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Someday When My Cat Can Talk
by Caroline Lazo; illustrated by Kyrsten Booker
Schwartz and Wade

reviewed by Kelly Herold

Cats have fascinated humans for thousands of years. Their enigmatic smiles, their tendency to snub their humans for any minor slight, their expressions of deep knowledge and understanding. What is he thinking? is something a cat owner often considers.

The little girl hero of Caroline Lazo's Someday When My Cat Can Talk has some ideas about her cat's inner intellectual life. Her cat, she thinks, has a tale to tell about a trip abroad: "He'll tell me how he hopped a ship/and where he stowed away./He'll cheer the wind that blew his fur/as he sailed beyond the bay."

The little girl's cat travels all about Europe--from England to France to Spain and Italy.  And Lazo's rhyming text conveys a sense of fun and humor throughout the tale. Take this stanza, for example:

He'll speak fondly of the snail he met
while camping out near Cannes.
And he'll whisper why she's hiding
from the chef at Cafe Sands.

The cat comes home to the little girl, who imagines he'll tell her stories about his European travels. But the cat, alas, is a cat in the end and the little girl and the reader is left to guess about his adventures: My cat will tell me all these things/when he talks to me someday./Until then, when the sun goes down,/he always sneaks away.

Kyrsten Brooker's paintings--in a warm palette of dark greens, reds, blues, and browns--merge an impressionist style (a la Cezanne, in this case) with touches of collage.  Their quirky, but approachable, style works beautifully with Lazo's rhyming text.

Pack your bags!  Let's follow that cat this Poetry Friday.

The Apple-Pip Princess
by Jane Ray
Candlewick Press

You know how the fairytale goes. There are three sons or three daughters and the aging father or wizard or king will leave all he has to the wisest one, as determined by some task or other they must complete that will prove which one deserves to rule.

The oldest is usually ambitious, the second is vain and competitive, the third has a good heart. They each set about scheming or building or vying for the king's attention, but the third prevails through some simple act of kindness or previously unsuspected wisdom.

Think King Lear but without all those messy deaths.

Ray offers her colorful take of the old tale in a naive style, which emphasizes its folkloric origins. She uses a warm palette, perhaps drawing from a Mediterranean or North African palette (judging by the dark-skinned family, though of course that's beside the point). A handful of mixed media collages are skillfully placed for maximum comic effect when the bad siblings wreak their havoc.

Three princesses each possess something of their late mother's--two choose material things, the third picks a simple box, which she fills with such charming keepsakes as a burst of nightingale song or a splash of sunlight.  And, of course, an apple pip.

When the old king's challenge comes, Ray sets the stakes high: the land's been barren since the queen's death and devoid of birdsong or laughter. Each daughter has only a week to impress their still-grieving father. You're rooting for the youngest, Serenity, especially as the wicked older sisters only find ways to make folks more miserable.

Serenity doesn't fail in her mission, or in her ability to please readers too. She's a delight to watch in action, thoughtful and kind, and her smallest, simplest act of selflessness sprouts into something much larger than expected, as all good deeds in all good folk tales do. All her enchanted items get used in the process, but each has its payoff too. At no point does Ray belabor the message, and even the mean older sisters get a pleasant reprieve. 

Rating: *\*\*\*\

Listen, Listen
by Phillis Gershator; illustrated by Alison Jay
Barefoot Books

reviewed by Kelly Herold

Celebrate the seasons in style with Listen, Listen. This charmer of a picture book aimed at the two- to six-year-old reader makes you appreciate every quarter of the year, even depressing ol' winter. Listen, Listen has that one-two punch--a combination of snappy, lively text and intricate, nostalgic illustrations that will please the adult and the child reader.

Gershator's rhyming text is, simply, perfect. It scans and it sings as you travel through the year.  Here, for example, are the first four lines of the text:

Listen, listen...what's that sound? Insects singing all around!
Chirp, chrip, churr, churr, buzz, buzz, whirr, whirr.
Leaves rustle, hammocks sway. Splish, splash, children play.
Clouds drift, dogs run. Sizzle, sizzle, summer fun.

Go ahead.  Read it aloud.  I know you want to.

Alison Jay's detailed illustrations have an old-fashioned feel to them. They are presented as cracked oil paintings and feature old-fashioned school houses and animals like those you'd see in the work of Margaret Wise Brown.  Jay's color scheme is rich and warm--with dark reds and light blues and greens of every shade. The pages are so inviting, you want to fall into them and live in this peaceful world of seasonal activity and sound.

