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New Socks by Bob Shea. Little Brown & Company. $12.99

What is it you want out of your average everyday picture book? Do you want a story? A plot of some sort with a beginning, middle, and an end? Or are your demands a little more broad? I mean, what if a picture book went and just talked about socks for pages at a time? These days, publishers of children’s literature have had their eyes opened wide by the phenomenal success of titles like, “Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus”. So suddenly it’s perfectly okay for the narrator of a work for preschoolers to talk to them one-on-one without having to go so far as to dredge up a standard storyline. With Bob Shea's, "New Socks", all you have t do is combine an ultra-mod look with an over-the-top enthusiastic presentation and you’ve got yourself a book that walks the line between what’s cool and what’s inspired.

A glasses-wearing yellow chicklet (who is apparently named Leon, though the book never calls him that) asks you to guess exactly what it might be about him that’s so new. The glasses? Not so much. No, he’s wearing his New Socks. They fit him to a tee, look good, and there’s nothing better for sliding across a wooden floor. As we watch, the chicken uses the socks to overcome his fear of big slides and pretend to ring up the President. When at last his energy dies down a little the chicken says to the reader, “What can’t these New Socks do?” The last line in the book sums it all up. “Now I’m all excited to get pants!”

First off, this may well be the very first hipster picture book I’ve encountered, published in the last five years. Mod titles are a dime a dozen and you can find more rock, rockabilly, punk, jazz, and blues books for kids than you’ll ever have a need for. But how many of us have ever encountered a hero with thick black-framed glasses and a singular fashion sense? If the chicken in this book confessed that he found these socks at an awesome vintage store in Williamsburg for $3.00, I wouldn’t blink an eye. The fact that it takes a childhood staple (a sometimes unnatural love for the inanimate) and molds it into a picture book format is just gravy on the cake. So to speak.

As I may have mentioned before, “New Socks” probably owes its very existence to “Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus”. This isn’t to say that the two books are particularly similar. Aside from the avian hero who talks to the reader, the two are fairly different in terms of tone. No, it just seems to me that had “Pigeon” not garnered itself a Caldecott Honor and numerous profitable accolades, Little Brown & Co. might have been less inclined to take a chance on the pair of bright orange footies found here. The Mod look, coupled with the joyful storyline, makes the book unique. I can think of plenty of books that could be considered “good design” but that don’t have so much as a lick of humor to them. So it’s nice to sometimes see an exception to this rule. I'm not sure how repeated readings will fare, mind you. Still, I can see adults growing tired of the reading of this book long before their kids ever do.

“New Socks” to my mind, is the very antithesis of the “Fancy Nancy” books. Clean lines. A color palette of orange, yellow, and aqua blue. And nary a sparkle or a smidgen of glitter in sight! I mean, technically it’s all about fashion, but in a completely different kid-centric way. Where “Fancy Nancy” is all about embracing the idea of fanciness in a pseudo-grown-up style, “New Socks” feels more open and honest. We’ve all had that one piece of clothing that we’re just so jolly well pleased with. I mean, let’s face it. If I had a pair of big, comfy, plush, bright, beautiful orange socks I’d probably go all nuts over them myself. The chicken here is true to himself. This is what pleases him and he’s just so happy with his newest acquisition that it’s all he can do not to tell you about it for pages on end.

You know who this chicken character reminds me of? Have you ever watched those old Looney Tunes sequences involving Foghorn Leghorn and his small bespectacled chicken friend? This, right here, is that same chicken only modernized, hipstered up, and contemporized within an inch of his life. As I page through the book, I wonder if it will end up being a good read aloud with kids. Put just the right amount of force, bluster, and sheer good spirits into a reading and this chicken may veritably leap off the page. It’s worth a shot anyway. As new books go, it’s nice to find a title that’s so well and truly pleased with itself. If you’re looking for something fun, but you want to purchase a picture book that’ll suck in style-centric parents, you couldn’t ask for a more ideal title than “New Socks”.

On shelves now.

Other Blog Reviews By: Your Friendly Librarian,

Numero Uno by Alex Dorros and Arthur Dorros. Illustrated by Susan Guevara. Abrams Books for Young Readers. $16.95.

You know what instantly sounds like an awful idea for a picture book? A father-son writing team. Even worse, a father-son writing team where the son wrote a book when he was twelve and then the dad signed on later and got it made. Sounds icky-sticky sweet without any possible redeeming qualities, doesn’t it? And your mind probably wouldn’t be changed too much if you knew that the author in question was Arthur Dorros of “Abuela” fame either. Even good authors of picture books have been known to be suckered into poor writing decisions at the hands of their darling beloved offspring. But then, what if I told you that the illustrator was Susan Guevara? Which is to say The Great Susan Guevara? The woman who brought Gary Soto’s “Chato” books so swimmingly to life? Certainly you’d be swayed neither way when I told you that the book, “Numero Uno” was a fable, but then you might actually get a chance to pick up and read the book. And in doing so your skepticism would just melt out of your ears, I assure you. Dorros and Son (as they shall hitherto be known) make a pretty good team. Add in a magnificent illustrator and a solid storyline and what once felt like an awful idea for a picture book turns into a fairly swell idea instead.

