historical fiction

The Brooklyn Nine

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by Alan Gratz
ages: 10+
First sentence: “Nine months ago, Felix Schneider was the fastest boy in Bremen, Germany.”
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This book is one of the more unique ones I’ve read recently. It’s not that it’s tackling something different or controversial. Rather, it’s quite the opposite: it’s a sweeping portrait of a family, a game, a nation. Quiet in its execution, yet grand in its ambition, Gratz pulls off something I didn’t think was possible: this book is a slice of Americana through and through.

The format is clever, too: it’s a series of short stories, told in nine “innings”, that travel through the years. Beginning in 1845, with a German immigrant, Felix Schneider, and going until present, the stories offer up a picture of how baseball — and America — has evolved over the last 160 years. Gratz touches on all the major highlights of Americana: there’s a Civil War soldier, Vaudeville, gangsters, racism and the Negro League, the All-American Girls Baseball league, and the Cold War. As in the case of all short story collections, some of the stories work better than others: in my case, the further back in time, the better the story; the final two more modern stories felt a bit cliched to me. But, even with its unevenness, it’s a fabulous undertaking. This is probably sounding like a sports book, and in some ways it is — I think there are many baseball-minded boys out there who would love the book — but, it’s so grounded in history and in family that baseball becomes more a character in the story than just a game that people played. That, and the stories — and especially the authors notes in the back, which I flipped to and read after every chapter — make the game itself sound quite fascinating.

At one point, I thought that it would have been nice to read these stories backward, beginning with the present day, and working back to 1840s. But, that’s just me being particular. This book really is a wonderful little story.

(Just for the record: because this is a Cybils nominee, I’ve been asked to make sure y’all know this is my opinion only, and not that of the panel.)

A Season of Gifts

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by Richard Peck
ages: 9-12
First sentence: “You could see from here the house was haunted.”
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I’m not a big Richard Peck fan. Sure, I’ve read his other Grandma Dowdel books, but while I think I found them charming, I think that’s about all I found them to be. Not exactly thrilling or touching or even memorable.

That said, I really wanted to love this one. Perhaps it’s because it’s that time of year, and it’s vaguely a Christmas book. Perhaps it’s because I’ve heard so much good about Peck over the years that I wanted to see if I could figure out what I was missing.

It was a good book: charming, like I remember the others being; funny at times, poignant at others. It’s full of fun and interesting and mildly skanky characters; historical details from the 1950s, from Elvis going into the Army to the Russian scare. There’s a lovely, hilarious Christmas program and an overall moral to the story. There’s bullies and new friends, there’s adjusting to small town life by our narrator, Bobby, one of the new Methodist parson’s kids. Yet — like so often when you have expectations from a book — there was something missing. Something to make the book soar. Becky has more thoughts on that — and she hit upon much of what I was feeling.

Perhaps some of Peck’s other books are better?

(Just for the record: because this is a Cybils nominee, I’ve been asked to make sure y’all know this is my opinion only, and not that of the panel.)

Neil Armstrong is My Uncle

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and Other Lies Muscle Man McGinty Told Me
by Nan Marino
ages: 9-12
First sentence: “Muscle Man McGinty is a squirrelly runt, a lying snake, and a pitiful excuse for a ten-year-old.”
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Not quite sure where to start on this one.

On the one hand: it was an interesting story of loss and tension and dealing with differences. Tamara’s best friend, Kebsie, has just moved out of her foster house and back in with her mother. Without saying goodbye to Tamara. In her place, Tamara has Muscle Man McGinty, who loves (loves!) to tell stories.

On the other hand: in a book that is so thoroughly driven by the main character, it helps if that character is sympathetic. I understand that she was hurting. I understand that she was resentful. I understand that she had annoying, stupid, bad parents. But. I. Hated. Tamara. Wanted to smack her upside the head and tell her to get a better attitude.

