A Tale of Two Sisters

Parents don't tell you (even though they should) that it can be hard to grow up with a sister  It means there's there's always someone else around, and, whether you're older or younger, you two are always in each other's shadows. When the two of you are small, sisters are in-house competition for any family attention and favor. And, because a sister gets to know you well, she can figure out every last thing that annoys you. This is knowledge she uses religiously.  If someone meets your sister first, they may expect you to be a lot like her.  You're not.  In spite of, or maybe because of their physical proximity, sisters can grow up only seeing how they're different, believing they have nothing in common except relatives and DNA.  

Ask June Elbus in Tell the Wolves I'm Home how hard it is to have a sister in the house. At one point, Greta seemed like both a sibling and a friend, but now they fight all the time.  They can't help it; they're such different people. Greta is self-assured, in high school and a gifted actress.  June's still in Junior High and shy.  There's a lot of emotional distance between them and, square in the middle, is their Uncle Finn.

Tell the Wolves I'm Home is more than a story of sisters, it's a tale of the recent past. Finn, as the family artist and June's Godfather, is bent on painting a portrait of his nieces. June loves spending time with him while Greta wants to stay away.  After all, Uncle Finn is sick and everyone's worried about the modern plague. Everyone is terrified of catching the HIV virus and the death sentence that comes with it, AIDS. Uncle Finn is dying from AIDS.  

June must sort through the unspoken lies and half-truths she and her sister were told to sort out why Finn's picture is so important to the world.  Why her mother says Finn's death is murder. Why a sibling can be so cruel and still understand you better than anyone in the world.

Family and love are works of delicate mystery, as complex and layered as a Bach fugue or modern art. They're not easy to understand or dismiss.  But they are also the glue that can hold us together when everything else is falling apart. So it can be hard growing up with a sibling. It's even harder to lose one. Tell the Wolves I'm Home shows why family is important, even at the worst of times.

Much Ado About Much Ado

Posts occurring on Valentine's Day are practically obligated to have a romantic theme.  Well, this is as close as I'm likely to get: the Shakespearean play that made me fall in love with love.

Everyone remembers their first, I mean the first production of a Shakespearean play.  It tends to dominate their world view and every play by the Bard they see after that.  Present a newbie with the star-crossed lovers in Romeo and Juliet, and you'll find you've created a romantic; force another to audit a poor reading of Julius Caesar, and they'll loathe plays and politics for the rest of their days.  Like so many others, the first Shakespearean play I ever watched is still my favorite today.  It gave me the way I like to look at romance.  Tragic lovers can entertain somebody else, I favor the wit and laughter of Much Ado About Nothing.

What makes this lighthearted romp so different from Shakespeare's other comedies isn't the "supposed" leading couple of the piece (Claudio and Hero) but his comedic characters, Benedick and Beatrice.  From one perspective these potential partners have everything in common: they're both smart, funny, astonishingly verbal, unromantic, sarcastic and brave.  Their similarities give them one other trait to share: they hate each other.  These two began one-upping and upstaging each other long before the story begins, so the first time the audience sees them together is just a fresh outbreak of hostilities.  They don't just steal every scene, they up and run away with the play. 

What's great about Benedict and Beatrice is that neither ever gives an inch, even after they've fallen for each other.  Both of them are equally determined to have the last word and love makes neither one soft in the head.  Every smart couple, love-at-first-fight romcom owes a debt to these two.  I swear, they taught Tracy and Hepburn how to spar.

 2011 production of the play starring David Tennant and Catherine Tate.

 (courtesy of Digital Theatre.com) 

There are two issues often found in productions of this play, both good and bad. First, the setting. For years, theatrical companies have enjoyed adding dimensions to Much Ado by giving it an anachronistic setting.  In the 70's, Joseph Papp's Edwardian Era themed production turned the law officers into Keystone Cops (hysterical, by the way). Kenneth Branagh gave us a film adaptation some 20 years later with 18th-century costumes and a villa, and Joss Whedon filmed a modern-dress version a few years ago that was shot in his own house. That's the fun bit.  The challenge is finding actors with matching comedic and Shakespearean skills to play Benedick and Beatrice.  This comedy only works if the audience likes and understands both characters as equals.  If either actor is too much of a ham or unable to handle the Elizabethan text, the equation gets out of balance.  But when both actors can meet the demands of the text, the result is pure champagne: bubbly, frothy, intoxicating fun.

