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3:00 am on a Saturday morning—Granny in her nightclothes,  repeats a welcoming ritual for our family. We’ve just arrived from Indiana to spend the weekend or a holiday.  She and Grandpa knew we were coming.

Granny had prepared for our arrival with her usual comfort feast. She knew we’d be famished by the time we stepped through her door. To stave off those awkward growling sounds that would surely keep everyone awake for the rest of the night, she loaded the groaning board with a southern breakfast. It doesn’t seem to matter to her or Grandpa that by the time we finish eating, and unwind enough to go to sleep, they will be preparing for their farm day.

My brother and I sit at that big farm kitchen table, eyeing the platters, bowls, plates, and jars that she arranges down the center of the space. Medium platter supports three different types of fried eggs: hard, soft, and scrambled.

Her infamous small square biscuit pan sits on a handmade potholder near the homemade jams, jellies, and syrup for the golden brown pancakes hoarding their own personal bowl. Sausage patties, country ham, and leftovers from last night’s fried chicken hold court on a large platter on Dad’s end of the table.

Fresh coffee perfumes the room, aided by fresh milk, and  rounds out the “impromptu” meal, along with real farm cream to use on cold cereal.

Yep, we’re down home. An hour later, family talk has dwindled enough to expose sleepy eyes and yawns. Bedtime has come at last.

If we’d come during the winter, those upstairs beds would act as ice cube trays waiting to be filled. The upstairs of that house had no heat of its own. Heck, the down stairs only had Warm-Morning stoves that could take wood or coal. Finances determined which fuel was used.

Mom and I would take one bed and Dad, with brother, would get the other one. There were so many of Granny’s homemade quilts on the beds that Mom would have to hold up the covers so that I could position myself. Once I was comfortable, she’d lower the bedclothes.

I had to be very certain of comfort in that position because once those quilts lowered; I wasn’t strong enough to shift my position under them. They were heavy and cold upon first entry to the bed. As a rule, I would try to put my back to my mom’s. Her body heat would keep me from becoming an ice cube until my own body heat took care of warming my space. Sleep was the only refuge until real heat came along.

In the summer, only those floor to ceiling windows gave relief from the sweltering upstairs heat. No quilts were required for that season. The fear then was melting into the feather beds.

Dawn and downstairs activity led to anxious dreams and disrupted, food-induced sleep. Grandpa had milking to do. Granny had to get lunch on the stove so that she could take a bit of socializing time once all the kin arrived for that meal. These things didn’t take care of themselves.

Throughout our visit, for however long it lasted, that lady of the South, cared for the feeding and comfort of her quests. She prided herself in always having enough for anyone who happened to drop by on any given day. No one left he home without taking a meal with them.

A weekend lunch would supply victuals for a minimum of sixteen to twenty people, depending on family sched

When I was five years old, I got to spend part of my summer with my grandparents on their farm. I loved being on the farm. There were always so many things to see and learn. Besides, I got to do things there that I didn’t get to do at home.

I suppose I made as much of a nuisance of myself as most little kids do, constantly asking: why? whatcha doin’? how does that happen? can I help next time? See, not much different. I was a questioner even then.

That was the summer that took my life out of focus for much of my life. That was the summer that I nearly lost an eye, and when I learned just how much of a hero my grandpa could be.

I followed grandpa around like any pet. That day–I can’t remember whether it was early morning or late afternoon—I went to the barn, which was at least a football field length away from the house, to watch Grandpa milk the cows. He was in a stall with a cow when I got there, and the stall gate was closed and secured.

I climbed the gate to release the wire latch. Hanging there, one arm over the top, feet braced on a cross board below; I discovered what “impaled” meant. I didn’t know the word, but I’d learned the definition.

A rusty wire, hanging loose, ran into my left eye socket and around the eyeball itself to stop short in that position. I screamed, in pain and terror.

I didn’t dare move. Instinctively, I knew no remain as still as possible.

Grandpa jumped up to see what had happened. He knew I was at the stall gate, but hadn’t seen what happened.

When he began to open the gate, I screamed for him not to. The jostling wasn’t good for me. It took him a moment to realize what had happened. My saving grace was that he didn’t panic.

Instead, he climbed over the other open stall wall, found a pair of wire cutters and clipped the wire from the gate that I clung to with limpid quality strength. He coaxed me down into his arms and told me to hang on to him. That’s when he began running back to the house.

During his run, one of the smoothest trips I’ll ever remember, he gently worked that wire from around my eye; no small feat, if you ask me.

You have to understand that this was back during the early 50’s. Getting an ambulance out to the hinterlands was nigh on to impossible. Grandpa drove me to the nearest hospital. One of my aunts laid me across her lap in the front seat of Grandpa’s old coupe and kept a cold washcloth over my eyes.

Tears? You betcha, there were tears. Fear and pain made sure of that. All I wanted was my folks and I just knew that I’d never see them again. And I meant that in several ways.

I can still envision that hospital exam room. It was kept dark. The only light I recall came from the reflector band on the doctor’s forehead. There could have been others, but that was the one I remember. Grandpa and my aunt were there with me.