On the one hand: it captures the essence of a 1960s summer, from endless games of kickball, to the anticipation of the first moonwalk, to the tension about the Vietnam War, to the joys of sitting on a roof and howling at the moon.

On the other hand: I thought Marino could have been better with the middle one — it was a small undercurrent that swelled in the last few pages. It was unevenly paced: I wanted more oomph, more tension, more — oh, more like Shooting the Moon, which I thought captured much of these same themes but did it better.

On the one hand: It’s a quick read. And some kids will really like both Tamara and Muscle Man’s stories.

On the other hand: that kid is not me.

(Just for the record: because this is a Cybils nominee, I’ve been asked to make sure y’all know this is my opinion only, and not that of the panel.)

Born To Fly

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by Michael Ferrari
ages: 9-12
First sentence: “Just ’cause I was a girl in 1941, don’t think I was some sissy.”
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Eleven-year-old Bird McGill has always wanted to fly, particularly the P-40 fighter plane. It’s something she and her dad have worked towards ever since she was old enough to reach the pedals. The fact that she’s a girl — and girls in 1941 weren’t supposed to be interested in flying airplanes — never seemed to matter to either her, or her father.

Then, the Japanese bomb Pearl Harbor, and Bird’s life changes. Her father gets shipped away to fight in the war, and a new kid — Kenji — comes to town. He’s Japanese, in Rhode Island to live with an uncle because of the forced internment his family in California is facing. He’s resentful, and — interestingly, realistically — faces much of the same resentment and racism that he’d faced in California.

Both being outcasts, Bird and Kenji form a tentative friendship, which is strained and tested when they inadvertently witness both the murder of a local draft dodger and the sabotage of a engine factory. Kenji’s uncle is framed for both, and found guilty. And it’s up to Bird to set things right.

It’s partly a mystery, partly an adventure story, partly a tale of friendship and ignoring expectations. It tries to do a bit too much, and is a bit over-the-top, but Ferrari succeeded admirably on one account: it’s a story with not only a strong female character, but a middle grade one who makes things happen. Sure, it’s unbelievable that she would actually get to fly a P-40 plane, but by the end, who cares? Bird is awesome. Bird makes things happen. Bird — in spite of, or perhaps because of, her faults, and insecurities — rocks. She’s inspiring.

In addition to a strong heroine, Ferrari unflinchingly tackles things like class and race and patriotism and makes it work in the context of the plot. Kenji is not just a cardboard 1940s Japanese character; he’s got hopes and dreams and frustrations, all of which are quite palpable. Enough so that you cringe when people call him the “Jap” and tell him to go back where he came from. Enough so, that you want Bird to rescue him, to beat down the bad guys, to show up everyone in town.

Again, it’s probably a bit heavy-handed to put so much in one book (I, personally, would have liked it if there was a bit less, and it did come off as a bit moralistic by the end), but overall, it works, and works well.

(Just for the record: because this is a Cybils nominee, I’ve been asked to make sure y’all know this is my opinion only, and not that of the panel.)

Strawberry Hill

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by Mary Ann Hoberman
ages: 8-11
First sentence: “You would have thought it was the best news in the world.”
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It’s the Depression, and Allie’s father has lost his job in New Haven, Connecticut. He has, however, found another job in Stamford. However, that means the family — Allie, her brother Danny, and her parents — will be moving away from everything Allie has known.

However, when Allie finds out that they will be living on a street called Strawberry Hill, everything will be okay. Won’t it?

This is the story of how Allie came to accept the inevitable, learn to like her new home, and make friends. It’s a quiet story, somewhat predictable, that follows Allie’s ups and downs over the first year that she lives in Stamford. There’s new places to discover, there’s a new school class to get used to, there’s disappointments, there’s pretty mean girls (there’s ALWAYS pretty mean girls), there’s new best friends, there’s unexpected friends.