Rating: *\*\*\*\

Listen, Listen
by Phillis Gershator; illustrated by Alison Jay
Barefoot Books

reviewed by Kelly Herold

Celebrate the seasons in style with Listen, Listen. This charmer of a picture book aimed at the two- to six-year-old reader makes you appreciate every quarter of the year, even depressing ol' winter. Listen, Listen has that one-two punch--a combination of snappy, lively text and intricate, nostalgic illustrations that will please the adult and the child reader.

Gershator's rhyming text is, simply, perfect. It scans and it sings as you travel through the year.  Here, for example, are the first four lines of the text:

Listen, listen...what's that sound? Insects singing all around!
Chirp, chrip, churr, churr, buzz, buzz, whirr, whirr.
Leaves rustle, hammocks sway. Splish, splash, children play.
Clouds drift, dogs run. Sizzle, sizzle, summer fun.

Go ahead.  Read it aloud.  I know you want to.

Alison Jay's detailed illustrations have an old-fashioned feel to them. They are presented as cracked oil paintings and feature old-fashioned school houses and animals like those you'd see in the work of Margaret Wise Brown.  Jay's color scheme is rich and warm--with dark reds and light blues and greens of every shade. The pages are so inviting, you want to fall into them and live in this peaceful world of seasonal activity and sound.

Rating: *\*\*\*\

How the Ladies Stopped the Wind
By Bruce McMillan
Illustrated by Gunnella

Reviewed by Ilene Goldman

The idea that ladies could stop wind intrigued me when I saw this book. I might have expected a superhero tale had it not been for the cover image of a woman clinging to a pram, blowing in the wind next to similarly-afflicted chickens, while a baby smiles and waves.

The ladies of this small Icelandic village have a problem—the wind gusts so strongly that it is nearly impossible to walk.  They come up with a creative and environmentally-sound solution; plant trees to block the wind. They enlist the help of the chickens (to make fertilizer). But, the village’s naughty sheep keep eating the trees. Can the cows help the ladies keep the sheep away?  Will the chickens continue to produce fertilizer?  Will the trees block the wind?

This is a story about problem-solving, planning, and perseverance. Even when the sheep eat the trees and the chickens overproduce (yuck), the ladies remain dedicated to their goal.  Ultimately, they cooperate to improve the quality of life for their village and, the book tells us, their solution is adopted across Iceland.  A bit awkwardly told in places, the story charms and teaches.

Gunnella’s artwork adds whimsy and quaintness to this tale. One can’t help but giggle at seeing ladies and chickens singing to sheep to beg them not to eat the trees.

Rating: *\*\*\

Mini Mia and Her Darling Uncle
by Pija Lindebaum
R&S Books

Only a Swede could come up with a book about a gay uncle that feels so, well, American.  He lives in a hip city that is obviously New York or San Fran or San Diego or, well, Miami, except that's where Mini Mia's M&D are off vacationing while various relatives babysit.

Uncle Tommy's her favorite, and no wonder. Lindenbaum draws the other three uncles and even grandma in the dullest beiges and grays, while Tommy leaps off the page with his multiple earrings, goatee and funky wardrobe. He dyes her hair a different color every day, takes her people-watching at cafes or to sad movies.

Of course she adores him, spending every parent-free moment with him, until boring, badly dressed Fergus shows up. He's obviously Uncle Tommy's new partner, though it's never stated. As an adult, I can appreciate what a momentous decision it is for Tommy to introduce his favorite niece to his beloved, but guess who has hissy fits, pouts, sulks, and generally makes everyone miserable? Thankfully, not Tommy or Fergus, or I'd have taken points for stereotyping.

Lindenbaum keeps a careful reign on Tommy's swishiness and what emerges is a grown-up/child relationship with a unique cast. I haven't googled it, but I'm pretty sure there aren't any other picture books about gay uncles. And yet if you substituted, say, a divorced Dad and his new girlfriend, it'd feel about the same, but without breaking such new and important ground in showing kids that grown-ups fall in love on their own terms.

What makes this book so American, despite its European origins (this is a translation) is the general blue-state sensibility toward gay men, that there's something inherently more fun about them, that their sexuality is a happy fact and in no way threatening, and no apology's needed for loud pants or disarming affectations.

Someday, inevitably, this sentiment will spread to red states, or at least to the more urbane parts. All the adoring Mini Mia's out there will make it so.

Rating: *\*\*\

Oh, Brother!
By Nikki Grimes; illustrated by Mike Benny

Greenwillow

One of the most powerful poetic storytellers has done it again. With a few keystrokes, a rhyme here and there, she's woven a moving story of how two very different boys become brothers in more than name.

We don't learn the narrator's name--Xavier--until late in this collection, but we do get plenty of his opinions about his mother's remarriage. He loves his new Dad, but not the boy, Chris, who comes as extra baggage, getting in the way, acting all perfect, taking up space, throwing his small family off balance:

STEPS
Everyone in this house
is a step, now.
Stepmom.
Stepdad.
Stepson.
Stepbrother.

