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It’s 1851, and Amelia her mother Sophie, and her mother’s companion Estelle have just made the journey from Boston to San Francisco. The journey was most difficult for Estelle, who suffered from seasickness the entire time. Amelia, however, had befriended some of the sailors and learned a thing or two about tying knots.

As their ship, the Unicorn, makes its way into the harbor, Amelia’s sailor friend Jim asks her to make herself useful. She helps Jim by tying up the bundles of newspapers he has with him. Amelia is surprised to find that the newspapers are from the east and are 3 months old. She soon learns that folks in California are hungry for news back east and will pay a pretty penny for it.

Once Amelia and her family are on dry land, Amelia’s mother reveals that the journey over was much more expensive than she had planned for. When Amelia goes to find a cart to help them haul their belongings, she has a brainstorm. She unpacks her dress shoes that are wrapped in a newspaper. A newspaper that is indeed newer than the ones that she bundled up and the newsboys were currently selling. When Amelia takes up on a street corner to sell her lone paper, she soon finds out that one kid, especially a girl, can’t sell in Julius’ turf. She is quickly and physically taken out of the game.

Amelia finds it difficult to be one of only a handful of women around. Yes it’s nice that all of the women gravitate toward each other and help each other out, but how is Amelia to help her family if all of the jobs from newsboy to printer’s devil are for boys?

Maybe Amelia would be better off as a boy.

Liza Ketchum has written a rip-roaring piece of historical fiction that will captivate all readers. Amelia’s intrepid nature and the vast chaos of San Francisco in the 1850s are fascinating. Sophie and Estelle are obviously partners, though Ketchum’s treatment of the relationship is simply matter of fact, and the book never strays into lesson territory. It is more of a scandal that Sophie never married. The action is non-stop, and readers will delight in Amelia’s adventures, whether they be up in the sky, down in the streets, or along the journey.

Hands down my favorite read so far this year.

Dessen, Sarah. 2009. Along for the Ride. Viking. 382 pages.

The emails always began the same way.

I love Sarah Dessen. I do. I know that there are other great romance writers out there for teens. And there's always room for more in this giddy-making genre. But for me, it doesn't really get much better than Dessen. Along for the Ride is her latest YA novel. It stars Auden, a teen girl with a bit of a sleeping problem. (Whether you think it's a problem-problem, or just a reinforced bad habit, I'll let you decide.) Ever since her parents began fighting, she has had trouble sleeping at night. (So she might stay up til the wee morning hours, but then she'll get in her hours of sleep in the morning and early afternoon.) When she was at home, she found refuge in a diner that was open 24 hours a day. But now that summer is here, now that she has decided to pay a visit to her father and stepmother, Heidi, (not to mention her new little baby sister) in a beach-resort type town, she's got to begin to adapt.

At first, Auden isn't quite sure what to make of her new situation. Heidi is exhausted; her dad is aloof--locked away in his office busy working on his new book. And she's really left on her own most of the time. Which isn't a bad thing. Sure, she'd hoped to catch up with her dad and get to know him a bit better before she heads off to college in the fall. But it's not like she expected to spend all her time with good old dad. This summer instead turns into a quest of sorts. Her quest to catch up on all the things she missed out on growing up--making new friends, hanging out, going bowling, flirting, etc. And this being a Dessen novel, expect a great hero.

Eli, like Auden, is a night owl. In fact that is one of the reasons they bond. He shows her all the local delights. They spend weekfuls of nights together, hanging out, laughing, being silly and carefree and forgetting about some of the problems that plague them during the day.

New stepmother. New baby sister. New job. New friends. And her first ever 'real' boyfriend.

Is it my favorite Sarah Dessen novel? Probably not. I think I'll always heart The Truth About Forever the best because it was my first. And while I've truly enjoyed all of her books which I've read (I still need to read Dreamland, by the way), none have quite been able to take the place of it as favorite.

© Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

If you're reading this on a site (other than Becky's Book Reviews or Becky's feed, be aware that this post has been stolen and is used without permission.