So, if you are tired of the moody and lovestruck Heathcliffs and Edward Cullens; if you can't stand one more sweet, victimized, Juliet; if you've worn out your DVD of Pride and Prejudice and a neighbor has your copy of The Thin Man, re-read or watch a good production of Much Ado.  It's a Valentine for the mind and the heart.

Lost in the Fog of a Story

It's been foggy as all get out this week. I don't mean one of dark, pea-soup fogs that blacken city centers for days, but a daily, thick, white, winter mist that layers everything outdoors in microscopic droplets and obscures any object more than 30 feet away. Fogs that makes the world seem even colder than it is. We're talking weather an English Teacher can use to lecture about creating "atmosphere."

Well, fog works in stories, doesn't it? The very nature of the phenomena creates confusion, where good things and bad are hidden, and individuals are isolated. Writers have been using fog as set-dressing, plot-device, and symbols for longer than I care to think about. Since we're stuck inside until the sun breaks through, why not take a look one or two stories that turned these earth-bound clouds into art?

Fog and England have been associated for so long, it's practically become a cliche. Yet, if you are talking about bright, white, fog, forget about the stories of London. The soot and sulfur-filled clouds that permeate Bleak House and every Ripper tale ever written are peculiar to the city. Instead, look toward the southern coast for one of the greatest Gothic stories ever penned: Arthur Conan Doyle's The Hound of the Baskervilles. Here, fog is used as a plot device to heighten suspense and terror during the story's climax. Holmes and Watson are running through the Great Grimpen Mire (what a name!) to catch the villain and foil his plot. The thick fog slows down our rescuers and blinds them to the approach of the terrible Hound until the last second. But the fog is even-handed in its justice.Just as it keeps our heroes from seeing where danger is, it hides the escape route from the criminal of this piece. Unable to find his safety markers in the fog, our bad guy gets lost in the quagmire of a peat bog and comes (we assume) to a wet, miserable end. However, the fog and bog add a note of mystery. Because the criminal's body is never found, Conan Doyle left open the possibility open for him to survive and return from the fog to threaten Holmes in a sequel!

My own Great, Grey Grimpen Mire

As isolating and dangerous as the fog can be, there are those that welcome it.  To Edmund Tyrone, and his mother, Mary, in Long Day's Journey into Night, fog creates an illusion of isolation. It also symbolizes Edmund's active alcoholism and Mary's addiction to morphine. As the drugs isolate them from reality, Edmund describes how fog transforms their world into a place where "Nothing was what it is. That’s what I wanted—to be alone with myself in another world where truth is untrue, and life can hide from itself." As for Mary, she admits,"I really love fog. It hides you from the world and the world from you. You feel that everything has changed, and nothing is what it seemed to be. No one can find or touch you anymore. It's the foghorn I hate. It won't let you alone. It keeps reminding you, and warning you, and calling you back." Notice that neither character believes the fog makes them happier or better people; these tortured souls aren't seeking happiness, but distance. The fog isolates them from their underlying feelings and their problems. Of course, like other wanderers in the mist, these two can't find their way out of this half-life because they can't tell how lost they are.  

It isn't as gloomy as O'Neill's Monte Cristo
Cottage, but it sure isn't cheery either!

If you think of this play as autobiography, it's amazing to realize these are the two family members who found their way out of the mist. O'Neill (as Edmund) eventually chose life and his work. His mother, by realizing her disease had a  spiritual as well as physical component, found recovery through a religious retreat. Ultimately, the fog's illusion of comfort wasn't enough for the real people.