In a small village in Mexico lived two men of monumental ego. On the one hand was Hercules. He thought himself a pretty primo guy due to his manly physical prowess. On the other hand there was Socrates. He’s scoffed at the notion of muscles, placing his trust entirely in the realm of the cranium. As it happened, Hercules was in the construction business and Socrates the architectural side. So when a bridge needed to be built across the local river, both fellows felt they were of the greatest importance to the villagers. So vehemently did they fight about this that a contest was thought up by a local boy. Both men would leave the village and the people remaining would try to build the bridge without them. Whoever they missed more would be of the greatest importance to everyone. Well that’s all well and good but that means that these two rivals have to spend time together in the wilderness. Bickering all the way, they find food, warmth, and shelter with a combination of brawn and brains, never realizing how much they rely on one another. Inevitably, when they return home they’ve both been equally missed. The bridge is completed with their help and there is at least one thing everyone can agree on. They may have missed their intelligence and strength but when it comes to arguing, nobody missed Hercules and Socrates one little bit.

The writing doesn’t feel like a twelve-year-old came up with it. Obviously Dorros Sr. did some cleaning up in that particular area, leaving a tidy little story in his wake. Spanish words are worked effortlessly into the text, cropping up best where they make the most sense. There’s also enough repetition to keep the story hopping along. The old man in the village often says, “Basta!”. Socrates and Hercules rely mostly on the word, “Yo!” And I can’t help but think that this kind of repetition would make for a pretty good readaloud. Just get half of the kids in the audience to say whatever Hercules says while the other half takes the side of Socrates (the parents or teachers could take the part of the old man). Not only would that make for a more interesting reading, you’d actually get the kids actively interested in who’s going to win the contest. After all, they’re going to believe that they will either end up the winning side or the losing side, as chosen by the book.

I don’t know if I would have immediately have thought that this was a Susan Guevara book if I hadn’t been told. It’s a quieter effort on the artist’s part. Guevara’s paintings for “Numero Uno” don’t have the raw intensity of her Chato books. That’s due in part to the change of location. Instead of gritty city streets and back barrios we’re in the countryside now. According to the bookflap, Ms. Guevara has been studying plein air painting with the Canadian landscape painter Ian Roberts. “Numero Uno”, therefore, gave her a chance to try her hand at capturing hills, valleys, streams, and fields. It’s a quiet cool style that shifts perspective constantly. One moment you see Hercules and Socrates being rowed out onto the river by a clearly jaded young boy. The next we’re soaring high, just above an owl with a world of greens and blues, and yellows stretching away below us. In this particular scene we can also see several different versions of the two men on their own separate paths, trying to reach their destination before the other. Whenever they talk, words leap from their mouths. Of course, being the fellows they are, that usually consists of the “Yo!”, “No!” and “Si!”. Guevara’s is a blotchy style and won’t be to everyone’s liking. For this book, however, it matches the narrative and dialogue just fine.

The moral is nothing new and kids will guess at it long before the self-absorbed heroes do. The ending could have stood a little more oomph, but as it stands this is a lovely little book. Insofar as the human race continues to argue the brains vs. brawn question (and they will) this book will continue to have a lot of cache in the years to come. An worthy addition to any folktale section of libraries, both personal and public.

Little Night by Yuyi Morales. Roaring Brook Press (A Neal Porter Book). $16.95.

You ever get so attached to an illustrator that they could be drawing stick figures on matchboxes and you’d still pay top dollar to look at ‘em? Yeah. So that’s basically my attitude towards Yuyi Morales. She could draw images for Pictionary and I’d be all gaga over them. I can’t help it. The woman has skills. I was wowed by her Pure Belpre Medal winning, “Just a Minute” and more than a tad impressed by the illustrations contributed to “Los Gatos Black on Halloween”. “Little Night,” however, is a very rare critter; a bedtime picture book I actually like. Don’t get me wrong. There are good bedtime stories out there in the world. I just happen to dislike a good 95% of them. They’re either too treacly or too icky-cutesy. They try too hard and end up too earnest, or their tone is off and they simply don’t read well to kids. “Little Night”, exhibits none of these flaws. It’s a tale as sweetly dark and tender-hearted as a warm hug on a summer night. The fact that it also happens to be beautiful to boot doesn’t hurt things any either.

“In the flowered city there is an endless mother, giving and magnificent like the sky.” These words come from Yuyi Morales’s dedication to her mother, but she could well be talking about the mother in this book. Nighttime is drawing near and Mother Night needs to get her daughter Little Night out of bed and ready. Her small child, however, has other plans in mind. If Mama wants her to take a bath in a tub full of falling stars she’ll need to play a little hide-and-seek by the rabbit holes first. And if Mama wants to dress Little Night in her bedtime gown crocheted from the clouds above, she may need to first peek inside the bats’ cave to find her giggling child. On and on they go, with Mama preparing and Little Night hiding until at last it's time for the child to take her moon and bounce it high into the air.