Chaltas, Thalia. 2009. (Pub April 2009) Because I Am Furniture. Viking. 356 pages.

I am always there.
But they don't care if I am
because I am furniture.

I don't get hit
I don't get fondled
I don't get love
because I am furniture

Suits me fine.

Anke has a difficult home life, though that is putting it mildly. Her father is abusive. She sees all. Hears all. Yet though a witness, she's somehow avoided being the subject of his abuse. (Though witnessing it is damaging enough as it is.) Can a teen girl break out of her silence and get help for her troubled family?

Because I Am Furniture is a verse novel about hard issues: physical, verbal, and sexual abuse. With all the negative going on in her life, Anke finds great joy in the one positive of her life: volleyball. Can what she learns on the court change her life off the court?

Here's one of the poems I enjoyed from the novel:

They call us
Nopes
the "out" crowd,
we don't fit their
dog-show guidelines
wealthy-beautiful.

We call them
Yups
they have to
all agree,
yup each other
every day on every thing.

And we say
Nope, don't
want any part
of your Yuppitude
so tight
society will burst
with any change
of thought.

But being a fractured, momentary gathering
and not an actual collective,
we say
Nope
individually
with scrambled cadence

and their
Yup
is way
louder.

(25-26)

Other reviews: Teen Book Review, The Compulsive Reader, Laura's Review Bookshelf, Flamingnet, Karin's Book Nook.


© Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

Everybody must have heard the phrase to go berserk, but not everybody is aware of the fact how little is known about berserks and how obscure the word berserk is. Berserks were mentioned for the first time in a poem commemorating King Harald Fairhair’s victory in a battle that occurred around the year 872. The language of the poem is, consequently, Old Norwegian. For that period, Old Norwegian means the same as Old Icelandic. All we learn from the relevant lines is that “the berserks roared, the battle was in full swing, the wolfskins howled and shook the irons.” It is hard to decide whether wolfskins is a synonym of berserks or whether there were two groups of warriors (one roared, the other howled?) and on whose side the berserks made noises. Be that as it may, the information on the original berserks is admittedly scanty. Perhaps the poet (Old Scandinavian court poets were called skalds) coined the word berserk himself, but it may have existed in the language before him. Contrary to expectation, it occurs most rarely in later poetry, and, when it does, it means “warrior,” without any specification, and only with reference to the heroes of old. Once we hear that the great god Thor fought berserks’ brides. Since Thor’s main opponents were giants, berserks’ brides probably meant “giantesses.” Female monsters were feared more than superhuman males (thus Beowulf overpowered Grendel, a mighty “troll,” but nearly perished by the hand of Grendel’s vengeful mother), so that Thor cannot be accused of attacking defenseless girls.

The greatest Old Icelandic historian was Snorri Sturluson. He lived in the 13^th century, and we owe several priceless books to him. One of them treats the history of the kings of Norway. As was common in those days, Snorri began his work with a mythological introduction, for royalty needs divine origins, and in a short chapter he said that Odin (the Old Norse form is Othin, rather than Odin), the main god of the Scandinavian pantheon, had a retinue of fearful warriors who “fought without armor and acted like mad dogs or wolves. They bit their shields and were strong as bears or bulls. They killed people, and neither fire nor iron did them any harm.” This he adds, “is called berserk rage.” In English we say going berserk (like going amuck), but we too know what rage is, though more often on the road than in battle.

Snorri’s description comes as a great surprise. In addition to his magnificent history of the kings of Norway, he wrote a book called the Edda, a collection of ancient Scandinavian myths. Odin figures prominently in it, but his wild retinue is not mentioned a single time. He is usually depicted as traveling alone or accompanied by two other gods at most. Nor was the word berserk of any importance to Snorri. The source of this passage is a mystery, and no one can tell why berserks failed to appear in the Edda. In the absence of facts theories purporting to explain the role of Odin’s berserks are many. I also have a theory, but it runs counter to those proposed by many eminent scholars, for which reason it found little support. Yet, like a true berserk, I roar and howl and stick to my guns (or should it be spears, slings, and arrows for the sake of preserving the local coloring?).