What really made this book stand out for me, though, was the undercurrent of Jewishness. Allie and her family are Jewish — something that, unlike in, say, All-of-a-Kind Family, isn’t readily noticeable or even prevalent, but nonetheless is still there. The only holiday we get is Hanukkah, and other than a few mentions of temple, that’s pretty much it. Except for an instance of Antisemitism. That, in particular, I found intriguing, especially when Allie’s mom lays into the kid. It was the most obvious sign of the times — aside from a few mentions of lost jobs and hobos, the book could have been contemporary — and one that I thought was done quite well.

Overall, though, the book could have been better. According to the author blurb, Hoberman is a poet of some renown, and I couldn’t help but thinking that the language of the book just fell flat for me. I expected more of a poet, I guess. Something more, well, poetical.

That said, it is an interesting look at the Depression-era, and a nice story of friendship.

(Just for the record: because this is a Cybils nominee, I’ve been asked to make sure y’all know this is my opinion only, and not that of the panel.)

Al Capone Does My Shirts

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by Gennifer Choldenko
ages: 9-13
First sentence: “Today I moved to a twelve-acre rock covered with cement, topped with bird turd surrounded by water.”
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Moose Flannigan is NOT happy about his father’s new job. His father is a guard and an electrician on the most notorious prison in the country, especially in 1935: Alcatraz. And, because it’s 1935, that means the family gets to come along, too. Which means Moose has to leave his friends and start over.

All this is complicated by his sister Natalie’s condition. With today’s knowledge, she’d be diagnosed with autism. In the book — and I give Choldenko so much credit for making it seem as it probably really was, which was alternately quite revealing and very painful — she’s just got a “condition”, something that needs to be “cured”. Moose and Natalie’s mother was the hardest character to stomach: she couldn’t deal with Natalie, pretending she was ten for years, because younger children have more of a “chance” and because she just couldn’t deal with the fact that child was not “normal”. That I cringed every time she began to speak is a testament to how well Choldenko wrote her.

While autism, as well as Natalie’s acceptance to a special school in San Francisco, played a major role in the book, it wasn’t the whole plot. When Moose wasn’t struggling with his feelings about, or taking care of his sister, he was trying to figure out how to deal with the kids on the island — especially Piper (whom I wanted to smack!), the daughter of the warden, and who had it in her head that she could get away with just about everything — and trying to make friends at a new school, which is never easy. Choldenko got middle grade awkwardness down pat, from Moose’s reluctance to make waves to Piper’s bossiness. I also felt like she caught the time period; it felt like the 1930s, or at least what I imagine the 1930s to feel like.

Oh, and the ending: perfect.

Which makes me wonder what she’s done with Moose, Natalie and the island in the sequel. Something interesting, I hope.

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society

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by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows
ages: adult
First sentence: “Dear Sidney, Susan Scott is a wonder.”
Copy won in a contest sponsored by A High and Hidden Place
Support your local independent bookstore: buy it there!

Sometimes, when I read a book, one word keeps popping in my mind. For this book, the one word I constantly thought was charming. Utterly, unabashedly, and unreservedly charming.

The book reminded me in many ways of 84 Charing Cross Road, and it wasn’t just that it was an epistolary novel. Shaffer and Barrows got a feel for the time (post-war), the place (England), and the people. That, and it’s a book about readers and community and belonging, all of which I totally love. It’s got a bit of everything, too: romance, literary illusions, soaring descriptions, history. It’s a war book, an epistolary novel, a romance, a work of historical fiction.

It’s nearly perfect.

Perhaps the only thing holding it back was the hype. I’m always suspicious of NY Times best-sellers, and while I think this one proved my suspicions wrong, I do think that I wanted more out of it. I wanted it to be more soaring, to be more than it actually was. Perhaps that’s the nature of the book, though: to get so involved in it that you want more at the end. Whatever the reason, I did enjoy the journey: I just wanted something more out of it.

But what I did get was thoroughly captivating.