I made the mistake of reading another review of this book before writing my own. Usually I try to avoid doing this because I have this fear that I’ll somehow digest another person’s words into my subconscious and end up parroting things they’ve already said. It’s even worse, though, when someone comes up with a description of the book that you wish to high heaven you’d come up with. So with full credit going to Randall Enos of Booklist, one of the things I loved the most about Morales’s art, were her, “rich jewel-tone colors.” I mean, there’s just no better way to describe them. These colors seep over the pages with deep reds, purples, and indigo blues. With her backgrounds in place, the pure white of the stars pierces the gloom just like Little Night’s mischievous twinkling eyes. The exaggerated characters give the book a little extra added oomph too. I love how Mother Sky is this all expansive bell-shaped maternal figure. Her two braids curl delicately at their ends like the tip of a cat’s tail and her tiny hands weave Little Night’s hair into intricate braids, with three gleaming planets to hold it all in place.

In a way, you can read this book as a description of the way in which the sky changes in the evening. Falling stars and fading clouds at the start. Fireflies and the slow appearance of the Milky Way next. Finally the view of, “Venus on the east, Mercury on the west, and Jupiter above,” with a thick round moon to cap it all off at the end. So lovely. Kids will also enjoy this book when they find that Little Night isn’t just playing hide and go seek with her mother in these pages. She’s playing with the reader as well. You can usually spot her, though, since her tiny white eyes sparkle like little stars wherever it is that she goes.

All told, the current crop of children’s picture books the publishers are putting out there these days aren’t exactly o’erflowing with Hispanic characters. You can find them if you need to, but sometimes it’s nice to find a really high quality picture book containing characters that aren’t whitey white white. It’s nice too to see a book where the affection between the mother and the child feels genuine. I know “Runaway Bunny” has its fans, but books like that one never really convince me that the mother in the story feels anything aside from an almost violent possessiveness towards her child. “Little Night,” however, feels loving and warm. In short, perfect bedtime reading.

The obvious pairing with this book would have to be with Ana Juan’s jaw-droppingly gorgeous, “The Night Eater”. Duh. The two picture books were darn well made for one another. But while one is about the fellow who eats away the night to make way for the dawn, the other is about the night going through an, ironically enough, wake-up routine at the close of day. Searching for a proper bedtime tale isn’t a difficult task in and of itself. It’s nice, though, to find a book that is quite as touching, magical, and doggone adorable as this. Worth holding onto, tight.

Previously Reviewed By: BC Books.

Midsummer Knight by Gregory Rogers. A Neal Porter Book of
Roaring Brook Press. $16.95.

How can you resist a children’s picture book author/illustrator who repeatedly and continually makes William Shakespeare the world’s most reprehensible villain? I mean, don’t get me wrong. I love me my Will. But to see him transformed time and time again into a Snidley Whiplash-ish figure? It’s funny, pure and simple. Having rocked the world with “The Boy, the Bear, the Baron, the Bard” a couple years ago, Aussie Gregory Rogers is back for more with the same cast of characters transposed into an entirely new setting. If wordless picture books are rare then sequels to popular wordless picture books must be even rarer. Thank goodness then that this one lives up to its predecessor.

When last seen, our hero the bear was garbed in a knight’s helm and cloak drifting merrily down a riverbank. We pick up where we left off before as the bear finds a secret entrance into an enchanted fairy realm. Once there he meets up with a young boy (a puckish fellow, if you will) and the two go off to meet the king and queen of the realm. Trouble is, the rulers appear to be a bit, how do you say, indisposed at the moment. A nasty villain with the clothing of a wasp and the facial features of a Shakespeare quickly disarms and captures the boy and the bear. Once imprisoned with the other former denizens of the castle, it’s up to our hero to find a way to overpower the baddies and save the day in the end.

Wordless cartooning isn’t as easy as you might expect. The nice thing about Gregory’s world is that he draws scenes that are both easy for a child to follow and yet convey a great deal of action and adventure without uttering a sound. Even Andy Runton’s, “Owly” books will slip up and insert an exclamation point or “Peep” here and there. Not Gregory. I’ve noticed too that his illustrations are remarkably deceptive. For all its cartooonish elements, there’s nothing one-dimensional about the artist’s style. Perspective is constantly shifting. At one point we get an aerial view of the evil Shakespeare fairy making a run out of the castle with a load of loot. In the next panel we’re onn the floor looking up at a pack of angry fairies mere seconds away from kicking the kablooey out of the malicious villain. The watercolors in this story are particularly good at conveying shadowy places and moonlit walks.

Of course, don’t expect a play on “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” with this book. The fairy setting is the beginning and the end of any and all Shakespearean references. This was kind of too bad. I saw hoping for maybe a sly allusion here and there. Maybe someone could disguise themselves with a donkeyhead. Maybe there could be a chase scene through a bower. One detail I did almost miss was in the very last picture in the book. The bear is walking happily away from the secret entrance into the fairy land. As he admires his new medal the moon shines down upon a ring of red mushrooms sitting just in front of the door. Anyone with a passing knowledge of lore will recognize this to be a fairy ring. It’s subtle, but it’s there.

I wonder, while reading this, just how this book will strike people who never read its predecessor. I mean, it kind of makes the assumption that you’ve met these people before. Why else would a bear be a hero? It would appear to be a little random unless you knew of his role in, “The Boy, the Bear, the Baron, the Bard.” That said, this book stands entirely on its own. Less constant panels of running and more plot-based, Gregory Rogers has given us an entirely charming story. Next time a parent comes up to me and demands Shakespeare-related materials for their four-year-old, I think I know exactly where I’m gonna steer them.