Berserks reemerged in Icelandic sagas (prose narratives), recorded mainly in the 13^th century, when Snorri was active. But there they are gangs of vagrant marauders, intimidating farmers, raping women, and killing everybody who dares oppose them. It is in the sagas that they bite shields, fall to the ground, with their mouths foaming and frenzy making them allegedly invulnerable to fire and iron (they cannot be killed with a sword, but a cudgel does fine), and practice other stage effects. I suspect that, while writing an introduction to The History of the Kings of Norway, Snorri borrowed the portraits of berserks from the literary clichés flourishing in his lifetime. Real, not epic, berserks certainly existed, though they were exterminated in both Norway and Iceland before Snorri’s birth. Nobler berserks, the choicest warriors of kings, are mentioned in the so-called legendary sagas, and it seems that a vague memory of such bodyguards went back to at least the 8^th century. Later bandits may have called themselves berserks, to aggrandize themselves, or perhaps the population called them this. It matters little who gave them such a name, for they did not resemble their predecessors of King Harald’s epoch. If Snorri had heard or read myths about Odin’s berserks, he would have retold them in the Edda. Apparently, he did not. So I assume that he knew none and, in his history, modernized the god’s image under the influence of literary tradition.

The problem is complicated by our ignorance of the etymology of the word berserk. We remember that Snorri mentioned berserks’ custom of fighting without armor and roaring like bears. The second part of the noun berserk (-serk) means “shirt,” but the first is ambiguous: it may mean “bear” (which accords well with roaring) or “bare” (in reference to throwing off armor in battle; however, being without armor is not the same as being naked), for in Old Norse the words for bare and for some forms of bear are as close as they are in Modern English. (Has anyone seen a pin I saw in Cambridge, Massachusetts, in the mid-seventies: “Bare with me”? It was worn by a grinning female. No one seemed to be paying attention.)

Bears play an outstanding role in the history of Germanic cults. On the other hand, medieval sources, both Scandinavian and Irish, describe scenes of heroes fleeing in a panic when women expose themselves to them. No superstitions are connected with male nudity. Thus, either interpretation (“bareshirt” and “bearshirt”) makes some sense. Until the middle of the 19^th century Icelanders had no doubt that “bareshirt” is correct. Then an influential Icelandic scholar opted for “bearshirt,” but seventy years later the original theory again found an excellent supporter. I think he was right. Recapitulating his arguments here would take me too far afield. The main of them is that berr “bear” did not exist in this form in Old Norse, and other compounds with ber- “bear” as the first element have not been recorded either (a single exception is dubious). It is also unclear whether serk- was current as a technical term for “skin” or “shirt” as early as the 8^th century.

Those who will delve into the berserk problem will find numerous things, intriguing but largely irrelevant. Did berserks form unions? If so, did those unions have a religious character? Did berserks consume poisonous mushrooms and, intoxicated like hashish eaters, attack their enemies? Were berserks akin to wervolves? Both agony and ecstasy fill the pages of the works devoted to those semimythological creatures. Little is known, a lot has been surmised. Some medieval Scandinavian warriors were certainly called berserks. They started as kings’ bodyguards. Theirs was a dignified name. With the dissolution of early feudal retinues like King Harald’s, those groups degenerated into plundering riffraff, their members turned into brigands, and the word acquired negative connotations. (The same happened to the word Viking.) Odin was hardly surrounded by berserks, Snorri’s evidence to the contrary notwithstanding. It is more likely that berserk first meant “bareshirt” (that is, someone who fights with nothing but a shirt on) even if berserks roared like bears in battle. Anyone who would try to go to battle with a bearskin on will find himself easily overheated and incapacitated. A few of my pivotal statements can be and have been contested, and herein lies the beauty of scholarship. Some people, as Snorri put it, make mistakes and others correct them, so that everybody has something to do.