Sweetness in the Belly

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by Camilla Gibb
ages: Adult
First sentence: “The sun makes its orange way east from Arabia, over a Red Sea, across the volcanic fields and desert and over the black hills to the qat- and coffee-shrubbed land of the fertile valley that surrounds our walled city.”

This was a buddy read with Kailana — and if it seems a little weird, it’s because she has the first half of the conversation up on her blog. Go visit it, then come back for the second half…

Melissa: That’s funny. I don’t know of many white Muslims, but I do have friends (who are white) who are very interested in Islam, so I knew a bit about the religion going into the book. I do like the portrait that Gibb painted of the religion: how there are some extremes (like the female circumcision, which was very difficult for me to read!) but most Muslims are just trying to find their path back to God. I liked how she looked upon Christians as “misguided”. That made me chuckle.

Kelly: Yeah, I have always had trouble with female circumcisions. It is so horrifying to hear described, and I know I never want to experience it first-hand! In other cultures the male circumcisions can be pretty graphic, too. Then it is less about religion and more about making the men feel less manly, but still, I will never understand the practice!

Melissa: Me, either! I got into an argument with my husband over it: I compared it to foot-binding in China (he disagreed that there were similarities), and wondered why women put their girls through such things for the sake of a “good marriage”. I’ve never encountered this in a book before (pretty sheltered reading, I guess): it was horrifying. One of the other things I liked about the religion is how much of it was cultural; how much of her religion when she got to Britain was almost more Ethiopian than what we’d consider (as an outsider) to be “Muslim”.

Kelly: It is actually China that is one of the places that would cut off men’s manly parts to make them better servants… And, women put themselves through that because it has become a norm that it is what is desired. So, it really is the men’s choice as much as the women’s. Women are worthless in many cultures if they don’t marry, and men won’t marry them if they don’t abide by cultural norms for what a woman is supposed to be!

Melissa: Very true. And very unfair! So… one of the things I noticed about the book was the language. Usually, it stands out to me and grates on me when a writer is so very effusive? technical? with language — like they’re trying to be flowery and trying to show that they have a mastery of it — but this felt very natural, very poetic. I loved it. What did you think?

Kelly: Oh, so happy you brought this up because I never would have thought to. I totally agree, though. Flowery writing is something I have never been a big fan of, but Gibb did it so well that I didn’t even pay attention. Normally I would also find writing like that slows the book down, but once I got into the book I found it was over with really fast. For the style it was actually a pretty fast read. I was impressed. I learned a lot, too, which was great. She says in the note in the back that it is mixed with fiction, so obviously not a true story, but I think she captures well what a character in Lilly’s position would be thinking. Would you agree?

Melissa: I totally agree. I have had problems with current “classics” in the past because the way the writer’s written the book is distracting from the story and the characters. I like the way you put it: that Gibb captures well the character of Lilly. I also felt like she gave a real sense of what it was like to be living in Ethiopia; the feel, the rhythm, the smell. It almost felt like I was there.

Kelly: I know! I really felt like I got a sense for everything, which is always a good thing in a fiction novel. Was there anything that you didn’t like about the book?

Melissa: Aside from the circumcisions and the medical stuff in general (I have a weak stomach!)? No. I think that’s one of the things that really surprised me about the book: there wasn’t anything that stood out as being really negative? How about you?

Kelly: I know! It is great, huh? I have read a bunch of good books in a row. I think I have another book by her on my TBR pile, so I am really looking forward to it! I can’t remember what book actually won the Giller the year she was nominated, but it must have been some book for her to lose to it! Medical stuff doesn’t really bother me, but I am bothered by the ways that women try and make themselves ‘appealing’ for men. Anything else that you want to mention?

Melissa: You have a stronger stomach than I do! You’ll have to let me know how her other book is; I’m not sure the library here has anything else by her. It was good reading this; thanks for introducing me to her books!

Kelly: Welcome! I am glad this worked out so well!