ALSO REVIEWED BY: The Excelsior File, who spent a great deal of time and energy detailing the predecessor to this book as well. Well done and worth a peek.

Nothing but Trouble: The Story of Althea Gibson by Sue Stauffacher, illustrated by Greg Couch. Knopf Books for Young Readers (a Random House imprint). $16.99.

I’m not ashamed to say it. Say the name “Althea Gibson” to me a month ago and you’d have met a blank stare. Say it to me now, however, and you may suffer the indignity of finding me thrusting Sue Stauffacher’s newest picture book, “Nothing but Trouble: The Story of Althea Gibson,” into your arms while screaming into your ears its high points. This might be so bad either if the book only had a high-point here or there, but the fact of the matter is that “Althea Gibson” is ALL high points. It’s a rip-roaring, snorting, fast and frenzied, well-researched, reiterated, illustrated, formulated bit of picture book biography magnificence. With the author of the “Donuthead” books on the one hand and soon-to-be-recognized-for-his-magnificence artist Greg Couch filling in the necessary art, “Althea Gibson” has everything you could possibly want going for it. It’s fun. It’s funny. It’s smart and interesting, and has a flawed heroine you can’t help but want to know more about. If your young child is looking for a biography of a woman and you don’t know where to turn, I can’t think of a better book available to you. There’s something about Althea.

Ask anyone. Ask her mama her daddy her teacher or the cop down the street that busted her for petty theft. They’ll all tell you the same: That Althea Gibson is nothing but trouble. More comfortable tearing up the playground in the 1930s than sitting at a desk in school, Althea has a reputation for recklessness. None of that is enough to scare off play leader Buddy Walker, however. When he sees Althea play sports, he can only see raw talent and untapped potential. With his guidance and the help of the Sugar Hill’s ritzy tennis court “The Cosmopolitan”, Althea is given the chance to improve her style. Problem is, she has a hard time with being polite, following the rules, and not punching out her fellow players’ lights. It takes time and patience and self-control to make Althea the best she can possibly be, but by 1957 she becomes the first African-American to win at Wimbledon. And though she could hog all the credit for herself, Ms. Gibson gives full credit to that amazing Buddy Walker who had the smarts to become her mentor.

It’s always more interesting to read about a flawed hero. Perfect people do not a fascinating story make. Maybe that’s why the trend in children’s biographies lately has been to tell the tale of those men and women who weren’t made of solid gold from birth onwards. Between Kathleen Krull’s, “Isaac Newton”, Laura Amy Schlitz’s, “The Hero Schliemann,” and now Stauffacher’s, “Nothing but Trouble,” biographies for kids are getting better and better with every coming year. The nice thing about Althea is that for all her pouts and ill-manners, she's shown here to be someone who could conquer the world if she just applied a little self-control. As Buddy tells her at one point, “You’ve got to decide, Althea. Are you going to play your game, or are you going to let the game play you? When I go to the jazz club, I play like a tiger, but I wear a tuxedo.” Stauffacher draws much of her dialogue out of Althea’s biographies “I Always Wanted to Be Somebody” and “So Much to Life For.” Even without such lines, however, the author knows how to put a good story together. This plot is carefully crafted. From the timeline in the back (written on tennis balls, no less) to the great opening line, (“Althea Gibson was the tallest, wildest tomboy in the history of Harlem”) to the thin slices of her life, Stauffacher does a stand up job. As Althea’s biographer she prefers to concentrate on the role of Buddy Walker, even mentioning in her Author’s Note that “Though this is Althea’s story it is also Buddy Walker’s story.” The result is that this tale comes off as a tribute to mentors everywhere. To those people that see potential in certain kids and do what they can to bring such potential to light. And that is the nature of an entirely different kind of hero.

Flying just below the radar is illustrator Greg Couch. Ms. Stauffacher may have the wherewithal, wit, and smarts to think to bring Althea’s life to the page, but it is Mr. Couch’s illustrations that truly deserve attention here. Couch has taken a story that could have been accompanied by staid, simple drawings and instead imbued them with a kind of electricity. Althea doesn’t just leap off the page here. She crackles and snaps with an energy you don’t usually encounter on your average picture book bio. Couch has chosen to clothe Althea in a hyperactive rainbow that zigs and zags with the girl’s every movement and leap. Parents and teachers presenting this book to kids can ask them what they think this rainbow really means. And hopefully they’ll notice that when Buddy plays the saxophone (as he did in his own jazz band) the same rainbow colors come out of the instrument. Plus the fact that these rainbows are the sole spot of color against a sepia-tinged background of old photos and scenes from the 30s, 40s and 50s is a nice touch as well. And when, at last, you see Althea win her Wimbledon, she is surrounded at her acceptance speech by a rainbow that has aged and changed from pure primary colors to subtler hues. I also appreciate that there is nothing anachronistic going on in this book. Every picture feels like it has stepped out of history.