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by Jon Scieszka illustrated by Lane Smith Viking 2007 Cowboy and Octopus are friends. Cowboy is a paper doll cut from a book. His clothing tabs occasionally show. Octopus was cut from a comic book. His bold colors and zip-a-tone dots give him a party dress appearance. "Do you like our book?" asks Cowboy. "Do you like our book?" asks Octopus. "Yes, I do. I like it very much," I say. "Do

just a skecth, will try to post more often i promise.... Read the rest of this post

by Astrid Lindgren
Translated by Florence Lamborn
published in Sweden in 1944
Viking Press edition 1950


Pippi scared me when I was young. It had nothing to do with the books at all, and certainly nothing to do with some sort of threat to my prepubescent masculinity of this scrawny little Amazon, but it had everything to do with the 1960's movie based on the book.

Funny how memory is. I can see these images as part of my childhood vividly like they happened a few years ago, but I have to remind my kids that I first encountered Pippi back in the days before there were DVD's, before videos, and in this case even before my family owned a color television. In that blue-green cathode haze Pippi held a strange power that made me watch with my face half turned away in fear. I knew girls like Pippi, girls that could womp a baseball better than I ever would and wouldn't think twice about jumping down an open manhole cover, but they didn't scare me like this.

Because Pippi was the first movie I ever saw dubbed into English.

How and why did they talk like that? Their mouths and the sounds they made didn't sync up and worse; The way they were dubbed, stilted and forced like bad community theatre thespians trying to read Shakespeare into whimsy, had me feeling there was an invisible presence in the room that had turned down the sound and was making up the dialog for all the characters as they went along. And because of all this I never read Pippi Longstocking until I was a full-grown adult and felt I could handle it subject without the fear of those early memories rushing to accost me.

How nice it was to finally get Pippi in her correct form, a spunky and precocious 10 year old with a pet monkey and a horse that lives on the front porch. She lives by her own rules and with total abandon, and can foil crooks just as handily as Homer Price. That adults are dolts and can be outwitted by a wild child like Pippi is cake for a young reader . That Pippi actually doesn't even care about any adult besides her father is the icing.

Lindgren -- in a fashion that must be a genre unto itself by now -- originally wrote these tales for her own children. Writing to please children may seem obvious but many who try tend to fail because they impose their adult logic and adult world onto the proceedings. Logic alone is enough to kill a good story. Not that children don't long for and crave logic, because they do, but it's the logic they create that's important. When you think about what we do as developing humans, how we take raw data and information and learn to craft connecting ideas, thoughts into images into ideas into logic, the whole of it more impressive than anything we claim as adults. As adults we manipulate the hardware and the software of the brain to make sense of our world; As children we build the hardware and software from scratch and call it the world.

At the core of the Pippiverse are two innocents who serve as our grounding, Tommy and Anika. They provide the necessary balance that allows the Pippi books to endure because they counter the desire to "be good" with the twined desire to explore without rules. When challenged, even to the brink of hysterical danger, everything works out in the end because deep down Pippi has total unspoken faith that it will. I don't think it would take much to apply the lessons of Pippi into some warm-and-comfy self-help impulse item sitting on the counter at your local chain bookstore. Here's hoping no one thinks this is a good idea.

Many books for children feature troubled families and it's an odd comfort we find in seeing that others might have it worse than we readers do. I know I'm not the only person who felt like his family was severely dysfunctional while viewing other equally dysfunctional families as more "normal" than my own. That sense of "other" aside, what tripped me up while reading was that I didn't believe Pippi when she said her father, The Captain, would come home one day. I committed the adult sin of doubting a child. No matter how fictitious, I'm sure that as a child myself I would have taken Pippi at her word or at least given her the benefit of the doubt where my adult mind tried to force the story to conform to my own adult sense of what was "right". What a joy -- an honor, really -- to be bested by Pippi like all the other stubborn fools she's encountered.