The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate

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by Jacqueline Kelly
ages: 10+
First sentence: “By 1899, we had learned to tame the darkness but not the Texas heat.”
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Calpurnia Virginia Tate (Callie Vee for short) is the only daughter of seven children, positioned smack dab in the middle of all those boys. It’s not an enviable position, even though she’s her oldest brother, Harry’s, only pet. It’s made even less enviable because Calpurnia is not a huge fan of anything domestic: sewing, tatting, knitting, cooking… no, she’d much rather be outside.

Then, the summer of 1899, she and her grandfather (who has been living with them all the time) discover each other. Her grandfather is a naturalist of sorts — a founding member of the National Geographic Society and all — and Callie discovers that studying the world around her is what she really wants to do. She spends as much time as possible with her grandfather — in between piano recitals, forced sewing, school, and managing her brothers’ crushes for her best friend — living for and thriving off of the time spent studying and observing.

Of course, since this is 1899 and Texas, Callie couldn’t be allowed (allowed!) to proceed this way: good, proper, well-off girls just didn’t tromp through the underbrush looking at bugs. For me, this was the heart of the novel, this pull for Callie to do what she wanted and not what everyone expected of her:

I clomped through the kitchen on the way to washing up and said to Viola, “How come I have to learn how to sew and cook? Why? Can you tell me that? Can you?

I’ll admit it was a bad time to ask her — she was beating the last lumps out of the gravy — but she paused long enough to look at me with puzzlement, as if I were speaking ancient Greek. “What kind of question is that?” she said, and went back to whisking the gravy in the fragrant, smoking pan.

My Lord, what a dismal response. Was the answer such an ingrained, obvious part of the way we lived that no one stopped to ponder the question itself? If no one around me even understood the question, then it couldn’t be answered. And if it couldn’t be answered, I was doomed to the distaff life of only womanly things. I was depressed right into the ground.

The other things about the novel are true: Callie’s mom is a bit much (though I think I understood where she was coming from), and her father is little more than a cardboard cut-out. But, I adored the brothers — especially J.B., Travis and Harry — and her grandfather more than made up for her parents in character. Callie is, yes, spunky, but she’s more than that: she’s curious and observant, and — the thing that really got to me — doesn’t really want everyone to grow up and change. A girl after my own heart.

I also liked the way Kelly evoked a particular feel; the sense of anticipation, of change that must have accompanied the time period was quite palpable in the book. It’s a historical novel that actually felt like it. Callie was modern, sure, but she was struggling with her modernity against all the traditional values that were around her, and that dichotomy was intriguing.

A good story.

Little House in the Big Woods

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by Laura Ingalls Wilder
ages: 8+
First sentence: “Once upon a time, sixty years ago, a little girl lived in the Big Woods of Wisconsin, in a little gray house made of logs.”
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I just finished reading this to A last night; her first time meeting Laura and Mary and Ma and Pa. My… I don’t know how many times I’ve read this book. I first cracked the cover when I was about eight, and I fell in love with the Ingalls family. I admired Laura’s spunk, and the fact that she was so not-perfect. I wanted to experience what she experienced, live the life that she lived.

And so, it’s one of those books that is a must read for my girls. (Granted, so far, M and A are the only two that expressed interest. C preferred to read Wizard of Oz, so I forgave her for not being interested in Little House.)

What I noticed this time around — aside from A’s questions about life back then (playing with a pig’s bladder? Making cheese? Really?) and her constant “Is it really real?” — is the affection that Laura had for her childhood and her family. She loved her parents — her Pa especially — and it comes through loud and clear. And — this year at least, I know things get hard once they leave the big woods — she had a wonderfully idyllic childhood. Sure, they worked hard and things weren’t cushy for anyone, but they were happy. And that happiness leaps off the page.

I’m just glad for the chance to share the book with my girls. I don’t know if they’ll be as entranced with it as I was, but at least they got to experience a different sort of life, if only through a book.

On top of that, I got to share a little piece of me with them.