A co-worker of mine felt somewhat disappointed that the book ends as suddenly as it does. One minute Althea is learning the benefits of playing by the rules (while maintaining her fire) and the next she’s won Wimbledon and the story's over. I think this is less a flaw of this specific book than of the picture book biography format in general. You can’t linger on a year here or there, however much you might want to. And honestly, this is a book worth discovering. Stauffacher and Couch have found something to say about Althea that hasn’t yet been said in the realm of children’s literature and their passion in bringing Althea’s passion to life is worth taking note of. So stand back now. I’m going to say something and I’m going to say it loud. This book not only pairs well with “Wilma Unlimited” by Kathleen Krull, it may have supplanted it in my brain as my new favorite picture book sports biography. A must read pick.

On shelves August 14th.

First Lines: “Althea Gibson was the tallest, wildest tomboy in the history of Harlem.”

Extra: An artist in the professional sense, Mr. Couch has more than a few paintings to his name. So we’re just going to present, without comment, his Giving Trees. It appeared in the “experimental poetry” journal Sidereality.

Bow-Wow Bugs a Bug by Mark Newgarden and Megan Montague Cash. Harcourt Children's Books. $12.95.

Sometimes a book just falls into your lap without rhyme, reason, or explanation and you’re left gaping like a fish until someone’s able to tell you something about it. Well “Bow-Wow Bugs a Bug” fell into my lap and due to its very nature I’ve been left gaping for some time. I gotta say, this is one of the weirder creations to float down the river, and I’m torn between being utterly charmed by it and marching over to Harcourt Books to DEMAND the story of its creation. Basically, what we have here is softy Megan Montague Cash joining forces with Mark Newgarden to produce a picture book about a curious dog. Who is Mark Newgarden? Well, in a recent interview with MrSkin.com I learned that he’s an alt-comic mastermind with the book, “We All Die Alone,” already under his belt. He’s lived in a converted funeral parlor, has a great take on Tijuana Bibles, and once deconstructed the comic strip Nancy. The next thing you know he turns around and produces something called, “Bow-Wow Bugs a Bug.” An inconsistency? Not in the least. Though he’s curbed his style to the world of wordless picture book adventures, this title uses its misleading simplicity to lure the reader into a false sense of complacency. Then, BAM! It ratchets up the weirdness meter to 110%. With a clear sense of its artist’s comic-laden past, and a firm grounding in what makes a picture book “good,” Newgarden and Cash have produced the weirdest bit of kidlit fluff I’ve seen in a very long time. Their tongues are planted firmly in their cheeks and they know how to play for laughs by balancing out visual humor with sheer out-and-out ridiculousness. Impressive.

A single black dot makes a leap off a pure white page towards a sleeping terrier. The pup wakes up and begins his day only to find himself somewhat entranced by the insect in his presence. Without thinking much about it he proceeds to follow the bug around a single city block. Slowly the situation grows more and more surreal as Newgarden and Cash begin to play off of expected norms. When pup and bug meet their identical twins it’s a great excuse for a series of panels where they try to get the other to do something different. Things get curiouser still. Giant dogs follow tiny bugs. Hundreds of dogs follow hundreds of bugs. And then, in a kind of coup de grace, hundreds of gigantic bugs follow hundreds of tiny dogs. Exhausted and more than a touch weirded out, Bow-Wow heads for home where pup and insect can settle down for a good long sleep.

It’s not really fair when a reviewer is handed a book with a blurb like this on the back cover: “What an odd, sweet, surreal, and hilarious adventure from Newgarden and Cash. It’s what Crockett Johnson, Ernie Bushmiller, and Rod Serling might have come up with if they shared a bench at the doggie park. I love it!” Well thank you sooooooo much, Lane Smith. First of all, being that Newgarden’s a huge Bushmiller fan, I suspect Mr. Smith was being coy with his references. But the fact of the matter is that this nails the tone of the book perfectly. I’m jealous. I could never have paired these three artists together, and yet that’s exactly how the book feels. Reality is upended suddenly and regularly in this title and it’s a joy each and every time. I’ve tried to pinpoint the exact moment the book won me over, heart and soul, and I think it had to be when Bow-Wow runs into an enormous dog following an enormous bug. Still, there’s a subtlety to the illustrations in this book that rewards the careful reader. I’ve never seen a book so perfectly perform the old look–blink–look-again move. And when Bow-Wow’s face is reflected in the kaleidoscopic eyes of the lead bug, his oh-come-on-now expression (raised eyebrow and all) is priceless.

The problem with books that look this simple is that adult readers will often skim it once, assume there aren’t any noteworthy details, and put it down without a second glance. Kids, on the other hand, are bound to be rewarded time and time again whenever they re”read” certain sections. Did you notice that when Bow-Wow meets his virtual twin and his bug does the same, everything the dogs do the bugs do? If the dogs put on green cat masks, so too do the bugs. Balancing on balls while donning fezzes? So too do the bugs. The art in this book is fabulous and suggests a fun but twisted mentality. Now will someone please explain to me why it is that Garbage Pail Kids, that insane construct of the mid-1980s that, to any sane and rational mind, had NO redeeming qualities, managed to jump-start the careers of such artists as Art Spiegelman and Bow-Wow's own Mark Newgarden? You wouldn’t know it to look at it, but this book bears the weight of some serious alternative kid-fare.