A twentieth-century life
by Marc Aronson
Viking 2007

Part of a new series of biographies put out by Viking I was really looking forward to this one on RFK. I was hoping we had finally come to the place where the history of the latter half of the twentieth century would balance out the tri-war arc (Revolutionary, Civil and Second World War) that tends to dominate in textbooks. While Marc Aronson's contribution to this correction might have been welcome the book suffers from trying too hard to do too much.

In telling RFK's life story Aronson goes for a big-picture approach, attempting to give the scope and scale of RFK's world as well as his world view in attempting to define the man. In and of itself this isn't a bad thing but it takes a deft hand to draft a portrait that is both clear and contextual, and it takes greater caution with the way that information is supported. A person's life isn't always encapsulated in easy-to-understand chapters but like any good story it has a beginning, middle and end and, unless the subject has invented a time machine, generally moves in a forward direction through time.

No, I'm not suggesting that the only way to tell a person's life is a narrative a-to-b sequence of events, but the narrative being told needs to feel like it's moving forward in a way that will make sense to the reader and in the end provide them with a clear portrait of the subject. There are moments where history is condensed, where events months apart are casually referenced as taking place one after the other. Where dates are necessary they are given, but often they are presented as reference for other events in a way that provides both milieu and is deceptive.

Let's also be honest about the fact that most biographies written for children are provided as resources for school lessons, not likely pleasure reading, and in that light require a certain level of comprehension so that they can be used in reports. They can even be biased (and Aronson shows hint of his love of Bobby every time he makes sure to underline the man's faults, like an apologist) so long as they honest and clear in their appraisals.

Aronson's picture of RFK is presented deep within the soup of history that belongs to the Kennedy clan, alternately zooming in and out to show Bobby's place and influences. At times, especially in the first half of the book where his older brothers are showcased as foils, the book feels more like a biography of the Kennedy's than an examination of RFK. The book is muddled and slow to gain momentum: you could easily skip the forward, introduction and first two chapters of the book. Chapter One is designed to be one of those book-ending vignettes of Bobby on the presidential campaign trail just before he is assassinated but it presumes a reader born at the end of the Clinton administration has enough historical knowledge to appreciate the tension of this pending event. Aronson makes those sort of assumptions throughout which I think is a mistake.

In an attempt to keep the text breezy Aronson traffics in the unsupported statement, or sentences that must be taken on face value but still raise questions. At the democratic convention he reports that Lyndon Johnson and his aids were disorganized and inefficient, compared to Bobby and his crew, but doesn't explain in what ways or how this was crucial to the process. Further on he makes cursory mention of the buying of delegates in advance of the convention assuming the reader both understands how convention politics works, to say nothing of the electoral college. Throughout Aronson presents information in a way that only makes me want a second opinion, which if nothing else is a distraction from the story at hand.

He also makes spotty use of the attempt to make the book relevant to modern readers that tend to make it look silly. To bolster the idea of RFK coming from East Coast wealth but able to make himself empathetic with farm workers and civil rights activists Aronson points to the tough talk in rap music, to rappers who talk about "keeping it real", while raking in wealth and fame that pull them far from the real streets they rap about. In trying to discuss how unmoored RFK was following his brother's assassination he uses Phillip Pullman's example of what happens when a character in one of the 'His Dark Materials' books loses their animal daemons. What Aronson fails to point out in all this "relevance" is that while RFK was shrewed about his public image it was only after his older brother was assassinated RFK and he was finally free of the insecurities he had been held under since birth, that what he lost was also a personality pegged to always trying to prove he was as good as his brothers, to himself, to his father, to the world. I think that might have deserved a paragraph.

In the end I do think Up Close: Robert F. Kennedy can serve as a catalyst for a history-loving teen or tween to use as a jumping off point for delving into the 1960's. One look at the bibliography full of adult titles proves that there's a need for more age-appropriate materials but that shouldn't prove too much of a hindrance to the hungry.

There are other books in the Up Close series -- I'm looking forward to seeing what Ellen Levine does with Rachel Carson, and another on Johnny Cash by Anne E. Neimark that I might check out -- so I'm going to hold out hope that this was an anomaly.