That's what fog ultimately means for people, in fiction and real life: confusion and the illusion of isolation from reality.  In the end, we have to deal with whatever comes along, even if it's illness or a big, scary dog.  No matter what the mist obscures, we aren't that far apart from each other. That's something we'll all see when the sun comes out again.

The Writer who Changed the World, One Story at a Time

Yesterday was the 65th anniversary of Queen Elizabeth's accession to the throne.  It's an incredible milestone, one no other ruler of England has attained, and she deserves all the honor and respect she gets.  The woman has seen a lot of changes during her reign, but that's not what England should celebrate today. Today marks the 205th birthday of Charles Dickens, one of the most influential Britons and writers of any time. He didn't just watch the world change, he changed our language and world with his stories. He was the literary Colossus of the Victorian Age, and his influence is still felt today.  

Dickens in his early years

The life of Dickens holds enough drama to fuel a multi-season mini-series. His terrible childhood has become so well-known we label all other impoverished, chaotic beginnings as "Dickensian."  The funny thing is, he tried to hide these facts for years. Destitution was considered a social and character defect in the Regency and Victorian Eras and Dickens spent much of his life's energy trying to get as far away from his impoverished past as he could. That drive turned him into a law clerk, a court reporter, a freelance journalist and finally a novelist.  Like any good storyteller, he wrote about what he knew.  And his stories changed our world.

After witnessing how poverty corrupts and ruins lives, he wrote Oliver Twist and satirized the Poor Laws that punished the very people they were supposed to help.  The book exposed the disgusting London slum, Jacob's Island, to a heretofore unsuspecting public, who cleaned up the area so thoroughly that thirteen years later one bureaucrat insisted it never existed! In Nicholas Nickleby, Dickens wrote about the system of farming unwanted children out to boarding schools in Yorkshire where kids were neglected instead of educated.  An investigation shut that practice down.  In Bleak House, in The Old Curiosity Shop, in Hard Times, and more, Dickens attacked some social evil.  And because his books sold like hotcakes, his readers followed his pen to the trouble and tried to correct the wrongs.

Best-sellers!  It's hard to compare the popularity of any novelist writing today with Dickens.  J. K. Rowling came closest with the midnight publication parties for her Harry Potter series.  But those were orchestrated affairs hosted by the bookstores.  Now, imagine yourself in Victorian times.   Dickens doesn't publish a whole novel all at once, he serializes chapters in a magazine.  If you want to read the latest installment, you have to get each new issue of the journal.  In America, people gathered in droves on the wharves, to get the new issues as they came off the ship!  This wasn't some publisher's or PR agent's operation, these were people who couldn't wait any longer to find out what happened to Nell Trent or Little Emily!  Readers are crazy people, but they wouldn't have done that if the man hadn't created wonderful characters and stories.

Of course, his characters have entered our lexicon.  The saintly, too-good-to-live girl is known as Little Nell, and an insincere toady is labeled Uriah Heep.  (By the way, Dickens had a way of naming his characters that was second to none.  You don't have to meet Wackford Squeers, Fagin, Quilip, or Uriah Heep to know they are all villains; the sounds of their names are enough.) And people who have never picked up one of Mr. Dickens's books still know the worst miser is a "Scrooge."  That single story, The Christmas Carol, changed how we celebrate the holiday.  It used to be a relatively minor festival in the Christian calendar.  Now it's a season of family, parties, and charity because Dickens wrote about it that way.

Boz, the Grand Old Storyteller

Am I saying he was the world's greatest man or subtle writer? Of course not.  There's a fair amount of evidence suggesting he had faults as a family man and Ellen Ternen knew he was no saint. The way he treated his wife when their marriage fell apart is enough to make a feminist cringe.  And, as entertaining as many of his characters are, they lack the complexity and depth of real people. There are too many coincidences and far too much sentiment in a lot of his stories.  But that doesn't make them any less compelling.  And his influence doesn't lessen with the years.