Of course, the sheer simplicity of the title lends itself to a couple difficulties here and there. For one thing, forget trying to suck any authorial/illustrator information out of it. I had naturally assumed that Mark did the illustrations and Megan the plotting, but a quick glance at what passes for a publication page and you can see that this book was “designed by Megan Montague Cash.” So… so huh? We must assume that she is the artist here. There’s no sign of a title on the cover either. I appreciate the simplicity of the design, but this seems a bit silly. At the very least, mention who did what.

The wordless picture book is a peculiar beastie. They can serve as ways to get illiterate or struggling readers interested in the world of books and literature without scaring them off. How different is “Bow-Wow Bugs a Bug,” from the “Polo” adventures by Regis Faller, after all? Kids also often get assignments in school requiring that they find a wordless picture book and write a story about it for class. “Bow-Wow,” is a bit too simple for that particular assignment, but for anyone collecting picture books of the wordless variety, I won’t hesitate to recommend it in a heartbeat. There are only so many times you can hand someone an Anno or Lehman's “The Red Book” without feeling a bit drained.

Newgarden and Cash (sounds like an insurance company if you say it just right) have a business future together, no question. With its silent movie references, clean lines, and crisp storytelling, “Bow-Wow Bugs a Bug,” is a keeper. It’s fun and funny and bound to be overlooked unless you start telling your friends and neighbors about it pronto. I may find the design just a bit much here and there, but all in all this one’s memorable.

On shelves June 1, 2007.

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

The Escape of Oney Judge: Martha Washington's Slave Finds Freedom, written and illustrated by Emily Arnold McCully. Farrar, Straus & Giroux. $11.20.

When you consider the pedestal on which our Founding Fathers are placed in the world of children's literature, it's not surprising that the story of George Washington's slaves has never been adequately told for the younger set. A slave owning first president just doesn't gel with the general George-Washington-chopped-down-a-cherry-tree mythos. You want something on his wooden chompers? Read Deborah Chandra's amusing, George Washington's Teeth. You prefer a silly story involving a bunch of wacky barnyard animals? George Washington's Cows, by David Small is the book for you. But you won't find runaway slaves mentioned in "Teeth" and you'd be hard pressed to find a single black amongst any of the white servents in "Cows". Now Farrar, Straus & Giroux (who, fascinatingly enough, was the publisher of all three of these books) has published Caldecott Award winning author/illustrator Emily Arnold McCully's newest biography, "The Escape of Oney Judge: Martha Washington's Slave Finds Freedom". From the moment I read this subtitle I was hooked. Few people would have the guts to talk about this tie-in between the Washingtons and the girl who got away from them. Trust McCully to carry about with her a backbone made of iron and enough facts to blow away even the most skeptical of critics.

She was the daughter of a white indentured servant and a black slave mother in 1773, and right from the start Oney Judge was quick. Because of both this and her light skin she was taken on as one of Mrs. Washington's sewing circle slaves, and her skills with a needle made her invaluable to her mistress. When George Washington was to become President of the United States of America, Oney moved with the family to Philadelphia. It was there that she learned that an adult slave who lived there six months was required, by law, to be free. Unfortunately, it soon became clear that Martha Washington intended to will Oney to her granddaughter Eliza in the event of her own death. Oney, desperate to escape before the family returned to Mount Vernon, threw herself on the mercy of some freed slaves and Quakers who, in turn, helped her escape to New Hampshire. Author Emily McCully tells everything from Oney's early years to the multiple attempts the Washingtons and their friends made to lure, threaten, and trick Oney into returning back to Mount Vernon. In the end, Oney remained free and the extensive Author's Note at the back recounts how she continued to live in "proud, independent poverty for the rest of her life."

Much of this book owes its existence to Henry Wiencek's, An Imperfect God: George Washington, His Slaves, and the Creation of America. It is more important than ever to teach our kids that while the Founding Fathers did many good things and created a remarkable new nation, in their personal lives they were sometimes less than stellar human beings. Martha Washington in particular comes off looking quite the self-satisfied slave owner in this title. She'd had slaves for many years, and she apparently had no intention of freeing any of them, even in the event of her own death. So McCully knows how to just give kids the facts without going out of her way to conjure up stereotypes. Martha Washington isn't pictured with evil leers and a nasty eye. She's a product of her times to some extent and yet she's also completely blind to the needs of the people around her. McCully did find it necessary to note at the end that, for George, he didn't say anything publicly against slavery but that he "made provisions in his will for the freeing of his own slaves after Martha's death." Kids can make of that what they would like.

The storytelling in this book proceeds at a swift clip. McCully's an old hand at non-fiction works, having put her skills to the test with such titles as The Pirate Queen and The Ballot Box Battle. Considering the scant amount of information there must have been out there on Oney, you have to admire the sheer number of Sources and Websites cited by the author at the end of her book. And her storytelling is consistently interesting, even if she has to rely on creating dialogue for the sake of keeping the story interesting. I was especially taken with the moments in the story where Oney, thinking herself safe, is barraged with people trying to get her to return to the Washingtons. The mere fact that Washington didn't take Oney to court is explained beautifully. "The President would have to go to court to force a slave to return. He won't do that - it would only cause a scandal in the North." And his now sterling reputation might have tarnished some as a result, I'm sure. McCully does choose to end the story in a manner so abrupt that I almost wonder if she ran out of time and didn't have a chance to create a final image of Oney living on her own alongside the sentence, "For the rest of her long life, Oney Judge had no mistress but herself." Instead we get a very hurried encapsulation of her final flight with the picture of a man helping her into a cart at night. The book is excellent on telling a story but certainly lacking in any kind of conclusion.

