Happy Birthday, E.B. White!

“All that I hope to say in books, all that I ever hope to say, is that I love the world.” -- E. B. White

E.B. White was born 116 years ago, on July 11, 1899.

It may be a bit of a cliché to claim Charlotte’s Web as my favorite children’s book, but I can’t help it. From the moment I first read (and reread) it as a child to the dozens of times I shared it with my own children, it has never failed to move me to tears. The book is more than 60 years old, but is freshly beguiling on every read. And how can you resist a story that kills off one of its main characters, but still uplifts you, ending with (slightly abridged):

         [The barn] was the best place to be, thought Wilbur, this warm delicious cellar, with the garrulous geese, the changing seasons, the heat of the sun, the passage of swallows, the nearness of rats, the sameness of sheep, the love of spiders, the smell of manure, and the glory of everything.

         Wilbur never forgot Charlotte. . . . She was in a class by herself. It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer. Charlotte was both.

Absolute perfection.

That’s not to pass over Stuart Little or the sometimes overlooked but beautiful homage to wilderness, The Trumpet of the Swan. What E. B. White gave me was an early appreciation for nature and the natural ebbs and flows of life—“Always be on the lookout for the presence of wonder,” he advised—and though I didn’t know it at the time, he probably planted the seeds that led to my becoming an author. His prose was witty, wise, and gorgeous; he always chose the right words—and just the right words, no wasted verbiage. It wasn’t until much later that I discovered White also wrote for adults. I still consult his Elements of Style (the newish version, with the bonus of illustrations by the great Maira Kalman). His story and poetry anthologies are a revelation.  “Natural History” is undoubtedly the most romantic poem ever written about a spider (E. B. White is a one-man PR marvel for spiders).

So have a piece of cake for E. B. White—or better yet, revisit one of his classics. Prepare to be utterly enchanted. He was SOME WRITER!

A Tragic Anniversary

Frequently I have what I think is a good idea for a manuscript, but when I start writing, it just doesn’t work. The information below is from research I did for one of those discarded ideas.

April 15, 2015, marks the 150th anniversary of Abraham Lincoln’s death. April 15, 1865, was to have been a day of Thanksgiving, marking the end of the long and bloody American Civil War. The president had proclaimed it.

The Confederate Army had surrendered several days earlier. There would be no more North against South, no brother against brother: The fighting was over. But the hating was not. On the night of April 14, an angry Confederate loyalist shot President Lincoln as he and his wife watched a play in Ford’s Theater. Lincoln died of his wounds the next morning. The national day of giving thanks became a national day of mourning.

The president’s funeral train traveled from Washington, D.C., to Lincoln’s home state of Illinois, where Lincoln would ultimately be buried. It traveled through 180 cities. One of them was New York City. For two days, including an overnight viewing at City Hall, Manhattan was draped in black: houses, storefronts, churches, synagogues, fence rails, and spectators, too. Only the red, white, and blue of flags at half-mast in every conceivable place, broke up the monochromatic landscape.

Sixteen horses made their way slowly and solemnly up Broadway, pulling the fallen president behind them.  One hundred thousand men—no women, in keeping with the times—marched in the funeral procession: veterans, firefighters, religious representatives, lodge men, and, by special last-minute permission from Secretary of War Stanton, a large contingent of free black men.  Sorrowing crowds watched from every inch of sidewalk; from the high branches of trees en route; and from windows of bordering buildings.

And that’s where one more tiny but fascinating detail comes in. Two little boys watched from one second-story window. The house was that of Cornelius Schaack Roosevelt—and the two boys are the future president, Theodore Roosevelt, and his younger brother, Elliott (who would be the father of future first lady Eleanor Roosevelt).  These moments of convergence probably happen often in history; in this case, a photographer happened to catch the moment. One of the many reasons I love history!

February 2015

http://www.theodorerooseveltcenter.org/Research/Digital-Library/Record.aspx?libID=o284880'

Mispronounced Words

I confess: I am a word snob. It sets my teeth on edge when I hear people using words incorrectly. But just between you and I**, it’s even more irritating to me to hear words mispronounced. It’s not that I’m never guilty myself. My husband gleefully reminds me on a regular basis of the seventh-grade English class in which I said “TREE-cherous” (for treacherous) and of the Bat Mitzvah party, same year—the year I met my husband—during which I loudly proclaimed, “I love Janis JOE-plin.” I will never live that one down. 
 
Still, hypocritical or not, when I hear news reporters and politicians talking about things “nucular,” it makes me want to go nuclear. Ditto for “misCHEEvious.” Where is that final i that they’re enunciating? And please, don’t get me started on the second month of the year. So many people have ignored the fourth letter of the word—FebRuary—that the folks at Webster’s have capitulated. Not only is it now acceptable to say “FebYOUary,” it’s actually the first pronunciation listed in their dictionary. It’s enough to make me want to run screaming for the hills.
 