So, pull out your noisemakers and cheer old "Boz" as he was known then.  Over-blown, over-sensitive, over-dramatic, Boz, who could tell a story that made you laugh, cry, and shiver with fear.  Boz who made money telling people what was wrong with the world and said it so well his readers tried to make it better. With Shakespeare and the Beatles, he may be one of Britain's finest exports. We're lucky he came our way.

A Mid-Winter Hiatus

The American South does lots of things well, but Winter ain't one of them.  While hardy New-Englanders take February like a dose of nasty-but-fortifying medicine and mountainous regions celebrate the annual return of snow bunnies to the slopes, the denizens of Dixie roll ourselves up in fleece and wonder why God sent an Ice Age our way.  He didn't, not really, but when you live in the sun belt, it's hard to cope when the sun goes away. Our houses and wardrobes don't accommodate perma-frost that well and neither do our moods.  We like living outdoors in a world drenched in green instead of staring through the window at a universe of muddy browns and grays. It gets depressing. That's why Wednesday was such a ray of hope.  It was a Mid-Winter Hiatus.

Winter doesn't look so dreary
when the sky is this blue!

After two fairly solid cold snaps and an impressive amount of rain, the sun came out on Tuesday and Wednesday and put some blue back in the sky.  Not that thin, watery blue sky that makes a cold day colder either, but the deep azure we've come to accept as a birthright.  I knew it was time, not only to seize the day, but opportunity, and my gardening gloves.

For all of our grumbling, the Deep South has a short dormant season, and this is it.  Now is the only time of year I can make headway against the kudzu, sawbriar, and Jimson weed that threatens to take over my yard each year.  My allergies return with every spring, and this stuff starts to grow...well, like weeds. So, if I want to get in front of the enemy and encourage real grass to grow, this is my chance to do it. With my wheelbarrow and implements of destruction in hand, I began uprooting and toting away the scrub.

My hero

Sometime after carting away the sixth wheelbarrow load of thorned and prickly fauna, I realized something I hadn't noticed for weeks: it was too hot to work in a sweatshirt.  A quick check of the phone app verified the miracle: the temperature was 70 degrees and climbing!  I started back to the house to change my shirt and then saw my annual miracle: the first flower of the year.

Almost thirty years ago, while my home was being built, the wife of the owner-contractor planted narcissi in the yard.  Since then, these flowers have returned every mid-winter, as if to affirm that, no matter how impossible it seems, Spring will return.  Of course, narcissi are so common they may be a floral cliche but they are the first flowers to appear each year, and that's why I treasure them. They give me hope and color when I need it the most.  As far as I'm concerned, they're heroes.

And, for the next few hours, everything seemed right with the world. I cleared out weeds, while I listened to a book on tape and felt the sun on my face. When the work was done, I sat outside with a drink and decided the returning cold does not dismay me.  It's part of the cycle of life down here and, at worst, it's temporary. Spring is coming. I've seen the signs.  They were there in a mid-winter hiatus.

The Ardent Anglophile

I was raised to be an Anglophile.  As a child, my mother spent two memorable years in England, while her father was stationed there, and the experience affected the rest of her life and the education of her daughters.  We were probably the first family in our small Kansas town to make Masterpiece Theatre "must watch" TV.  My sister and I learned the ranks of aristocracy by memorizing the mnemonic "Do Men Ever Visit Boston"(Duke, Marquis, Earl, Viscount, Baron) and how to love a good cup of hot tea, even if it was Lipton. Even if she disagreed with some of Parliament's policies and decisions, England remained Mother's spiritual "home-away-from-home," a dampish Shangri-La.

That's why I'm sorry she never found Bill Bryson's book, Notes from a Small Island; she would have enjoyed it so much.  Like Peter Mayle's travelogue of the English expatriate living in France, Bryson gives an educated outsider's view of life in a foreign country. In this case, it's the perspective of an American living in England.