Those of you familiar with McCully's watercolor style will take to her images in this book. I can offer no criticism here, and not being familiar with the clothing of this time period I can't comment on how historically accurate McCully has been. Nonetheless, the book does a good job of breaking up the text around the images in the story. Nothing ever feels stilted or slapdash, since pictures are constantly jumping above, below, and around a given section of writing.

So is it historical fiction based on a true story or is it non-fiction? The Library of Congress subject headings all consider this book to be fiction, and in a way you can concede the point. After all, to make the book interesting McCully has to rely on putting words into her characters mouths that may seem plausible, but that can't be backed up with any adequate source material. That won't stop some libraries from squeezing, "Oney Judge" onto their biography shelves, but be careful to bear in mind the author's limitations.

Recently the U.S. Mint revealed that the newest dollar coin was going to feature the image of George Washington on it. I figure that if your kids are going to go about seeing this man's face everywhere, the least you can do is give them a story about one of the women he and his wife owned. Exciting and factual, "The Escape of Oney Judge" is one of those must-read titles for any child asked to do a biography of George Washington for a school project. By all means mention his triumphs in battle and acts as a President. Just remember too that one woman did all she could to escape from under his thumb.

Other Titles: If historical fiction's your bag, check out the middle reader title Taking Liberty: The Story of Oney Judge, George Washington's Runaway Slave by Ann Rinaldi (though you'll note the inaccuracy of the title).

Previous Online Reviews of This Title: Planet Esme. You can also see a Q&A with Emily McCully regarding this book at the Powell's website.

The Chicken-Chasing Queen of Lamar County by Janice N. Harrington, illustrated by Shelley Jackson. A Melanie Kroupa Book (an imprint of Farrar, Straus and Girioux). $16.00.

Dear authors,

I have some bad news. Your jobs, as you know it, are in peril. I will explain. Now we all know that librarians are inherently cool. You can’t be a purveyor of information and NOT be cool. It’s part of the occupation. And that was fine and all until SOME of them started writing children’s books. It started off slowly enough. You’d read a fun book and have the vague sense of, “Oh, how neat. This person also knows their Dewey Decimal System,” and that would be the end of it. Recently, however, it’s exploded onto the marketplace. One minute a librarian is winning the Newbery and the next you’ve something like “The Chicken-Chasing Queen of Lamar County,” by Janice N. Harrington sitting in front of you. And author Janice N. Harrington isn’t just a librarian. She’s a professional storyteller too. Ooo. Double threat. Until now her picture books have been gaining a little attention here and there. Some of you may even remember her 2004 title, Going North, which won her the Ezra Jack Keats New Writer Award and proceeded to nab good review after good review. Well she’s back, baby, and whatta follow-up it is too. Owing much of its tastiness to illustrator Shelley Jackson alongside words that flow like honey-dipped silk, Harrington is going to give children’s authors everywhere a run for their money. I suggest you all consider getting your MLIS degrees pronto.

It gives me great pleasure to introduce to you the Chicken-Chasing Queen of Lamar County. Now bear in mind that this gal isn’t exactly popular when it comes to that particular title. Big Mama doesn’t like her chickens getting all hepped-up since it mucks with their egg production. Our heroine doesn’t care one bit about that, though. She’s the best chicken-chaser on the planet, though there’s one particular fowl she’s been eyeing for some time. The bird’s name is Miss Hen and she’s a beaut. “Her feathers are shiny as a rained-on roof. She has high yellow stockings and long-fingered feet, and when she talks – ‘Pruck! Pruck! Pruck! – it sounds like pennies falling on a dinner plate.” Our hero is determined to catch this bird if it’s the last thing she does, but when she finally discovers Miss Hen’s hiding spot and secret, the greatest chicken-chaser of Lamar County has a change of heart and a whole new goal in life.

I’ve an especial fondness for children’s books where the author has taken the time to get a little onomatopoetic on the reader. For example, the chickens in this book don’t say “cluck” or “cock-a-doodle-doo”. No, they say “Pruck! Pruck! Pruck,” and, as chicks, “Pee-o, pee-o, pee-o.” Fortunately for everyone, Ms. Harrington’s prose is choice. This book begs you to read it aloud. Readalouds, I would like to point out, are tricky devils. Most picture books don’t come up to snuff. Either the words are good and the pictures difficult to see at a distance or the pictures are remarkable and the words dull as dishwater. Neither is the case here. In this book every line rolls off the tongue bee-utifully, belying Ms. Harrington’s storytelling roots. Plus, the plum good spirits of the book also make it that much more enjoyable to read.