In my mind,
I turn them into steps
I can climb
And when I reach the top,
I rule.

Several of the poems are told in rhyme, others are simple, quick dabs of free verse, meant to convey a fleeting emotion. Few kids' poets are as adept as Grimes in exploring their emotions with such range and empathy, and in so few words.

At last, the two boys have their breakthrough, and if you're not crying as their bond strengthens, you're probably dead. And when we do learn the narrator's name, as Chris practices writing it, Grimes creates a magical moment for Xavier to grow. She respects her character enough to know he probably has a tough time expressing emotions, and instead gives us his actions:

I swipe his pen
and write H-E-R-M-A-N-O
"Huh?"Chris can be slow.
"It means brother," I say.
"That's my name now,
one you already know how
to spell."

We know immediately what's going on in Xavier's head, because Grimes respects our intelligence too. 

Benny's illustrations follow through on Grimes' many hints that this is a multiracial family--Latino and African-American--but this could be any boy's blended family today. Kids have a tendency to recover, to patch together a new life and a mended heart. Grimes takes us there, until we want to adopt this new family and make it our own.

Rating: *\*\*\*\

Previously
by Allan Ahlberg; illustrated by Bruce Ingman

Candlewick Press

What if you told a few fairy tales backwards? Y'know, started from the end, and then tried to figure out where that beanstalk had come from, or why Goldilocks was running through the forest.

That's the premise behind this hilarious take on the Brothers Grimm, with Ingman's sprightly acrylics and Ahlberg's playful free verse creating links between the stories. So Goldilocks runs into Jack and his magic beans, who's argued with his sister, Jill, and before that tumble had seen a frog, who'd been a prince, and so on ... 

It's not an easy job to make these stories new, but they take on unexpected, and wholly contemporary meanings, that leads to where the gingerbread boy begins, in a field of wheat, and even beyond that, to beginnings a child must imagine.

And while Goldilocks and all the others' tales may wind and wend backwardly into one, it's designed leave us at loose ends rather than tie things up, a book of possibilities rather than plots.

The book's humor rests on knowing the original fairy tales--not always a given in a post-Shrek culture. As with Stinky Cheese Man, kids can sense from an adult's reaction that there's something funny going on that they're not quite getting, and may demand to know more. That's always a good thing.

Rating: *\*\*\*\

Fiona Loves the Night
By Patricia MacLachlan and Emily Maclachlan Charest
Illustrated by Amanda Shepherd

Reviewed by Ilene Goldman

A multitude of dots, like raindrops refracting against a dark glass window, bring Fiona’s night to life.  It is a night filled with the lilting sound of an owl who-whooing, the sparkling glitter of fireflies, and the velvety softness of moonflowers and angel trumpets.  Fiona’s almond-shaped face, lit up by smiling eyes, would set any child at ease in the dark of night. The title projects the underlying idea—Fiona is not afraid of the night. Her night is filled with sounds, smells, and sights to explore.

Fiona goes to sleep in her warm bed and then wakes up.  She gets up from her bed and wanders outdoors.  We see her plunge into profound darkness lit up by the eyes of the creatures that watch her. Beyond these creatures lies nothing but darkness. . Eventually, Fiona’s dog comes and escorts her back to the safety and warmth of her bedroom.

The lush illustrations, filled with bright eyes, looping lines, and pleasant typeface are comforting, but the story ultimately discomfits me. I suffer from insomnia and I walk the night. But I stay in my house when I do so. And I would hope that my child would do the same.  A book that encourages a child to wander outside in the middle of the night, well, it gives me the shivers.

Fear of the dark and wakefulness are real problems that children encounter.  As parents, we hope to find strong, loving books to help us through these problems. Not so long ago I reviewed Jonathan Bean’s At Night. I fell in love with his protagonist, a little girl, like Fiona, who is awake at night. Bean’s character makes herself a nest in her rooftop garden and falls asleep surrounded by the night that she, too, loves.  But, Bean’s girl is silently followed by her mother who watches over her. At Night is safe and warm.  Fiona Loves the Night, in contrast, unnerves me.

While Charlotte is not afraid of the dark, I’m always on the lookout for books that will help me conquer that fear when and if it develops. While Fiona Loves the Night is beautifully illustrated, the story simply doesn’t make me feel safe.

Rating: *\

Today at the Bluebird Café: A Branchful of Birds
Written by Deborah Ruddell; Illustrated by Joan Rankin
McElderry Books

Reviewed by Ilene Goldman

From the frontispiece, this book made me smile. Rankin’s whimsical illustrations of laughing children swung by trapeze ropes held by birds foreshadows the imagination and lyricism captured in Ruddell’s poems. Each poem in this collection tells us something about the bird for which it is named. 