Bryson is one of those impetuous, imaginative Americans grown-ups admire until their children try to follow his example.  He was backpacking around Europe, on a summer break from college, when he impulsively decided to leave school and start living and working in England. Two years later, Bryson returned to America, married and ready to finish his studies.  Diploma in hand, he bolted back to the U. K. for a journalism career.  He and his family have lived in one country or another ever since so he's developed an understanding of both cultures and how they differ.

To begin, there's the problem of everyday words.  Shaw said what we've all guessed for ages: that the United States and Great Britain are two countries separated by a common language.  Common words are spelled different ways and mean different things to British and American citizens, and there was no English/American dictionary or Google available when Mr. Bryson first stepped on British soil.Then, he was at a complete loss when a hotel owner instructed him to "remove his counterpane" at night.  Poor man. I could have told him the landlady was talking about his bedspread, but then Mom raised me on A Child's Garden of Verses. Sure, the poet was Scottish, but that's still closer to England than Iowa.

Mr. Bryson (from his FB page)

Then, there's the culture.  Bryson believes the famous British reserve has created a nation of people who prefer small, modest pleasures and cheerful attitudes during unpleasant circumstances.  I can see how an unending mindset of "You could do worse" and "Keep Calm and Carry On" could wear but, after spending a day experiencing blaring car horns and rude hand gestures from fellow traffic jam sufferers, that well-mannered optimism sounds like manna from Heaven.

So, until or unless a miracle happens, and I find my own way to England, I'll be thrilled to read Mr. Bryson's tales.  Not only do they soothe the heart of an ardent Anglophile; they remind me of my Mum.

Forever Surrounded by Sisters

Now, I only have one sibling, but I've seen what it's like to grow up in a gaggle of sisters. Donna, Peggy, Paige, June, and baby Karen Frasier (I changed their names here) lived down the street from us in Garden City, Kansas. Five girls, two parents and a couple of pets in a four bedroom house. I was between Donna and Peggy in school, and I hung out with Paige but what amazed me was how their sister-group worked. When the Frasier girls went out, they moved like a coordinated squadron even (on at least one occasion) dressing alike. At home, they were five completely independent personalities that could still function together, even when there were fights in the ranks.  By contrast, I had just one sister, a toddler back then, and we spent our days after each others' blood. At the time, I thought the Frasier sisters were too good to be true. These days, I  'd say they were as Penderwick girls.

The Penderwick sisters are the stars of Jeanne Birdsall's best-selling, award-winning series about a realistic (if slightly eccentric) family of sisters.  The first book called (what else?) The Penderwicks: a Summer Tale of Four Sisters, Two Rabbits, and a Very Interesting Boy, introduces us to the cast.  Rosalind may be the eldest, most responsible Penderwick, but she still believes everything her best friend says; Skye, is the rebel, explorer, and athlete in the clan; starry-eyed Jane, is so immersed in the romance of words that she can't talk without adding narrative phrases; and Batty (Elizabeth) is the one with a special connection to animals, especially the family dog, Hound.  These four girls, as dear and individual as Louisa Mae Alcott's March sisters, have conflicting interests and talents but an unswerving devotion to the Penderwick Family Honor that keeps them together in moments of stress.  And stress happens, even when sisters are on vacation and trying to stay out of trouble.  Trouble seems to come looking for them.

What are the Penderwicks to do about Jeffery, the Interesting Boy Next Door? Can they rescue him from the terrors of military school and  his snobbish, terrible mother? Can Rosalind remember to watch out for her sisters when she's face to face with the attractive gardener, Cagney?  Will Jane's latest Sabrina Starr adventure story get into print or will Skye's accidents alienate their new acquaintance, the publisher?  Will Batty learn the difference between a horse and a bull?  In every chapter, the girls share an interesting, believable life which makes this book a delightful change.  After years of stories about wizards, angels, ghosts and demi-gods, it's nice to find a kid's book filled with ordinary-ish people. 

If you're looking for a nice kid's story unburdened by fantasy and morals, open up a copy of The Penwicks.  You'll find out "ordinary" girls aren't ordinary at all and it's good to be surrounded by sisters.