I know that English is a living language, changing according to common usage. The more people there are who pronounce a word wrong, the more likely it is that, before long, they will actually be pronouncing it correctly. So I’m going to stick with the written word, releasing words into the atmosphere for people to pronounce any way they like—and out of my hearing.
 
**KIDDING! It’s between you and me. But don’t get me started on bad grammar.

 

Eleanor and Me

I have a new picture book out this year. It’s called Hot Dog! Eleanor Roosevelt Throws a Picnic, and it’s based on a true historical event:

In June 1939, Great Britain’s Queen Elizabeth and King George visited the United States. It was the first time British royalty had ever set foot in their former colonies, and First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt wanted to go beyond the usual Washington, D.C., pomp. She decided on a picnic in Hyde Park, New York, with hot dogs as a main attraction. Americans were appalled at this gaucherie—there are boxes of letters protesting said menu that bear witness to this fact—but Eleanor stuck to her guns and the picnic was a big success. Both king and queen tried hot dogs for the first (and maybe the last, I’m not sure!) time.

To write the story accurately and with as many colorful details as possible, I traveled up to the FDR library in Hyde Park. I’ve been writing books for many years, but I can honestly say that nothing in those years has been more thrilling than holding the actual letters that Eleanor received about the royal picnic. (Not to mention the RSVP cards that picnic attendees sent her.) “I am holding something that Eleanor Roosevelt may also have held and read,” I kept thinking excitedly—although it’s more likely that it was her secretary who handled the mail. Yes, I am a total history nerd. But come on, Eleanor Roosevelt! Letters about hot dogs! It doesn’t get much better than that.

The cherry on the top came a few weeks ago when I was invited (along with the terrifically talented illustrator of the book, Victor Juhasz) to participate in an event at Hyde Park commemorating the 75th anniversary of the original picnic. There was a book reading and signing, and then—of course, a hot dog dinner. What a blast!

So as you enjoy your summer picnics, think of Eleanor. Better yet, make a pilgrimage to Top Cottage, Roosevelt’s modest little house on a hill near the main Hyde Park estate, and the venue for the festivities. You’ll see a framed thank-you note from the queen, mentioning specifically the hot dogs. Then, please, read my book! I can’t be the only person who’s tickled by the thought of incredible Eleanor having a soft spot for hot dogs on the grill. 

July 2014

Here's what the New York Times had to say.

The Last Luddite

[The Luddites were nineteenth-century English textile artisans who protested against newly-invented, time-saving machinery, such as power looms, during the Industrial Revolution. It’s come to mean anyone opposed to new technologies.]

Someone recently e-mailed me, asking if I ever updated my blog. How embarrassing! I haven’t posted since, well . . . never. My “blog” has the same post it did on day one of this web site. The baby who is its subject is now a happy young man in his twenties, more than a head taller than me! So yeah, it’s probably time to update.

It is a cliché—but oh, so true—that the older you get, the faster life speeds by. Like almost everyone I know, I am one of those people whose life runs like a very complicated and precise tango. More than two minutes behind, and I'm dancing to the wrong song. Luckily I'm a pretty organized person. I have the whole thing down to a science.

But I don’t like it. I prefer taking things nice and slow, if only I could. Every minute of every hour of every day seems to be filled. The devices which are supposed to make things easier seem to me to make things worse. They scream at you to take action: check your phone, answer office e-mails (even at night and on weekends), catch up with everyone’s news on Facebook. Obviously, technology has its place, but I’ve had to be dragged kicking and screaming to each new innovation. I resist because it hurts me to see technology taking the place of so many things I treasure. Walking through NYC’s Central Park at lunchtime, or even hiking on a mountaintop in Vermont, I want to cry when I see so many people glued to their phones, eyes closed and ears blocked to the sights and sounds of the wonders of the natural world around them. I feel a little like Emily in Thornton Wilder’s Our Town: “Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it…every, every minute?”

 So whenever I get the chance, I make my own feeble protest against the quick tempo of living. For example:

         I go for a walk to nowhere in particular. Phone off, no music playing—just legs for locomotion and eyes and ears for appreciating what’s around me.

         I cook and bake from scratch. I make my own yogurt, my own pizza, and my own bread: not all the time, but often. I don’t use a food processor, either, preferring the slow pace of grating and chopping by hand. 

         I write thank-you notes by hand and send them by snail-mail. Hey, I just read in the New York Times that this is coming back into fashion!

         I sit down for meals with the whole family together. It’s how I was brought up, and it seemed to work. My parents are about to celebrate their 60th wedding anniversary, and my three sisters and I all still talk to each other. It’s easy to find reasons you can’t do meals together, but worth ignoring those reasons whenever possible.

         I try to ignore the persistent inner voice that tells me to multi-task. I used to think that being an accomplished multi-tasker was a badge to wear proudly. I’m not so sure anymore. Maybe giving one thing my full attention is even better.

So there you are—the suggestions of the last Luddite. Maybe one of these days I’ll even revert to writing not on the computer, but on one of those yellow legal pads I used to use, and a—what’s it called?—oh yeah, pencil.

May 2014

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