Lissy's Friends, written and illustrated by Grace Lin. Viking (a division of Penguin Young Readers Group). $15.99

Origami. I could never do origami. As a kid it didn’t matter if you wanted me to fold a crane, a frog, or a paper hat. For all the logic involved, origami was equal in difficulty to playing the accordion so I never really took to it as a result. It’s the old if-you-can’t-do-something-it-must-not-be-worth-doing argument. What I did like to do, though, was play with inanimate objects and give them distinct personalities. Not your usual toys and dolls, necessarily. I’d have sweeping romances involving crayons and the coloring pages they were in love with. Epic battles and court intrigue could come out of a deck of playing cards (particularly if the Jacks looked nefarious and cruel). So as it is, I found “Lissy’s Friends,” by Grace Lin to be a perfect intersection of something I loathed as a kid and something I loved. Where does that leave the book? Firmly in the latter category, I’m happy to report.

Being the new girl in school can be infinitely lonely. Lissy’s kind of a solitary gal to begin with and when no one talks to her or sits with her at lunchtime, she creates a little paper crane out of a nearby lunch menu. To her delight, the crane comes alive and Lissy has literally “made” a friend. When her mother (misunderstanding, naturally) says that she’s sure that Lissy will make lots of friends the next day, her daughter guarantees that this will be true. Now she swamped in wonderful friends of every shape and size, “And Lissy was never alone.” Unfortunately, when a ride on the merry-go-round in a stiff breeze sends her companions heavenward, this moment of despair is quickly alleviated by a girl like Lissy who’s interested in her origami skills. Now Lissy has human friends by her side while her former companions are now taking a bit of café au lait on the banks of Paree.

There is a moment in this book where Lin could have lost her readers entirely (at least her grown-up ones) had her writing been heavy-handed or icky sweet. It is when Lissy’s first origami creature, the paper crane, it comes to life in her hands. Some artist/illustrators would have imbued this moment with a great deal of silliness. With Lin, however, the moment just hangs there. For some reason, it makes perfect sense; not goofy or sentimental. Just a magical little occurrence that could be real or the figment of a lonely little girl’s imagination. Even the happy ending where the once missing origami friends write Lissy a missive from Paris comes across as more touching than cutesy. I also loved that in Lissy’s mind, her animals (with the exception of the original little stork) become the size of their real-life equivalents. The giraffe and elephant tower above Lissy, while the tiny mouse and crab (origami crabs?) scuttle beneath her feet.

Lin’s art is what I like to call deceptively simple. Clean pen-and-ink lines and supposedly simple human figures make up most of the scenes. But Lin has possibly outdone herself with this book. Lissy creates at least twenty different origami friends, and each one is made out of a different kind of paper. Their designs and colors never repeat twice. In one scene, Lissy and friends look out the window at some kids who are going to the nearby playground. Not only are the animals realistic looking origami critters, all folds and bends, but the curtains, floor, wallpaper, and Lissy’s shoes, pants, and jacket are ALL different colors and patterns as well! You’d think this sort of thing would hurt to look at or, at the very least, take in. Not the case. But what about when the animals disappear? Would that mean that the book becomes dull and less interesting? Not if you consider that the kids Lissy befriends by the end are all wearing their own distinctive patterns and colors. There were other little lovely details as well. The book takes place in the fall and feels particularly autumnal from scene to scene. I also loved Lissy’s “secret smile” she keeps when she thinks of the living little paper crane who is her first friend.

In the back of the book lie step-by-step instructions for creating your own paper cranes. They’re pretty straightforward, but be sure you have your origami skills well-sharpened when the child in your life demands a crane just like the one in the book. When people ask me at my library for books about making friends, I think I’ll take them at their word from here on in. The making doesn’t happen to be a problem. It’s the keeping that takes some work. A gentle, genuinely touching little tale.

On shelves May 17th.

Blog-Related Note: Grace Lin actually done went and dedicated this book to “my friends the blue rose girls.” That’s the first blog-related dedication I’ve seen to date.

Previous Blog Reviews: A Wrung Sponge