Falling in Love with Fitbit

I've never been an athlete.  I was raised in a family that sat whenever they could. Sitting was our clan's favorite pastime, and our endurance in couch-potatery would have qualified us on the Olympic s if they could have turned it into a competitive sport. The fact that many of us were overweight was no surprise.  The surprise was my sister, who ran for fun, and competed in track as a girl.  Although she could sit, my sis could also move, and she was unafraid of competition.  I was proud of her drive and talents, and she knew that.  But neither believed I'd follow her example.

The Infamous Fitbit

All of which made my sister's offer to buy me a Fitbit last May a bit of an awkward phone call. To her credit, Sis knew I was trying to lose weight, and she's never pressed me to get active.  Her suggested gift would help me lose weight.  But that doesn't mean I wanted to take it.

The few times I had tried exercise before, I'd ended up with sore joints and a lousy attitude.  But it's hard to turn my sister down, especially when her thought is well-meant.  So, I said yes, thinking once I accepted the gift, that would be the end of the story. "Great, then we'll both have one!" she said.  "When you get your Fitbit account set up online, we can keep up with each other!"

Days later, I strapped on Sis's gift, feeling like I'd stepped into a bear trap. The program had suggested goals, like 10K steps a day and 250 for each daylight hour. I doubted if I'd reach any of them, but I had to keep trying, at least until I saw my sis at an upcoming family visit.  So, I started walking. I walked to the mailbox a dozen times a day, I stepped on the porch when it rained.  I learned to read books and watch TV with my eyes on a computer screen and my legs pumping, up and down, in place.  Yes, my sister frequently out-walked me but there were times when I triumphed as well, and the weight-loss plateau I was expecting didn't appear.  And each new day, the Fitbit zeroed itself out, and I began again which made activity a rule of life instead of the exception.  And I found I could compete.

Every group of Fitbit friends can create challenges to outwalk each other during specified period.  Once I joined a challenge or two, I found I didn't like to lose.  If someone posted a total of 12K steps before work, I didn't give up, nor did I believe them.  I just started stepping, determined to go further by the end of the day.  According to Fitbit, I won 13 trophies last summer because I didn't want to be out-stepped.  And I continued to lose weight.

Fitbit even came to my rescue this month when my weight loss finally stalled.  Fitbit's records showed while my walking was adequate, my heart rate wasn't rising enough to prompt weight-loss any longer.  This led to new exercise choices that raised my heart rate and broke the plateau.  And because each new day began at zero, I didn't realize how far I'd walked.

Then came the email with this graphic of how far I walked with my unwanted present.  With Fitbit, I walked off 60 pounds in half a year and covered the distance from my Alabama residence to my hometown in Kansas!  I've changed from a "Sedentarian" to short-distance Forrest Gump because of my sister and Fitbit!

So, yes, I love my Fitbit.  It only comes off for recharging or when I'm going to get wet.  It keeps me coming back and reminds me what I need to do.  And Sis, as far as I'm concerned, this is one of your best presents EVER.

This almost covers the distance I walked in 2016 - Imagine how far I'll get this year!

When We Treat People like they're Garbage

When I was 10, I was afraid of the kids that moved in next door.  The children in the house across the alley were younger and smaller than me, but they were a noisy bunch and they always seemed to be spoiling for a fight.  Whenever I went outdoors, they were there, in their yard, calling me fatty, and offering me a knuckle sandwich.  One day, my mother entered the fray, screamed back at the kids and hauled me into the house.  "Keep away from those kids," she said, even though this was a needless directive.  I wasn't going near any kid that picked on my size.  "I don't want you playing with them, they are nothing but P.W.T."  PWT meant Poor White Trash, the group of people my mother hated most.

