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The Story of Rats and People  by Albert Marrin  illustrated by C.B. Mordan  Dutton / Penguin 2006  Is there any pet more widely considered vermin? The nonfiction picture book examines the facts and myths surrounding the rodent people love to hate.   Stating with a tale from his own life, Marrin recounts how he was playing in a wood pile as a kid when he first came face-to-face with rats. Out

Oh, Holy Undies, how could I have missed my own 5th Anniversary?  So a quick scan of the records showed that five years and nine days ago I embarked on this journey to read, write, and review books for children and young adults. What began as an exploration to better educate myself eventually led to an MFA at Vermont College and what is clearly becoming my great second act in life. I would

Benjamin Franklin from Scientist to Diplomatby Joan Dashpictures by Dusan PetricicFrancis Foster / FSG 2006It seems impossible to make any part of Franklin's life as dull and lifeless as it is here. But I liked the pictures.You don't tend to find newer biographies among the books available at library sales, especially about characters from history who seem to be evergreen for younger readers.

I'm a particular fan of American history in that I'm particular about the parts I like. It isn't an ideological divide as much as it is that there are certain periods that appeal to me for some reason. I'm fond of the colonialists and the American Revolution, but for the stories of the smaller moments and not the battles. I also have a soft spot for the socialist movement of the 1930's and

Anthony Shugaar (The International Spy Museum) National Geographic 2006 I spotted this on the non-fiction shelf in my local library teen room and thought "Yeah, that's a book a teen boy would pick up." Being a few decades removed I can still tap into my inner teen boy. I picked it up without a seconds worth of hesitation. But what a disappointment. It's a smartly designed book, very

Today I paid a visit to a friend of mine, Janet Jarvits, who owns what certainly has to be the best book store for cookbooks in this part of the world, if not anywhere.  Janet's place is in Pasadena, rather close to my house.  I went by to see how she'd done in the recent Los Angeles Triathlon, in which she finished second in her class.  Janet was not as happy as you might think--she wanted to finish first, which is just about all you need to know about her.  Except maybe that she has a dog named Petey, who is about to have his first birthday.  Happy Birthday to Petey, and many more.  Here are some pictures of Janet's store, which of course also sells books online, and has a searchable database. 

If you look just to the right of Janet, you will see one of her cats.  I think you can tell which picture is Janet and which one is Petey.  See also:  http://www.cookbkjj.com/

Michael McGrorty

Today on the drive home I saw him again, first out of the corner of my mind and then in the sharp focus of recognition:  the one-armed man again, working at his usual place where the street turns to highway, standing aside the flow of traffic to catch a dime or two for the washing of car windows.

He stood as ever with the squeegee in one hand and a rag under the stub where his other arm would be, his face a persistent repetition of the same mute query.  When the answer was yes he worked as fast as the pause in traffic would allow, collected his change and waited for the next red light to begin the pantomime.

By way of description I would say he is black, though his identity is a collection of other things:  he speaks but not always within the lines of ordinary reason; he rides a bicycle precariously along to his post; he purchases necessities at the second-hand store.  We have spoken a few times.  He nearly always makes some comment on life, about which he likely knows more than I or anyone who has not laced his shoes with one good hand.  He has a name but has never let me in on the secret; likewise where he sleeps is a mystery.  He is what he does, in the manner of its doing:  when he is gone for the day his bucket and wiping stick remain along the fence near the road—nobody else claims them or the position.  Indeed, no one else could, for to be the wiper man means being all of the things he is, as doubtless the wiper himself knows.  People pity the one-limbed man who works so hard for his money.  They hire him even when their windows are clean, possibly because they feel their souls are not.  The black cripple man wipes away a layer of guilt, reaching far across the windshield to clear away the rime.  He cures us of our illness with a magic touch, grants absolution for an hour or a day.  He is not like the white man who holds the sign asking for money to buy his dead wife a memorial wreath; the sign changes every day but the fraud is the same to the eye.  No, the black wiper man is the genuine article—we do not ask where or how he lost the arm—its absence is sufficient to confer sainthood.  And perhaps he is a saint.  And maybe he has to be.

Michael McGrorty

Here's a little project for you reference librarians out there.  The house I moved into a few months ago has two roses growing on trellises on a south-facing wall.  Each is about seven feet tall.  Recently they budded out and are now blooming.  The two bushes are identical.  What rose do I have here?  There are no tags on the plant whatever.

Michael McGrorty