

At the end of the street moved a buckboard wagon being pulled by a mule. The man holding the reins drew on a pipe as he got closer. The children hid behind a huge hydrangea bush at the end of the driveway and watched as the pipe produced smoke that surrounded his whole face.

As the cart slowly inched near, Bill dared his little sisters to hitch a ride. On his count the three siblings bolted from the bush sopping with mud and naked from the waist up and hopped on the back of the wagon. Bill laid back in the wagon to look at the sky while the girls peered uneasy at the smoker whom seemed oblivious.

The smell of the mule became too much and Bill gave the signal. All three hopped back off bare-footed and headed for home. The driver, Mr. William Faulkner, continued in a cloud of smoke to the square.

This is just one of the many entertaining stories that sisters, Katherine and Margaret King, share with readers of their new book, Y’all Twins? I did not do the above story justice. Their version is longer and funnier as family stories can be.

This tag-team memoir opens with a teaser. Their mother spent special care to make them matching outfits for their school pictures. She fashioned a blouse and jumper and was sewing the last button on one jacket that morning before school. She instructed them not to mess up their hair at recess and to take off their jackets before the picture.

On the back book cover are the actual photos taken that day with one twin still sporting the jacket they were told to take off. You are to read the book and say which is which.

Please, if they come to a library near you to talk and sign books, go! They are a hoot!

Wednesday, March 21, 2012

Room (copy)

He is five today. As he shuts Wardrobe, he remembers that he was four and then over night while he slept he became five. Before he was four, he was three. Before he was three, he was two. “Was I minus numbers?”

“Hmm?” Ma does a big stretch.

“Up in Heaven. Was I minus one, minus two, minus three--?”

“Nah, the numbers didn’t start till you zoomed down.”

“Through Skylight. You were all sad till I happened in your tummy.”

“You said it.” Ma leans out of Bed to switch on Lamp, he makes everything light up whoosh.

He is Jack and Jack was born in a windowless room big enough for a stove, bed, table, bath, sink and wardrobe. That is it and that is all he knows. His mother gave birth to him on Rug for which there is still a stain. She is now 26. Readers are left to guess her age before becoming a sex slave.

Jack relates the story and I am so thankful. You do not get Ma’s perspective except through facial expressions and her answers, at times, can be ambiguous. St. Nick, her captor, is also left to the imagination. He is an older man with a gruff white beard and personality.

The act of reading Room by Emma Donoghue is an exercise in patience. Ma shows great restraint while dealing with her energetic young son. (Can you imagine being locked in the same room as your offspring for any length of time?) Jack must confine his desires for a Sunday treat and his exercise to running around Bed for 45 minutes. St. Nick endures the nagging and readers must curtail their need to read straight through the book in one sitting.

Not only are Ma and Jack suspended in a room, but so are we trying to read the book. We are held in place by a need to see Ma handle the situation. How does she explain these things like the outside world to him? How does she keep her depression from engulfing her? How does she put up with the awful toothache?

This is a fresh take on confinement stories and I encourage you to read it. On the Room website Nelson Mandela is quoted as having said, “I found solitary confinement the most forbidding aspect of prison life. There is no end and no beginning; there is only one’s own mind.”

Wednesday, March 07, 2012

Maphead (copy)

A co-worker teases me because on vacations I carry a book of constellations. I love looking at star charts and seeing them from another point of view. While staying at a B&B in southern Oregon, we were so enshrined in pines we had to go out into the road to see the stars. We spent (what felt like) hours figuring out what we were looking at through the narrow swath.

My love of aviation also centers on charts. At the airport we had this huge chart of the area hanging on the wall under Plexiglas. At the center was our airport, Smyrna, with a pin stuck in it and a long piece of string with a marker attached at the end. One takes the string and pulls it taut towards the destination then figures distance, time in the air, fuel consumption, etc.

On rainy days, when flying was out of the picture, we would stand by the chart and go to exotic destinations like Muscle Shoals, AL or Bowling Green, KY. Speaking of Muscles Shoals, that was our first destination in training for a private license.

I remember my flight like it was yesterday. My grumpy, WWII fighter pilot, instructor smoked a pipe in the airplane requiring the vents remain open during flight. He pointed out the landmarks as we neared Muscle Shoals. Tower here, interstate over there, grassy strip off to the east, and amazingly the chart and the ground really did correspond.

After our perfunctory nabs, we climbed back into the Cessna 152 and took off for Smyrna. Once level, Col. Haun fell asleep. Being a cold day, the vents were pumping out heat from the engine that made him drowsy or so I thought.

I kept quiet and with chart in hand, I identified the landmarks in reverse order: grass strip to the east, interstate over there, tower going directly under us. My pride oozed as I smacked the plane on the tarmac and Col. Haun awoke. What a feeling!

Ken Jennings, author of “Brainiac,” has written another quirky book that will enthrall readers for hours. In “Maphead: Charting the Wide, Weird World of Geography Wonks,” he describes his love of maps and the fascination others have with our innate need for them. Did you know that the Library of Congress has a whole basement with 8,500 cases, five drawers per case, chocked full of every imaginable map?

Oh, and quick tip. If you find yourself lost in the air, find a town and circle the water tower. The town will be spelled out in huge letters. The “you are here” moment is priceless.