“The Loon’s Laugh” focuses on the loon’s unique song while “The Cardinal” finds more “red” words than I can think of quickly.  “The Woodpecker” asks us to put ourselves in his shoes: “If you think that his life is a picnic, / a seesawing day at the park, / I ask you just once to consider/ the aftertaste / of bark.

I’ve tried to pick a favorite poem in this collection, but I just can’t.  How can you choose between a vulture who lectures on table manners and “Blue Jay Blues,” which begins with this startling description: “Blue as a bruise on a swollen knee”?

Beyond the striking juxtaposition of words to elicit movement, sounds, and colors, the strength of these poems lies in the variation of rhythm and meter from poem to poem.  Trilling rhymes echo the loon’s laugh, “No tweedle-dee-dee on your windowsill. / No sunshiny tune from the top of a hill. / No chirp. No coo. No warble or cheep. / No bubbly twitter or sweet little peep.” 

Loftier, gentler rhymes fly with the Eagle: “She rides like she owns the sun, on a sea of air and light— / surfing, skimming, rising high, / then sweeping low and tight.”

Ruddell’s poems are complemented by Rankin’s lovely watercolor paintings, at once whimsical and realistic.  She illustrates the stories told by the poems, adding fancy to flight, if you’ll forgive the backwards pun.

I end with a confession and an aspiration. The confession: I recently had the opportunity to hear Deborah Ruddell and her editor Karen Wojtyla speak about the publication of Today at the Bluebird Café. I was particularly interested to read a book whose editor declared publicly that she’d done very little editing because Ruddell’s poetry was already precise. I was not disappointed.

The aspiration: Ruddell spoke of being “old” for a first children’s book.  I can only aspire to debut, at any age, with such a delightful book.

Rating: *\*\*\*\ 

The Magic Rabbit
by Annette LeBlanc Cate

Candlewick Press

Picture books have gotten so sophisticated, they now dip heavily into the same inkwell as graphic novels, with illustrations zooming off in their own narrative directions. The text often has to catch up--a clever tactic designed to keep kids scanning the art for clues.

If you're just reading this text and whizzing past the scratchy black-and-white drawings, you're missing the most dramatic parts of a simple tale of a street-corner magician and his bunny.

Ray's gray, grubby little apartment's crammed with magic props, posters and esoteric knick-knacks, where the only spots of color are bright yellow stars and popcorn. We see Ray loading his magic wand with the former, while Bunny munches on the latter. They're best friends, do everything together, and share a career entertaining park goers in this busily realized urban setting.

The written text sketches out the plot--you have to watch out for that juggler in the park, the one with the pug on his head wheeling his unicycle as Ray readies his big trick. After their big crash, that pug's chasing poor Bunny straight out of the picture frame.

Bunny eventually picks up a trail of stars and popcorn, but if you've been paying attention, you spotted the trail's beginnings much earlier, with sightings of a tiny, forlorn Ray in the background as a terrified Bunny wanders the city alone.

The New Yorker-style illustrations actually teach the rudiments of storytelling to wide-eyed kids who notice everything. Foreshadowing, suspense, cause and effect--it's all here, carefully and elegantly laid out in pen and ink.

Rating: *\*\*\

The Magic Rabbit
by Annette LeBlanc Cate

Candlewick Press

Picture books have gotten so sophisticated, they now dip heavily into the same inkwell as graphic novels, with illustrations zooming off in their own narrative directions. The text often has to catch up--a clever tactic designed to keep kids scanning the art for clues.

If you're just reading this text and whizzing past the scratchy black-and-white drawings, you're missing the most dramatic parts of a simple tale of a street-corner magician and his bunny.

Ray's gray, grubby little apartment's crammed with magic props, posters and esoteric knick-knacks, where the only spots of color are bright yellow stars and popcorn. We see Ray loading his magic wand with the former, while Bunny munches on the latter. They're best friends, do everything together, and share a career entertaining park goers in this busily realized urban setting.

The written text sketches out the plot--you have to watch out for that juggler in the park, the one with the pug on his head wheeling his unicycle as Ray readies his big trick. After their big crash, that pug's chasing poor Bunny straight out of the picture frame.

Bunny eventually picks up a trail of stars and popcorn, but if you've been paying attention, you spotted the trail's beginnings much earlier, with sightings of a tiny, forlorn Ray in the background as a terrified Bunny wanders the city alone.

The New Yorker-style illustrations actually teach the rudiments of storytelling to wide-eyed kids who notice everything. Foreshadowing, suspense, cause and effect--it's all here, carefully and elegantly laid out in pen and ink.

Rating: *\*\*\