I thought a lot about those kids while I was reading Nancy Isenberg's White Trash: The 400 Year Untold History of Class in America.  Ms. Isenberg's central argument of the story is, despite statements to the contrary, America never has been a classless system.  Instead, we segregate ourselves into cliques characterized by income, education, address and antecedents and, where I grew up, the condition of one's lawn. Where I lived, the homes of the influential and affluent were recognizable by the lush, verdant landscapes that surrounded their houses, perfectly trimmed to crew-cut height.  The working class didn't have the resources to maintain this plush, even cover but we managed to minimize the bald spots on our lawns and mow the crab-grass regularly.  The renters, whose yards contained only dirt and discards, were considered "trash."

When did we start classifying people as garbage?  Ms. Isenberg traces this idea to European businessmen/philosophers who saw undeveloped land as a wasted resource and impoverished people as refuse. Colonization, to these leaders, was a way to make money by solving two problems. Send the poorest people away to develop this useless land and then profit from the goods they produce.  These "wretched refuse" (to quote Emma Lazarus) became Britain's debt slaves for generations, paying off their cost of transportation through lifetimes of labor producing goods for their European debt-owners.  These businessmen didn't foresee the colonists' resentment and isolation would eventually result in a revolution.  Nor did they predict their attitudes on class discrimination would transfer along with the colonists.  But they did.

Nancy Isenberg

As America grew, so grew the group of poverty-stricken, rural, whites and the resentment-filled class war where, as one Southern lady described it to me, one bunch is always looking down on or mad at another.  Yes, American mythology has tales of poor, enterprising youths creating fortunes and a few scions of the moneyed and powerful families behaving shamefully but both stories carry the unspoken element of class distinction.  A desire to climb the social ladder underscores the poor boy's drive to succeed, and the wealthy child's sense of entitlement created the self-belief he/she can avoid the penalty of criminal action.  And, despite their individual acts, each character is also judged by his/her background.  And most folks resent being judged.

The rural poor, also known as clay-eaters, crackers, hillbillies, rednecks and trash remain a recognizable group today.  At times, they've even become fashionable.  Like every other community in this country, they've produced bad and good people, geniuses and criminals.  And like everyone else with a long history of being disparaged and exploited, this community has developed a hard-won sense of identity and pride.  They're a political force to be counted and used. And each time they are mocked or underestimated by someone else, the resentments and class divisions grow.

So, will the class war ever end? Not as long as individuals are exploited and minimized because of factors beyond their control. In other words, as long as one group of people treats another like "trash," they'll have trouble taking out all the garbage.

The Rules According to Bud

There are rules on how to get through life and Bud knows them all.  Let me show you what I mean:

RULE 8

Whenever an Adult Tells You to Listen Carefully and Talks in a Real Calm Voice,

don't listen, run as fast as you can because something Real Terrible 

is Just Around the Corner

and

RULE 83

If an Adult Tells You Not to Worry, and You Weren't Worried Before, 

You better Hurry Up and Start 'Cause You're Already Running Late

These rules may seem like nonsense to you, but to Bud, they're lessons on how an abandoned child survives during the Depression.  Bud knows the Public Library is a good, warm, place and late-comers to the Mission don't get fed.  He also knows the world hasn't been a safe place since his Mom died four years ago. All she left him was a love of reading, the knowledge that his name is Bud, (not Buddy), some posters and painted rocks.  Based on wishful thinking and the posters she kept, Bud believes his father is a musician named Herman Calloway.  When the orphanage and foster home system fail at keeping him safe, Bud decides it's time to hit the road and find his father.

Bud, Not Buddy is historical fiction, but the history is recent, and the story doesn't stray far from the truth.  Christopher Paul Curtis incorporated the stories of his grandfathers' talents and drive into the book: one, a redcap and baseball player who pitched against the great Satchel Paige, and the other, a classically trained violinist turned band leader who used ingenuity to succeed in business, despite the Depression and discriminatory statutes in effect.  Bud's quest for a home is a hero's journey, although he doesn't see himself that way, and the story contains one of the best descriptions of jazz I've ever read.  If you missed this award winner when it first came out (like I did), do yourself a favor and meet a good kid named Bud.  You can never go wrong by meeting nice folks.  And that's a rule of mine.