There is a gap at that point in the memory. How Grandpa got hold of my parents, I still don’t know. We had no telephone back then.

But, as if my magic, my folks found me in that hospital room hours later. I was an emotional wreck by then.

My eyes had been covered to protect them from infection and the light. The left eye had been lavaged several times to keep infection down. I’d been given a tetanus shot. They were able to take me home.

What we learned was that my vision was so poor before the accident that the doctors had trouble unders

The super-duper people at Highlights For Kids commissioned me to do the illustrations for a mini-book entitled, “A Busy Day” (by Karen Thompson) for the October 20011 issue of High Five magazine. I enjoyed working on this a few months back, and now it’s in print. I will be posting samples of the story during the month of October.

To start,  below is the layout of the mini-book with my art. It’s a front and back on one page-deal which you fold to make a booklet (see illo on the second image as to how to assemble). Cool, huh?

And for those of you who like to see roughs and such, I have included the AD’s sketch with the final layout. If I recall, there were very few (if any) changes from the roughs I sent. I will include some of those later, too.  Below are the covers:

(All Images Copyright Highlights for Children, 2011)

I had fun with the style, by the way. I am playing with looser line and using washes (all digital, as usual). I really like the affect over-all and it feels easy-going. It all makes for a happy illustrator!

I come from a long line of people who do not believe in treating children like delicate china. I am the product of generations of pragmatic, keen-witted, and sharp-tongued folk telling it like it is and expecting kids to keep up. Nowhere is this more evident than in my relationship with my paternal grandfather, John Edward Rives. This is a man who never let me win at anything just because I was young or cute or inexperienced. He always paid me the respect of holding me to the same standards he would any adult, and, even though it took years, I have an abiding appreciation for that now. I lost at cards, got my fingers routinely snapped in the elastic-pulling game, and had to improve my storytelling ability in order to keep his interest. Mine has been a bring-your-A-game grandchildhood, because there is no minor league in this family. On the other hand, I learned to walk on the stilts he made me, knew a pretty impressive adult-stumping card trick at seven, and discovered the power of the narrative from the master. I chose to read Barbara Borack’s Grandpa to Scarlett as a tribute to her paternal grandfather, who has connected with his only granddaughter on a level only they truly understand, but found myself with quavering voice and wet eyes thinking of my grandpa, now ninety-one and in a battle with time, age and illness, sitting in my grandma’s red and white kitchen telling the “hush puppy” story just one more time.

As a postscript:When I sat down at my computer to post the day's blog, I received a message that my grandfather had peacefully slipped away in the early hours of this morning. I pray (or whatever else will work) that there really is something after this and that they are together.


http://www.alibris.com/search/books/qwork/2683915/used/Grandpa.

http://www.lincbook.com/ap_barbara_borack.html

BOOK REVIEW
STORIES FOR CHILDREN

BOOK: Nothing Stops Noah
AUTHOR: Shari Lyle-Soffe
ILLUSTRATOR: Kevin Scott Collier
PUBLISHER: Guardian Angel Publishing Inc. (2008)
ISBN-13: 978-1-935137-19-1 (Print)
ISBN-10: 978-1-935137-20-7 (eBook)
READING LEVEL: Ages 4-8
RATING: 5 stars
REVIEWED BY: Wayne S. Walker, reviewer with Stories for Children Magazine

Can you imagine what might happen if a young boy is left alone in his grandfather's pet shop? Noah needs money to buy his mother a present and decides to ask his grandfather, who owns a pet store, if he could have a job. Grandpa asks him if he can count, and Noah says yes. (Noah could count to ten.) Noah's job is to count the rawhide bones in the storeroom. There were a lot more than ten, so Noah counts to ten several times and has seven left over. When he tells Grandpa that he had counted tens and had seven left over, Grandpa misunderstands and rushes out to get some more before they open.
Noah's job while Grandpa is gone is to feed the animals. But when he opens the cage to feed the mice, they dart into the kittens' cage. When he opens the kittens' cage to get the mice, two kittens spring out to the canary cage, which flies open to release the canaries, and another kitten tips over the goldfish tank. Noah opens the puppies' cage to use the water bowl to catch the fish while the kittens chase the mice, and the puppies chase the kittens. Will Noah ever be able to get all the animals back into their cages before Grandpa gets back? And what will they do with all those extra rawhide bones?
Children, especially those who love animals, will absolutely adore this exciting and suspenseful story by Shari Lyle-Soffe with the striking illustrations of Kevin Scott Collier. Any child, or adult for that matter, who has ever been involved in a series of accidental mishaps should be able to identify with Noah's plight. And most of us who have had young ones can sympathize with the fact that "problems never stop Noah." Also, parents who read the book to their youngsters, or whose youngsters read the book, may want to ask them if they can think of any connection between Noah's name and the fact that his adventures take place in a pet shop. Nothing Stops Noah is a really great children's picture book that I highly recommend.
Related website: www.sharilyle-soffe.com (author), www.sharis-books.blogspot.com (author's blog), www.GuardianAngelPublishing.com (publisher)