So far illustrator Shelley Jackson’s been flying low on the radar in the children’s literary world. In the adult fiction world, however, she’s… well… basically she kicks ass and takes names. Remember that project where an entire novel was tattooed, one word apiece, on the skin of volunteers? Not only is that still going on (1,850 participants as of this writing) it was her idea. You may even have read her novels, Half Life, or, Patchwork Girl. For all of that, her children’s books haven’t gotten their fair share of recognition; a fact that could well change with this latest book. In pairing her with Harrington we get a title that charms you from the cover onwards. Using a mix of paint and mixed-media, Jackson fashions chickens out of everything from graph paper and carpet snatches to money, lined paper, fabric, and god knows what-all. Photographs of worms, cornbread and warm “goldy-brown” eggs swirl about our heroine’s head. Words encompass every font, coming together like particularly well-honed ransom notes. All that aside, her painting in and of itself is excellent. From the girl’s look of pure-eyed wonder when she sees Ms. Hen with a healthy brood to her manic lunges at unsuspecting poultry, this kid feels real. I have also never seen chickens look quite so smug. Remarkable.

Basically, if I’m going to chose my favorite chicken book of 2007, the Misses Harrington and Jackson get my vote. Last year the prize went to John Himmelman’s, Chickens to the Rescue, which would actually pair beautifully with this sly little book considering how well they both read aloud. You could create your own chicken-centric storytime with the lot of them. All that aside, consider this a must-purchase and a spectacular book. It has my vote as one of the cleverest titles of the year (and, as an afterthought, kids are going to enjoy it quite a lot as well).

On shelves March 20th.

Website Notes: If you’ve half a mind to do so, check out Shelley Jackson's website. I’m still wrapping my head around the fact that she does children’s books in alongside her other work. NOT that she touts them on her homepage (consarn it).

Over in the Jungle: A Rainforest Rhyme by Marianne Berkes, illustrated by Jeanette Canyon. Dawn Publications. $13.22

When you discover a phenomenal artist who appears solely under the auspices of a single small publisher, it’s like finding hidden treasure. I had that very feeling when I found the work of Jeanette Canyon a year ago. She had just finished work on “City Beats” by S. Kelly Rammell when I ran across the book and was entranced by her format. Working entirely in polymer clay, Ms. Canyon imbues her images with so much light, life, and motion that you’d swear her creations were animated stills rather than original sculptural art. Somehow, I had missed Ms. Canyon’s previous collaboration with one Ms. Marianne Berkes when they came out with, “Over In the Ocean: In a Coral Reef,” (which was the recipient of the Bank Street College of Education Best Children’s Book of the Year, doncha know). As such, "Over In the Jungle: A Rainforest Rhyme,” is very much the same deal. Having adapted that old song “Over In the Meadow” to different locales, Berkes takes a tried and true format and simply fills it to overflowing with a vast array of rainforest creatures. The result could easily have been a hashed do-over without any originality. Instead, the adaptation is smooth and seamless, the facts at the back of the book quickly correcting any misunderstandings. There are also tips on telling this book aloud for storytime, and even a step-by-step process of how Canyon creates her art. What could easily have degraded into a rote form emerges instead as lush and detailed as its tropical subject matter. Color me impressed.

The book opens as the mottled canopy of a rainforest, seen from high above, fills the interior cover. On the first two-page spread, two marmosets are swinging gaily across a soft rising sun. "Over in the jungle / Where the trees greet the sun / Lived a mother marmoset / And her marmoset one. / 'Swing,' said the mother. / 'I swing,' said the one. / So they swung and they hung / Where the trees greet the sun." Colors pop out at the viewer as animals tumble over and above one another in a haze of action and rhyme. We see the wide iridescent blue of the morpho butterflies fluttering above their now discarded chrysalises. We see sweet honey bears sipping nectar and howler monkeys, their mouths all agape, as they hoot and holler up a storm. By the end, the book rounds everything out with a huge double page spread of all the animals featured, hidden amongst the different striations of the rainforest, from the forest floor to the tops of the trees or "emergents." Kids are encouraged to locate and count all the creatures they saw before. "When you find all the creatures then this rhyme is done."

It’s the little things that sometimes impress me the most. Sure, I could wax rhapsodic over the sheer range of colors and ethereal images that appear in this book. But you know what I really love about Canyon’s work? She cares about details. For example, as the book counts up from one to ten, a single leaf on the left-hand page carries the imprint of each number. And sitting on that leaf is a glistening raindrop. You might not notice, in fact it would be easy to miss it, but the number of raindrops increase with every number. They do so with a great deal of subtlety, though, so you wouldn’t necessarily notice the first few reads. But really, that’s what I love about the book. Multiple readings yield incredible rewards. I’m definitely not alone in cooing over the marbleized orange/red leaf cutter ants as they chew through an enormous leaf. And look! A second reading shows that somehow or other Canyon found a way to throw shadows from behind her subject matter. How do you outline the shadow of an ant from the underside of a leaf made out of clay? Or convey a sense of motion when a poison dark frog throws itself up and backwards towards a sharp pink bromeliad? Talent, possums. Just sheer talent.

A couple extra facts wouldn’t have been out of place, of course. I’d have loved a definition of a “bromeliad”, though the explanation that a mother poison dart frog will put her babies in one helped a little when coupled with Canyon’s pictures. Still, some source notes would not have been out of place. Every once in a while my library’s clientele will suddenly start a rainforest project, and any and every book I have on the topic is desired. Had Ms. Berkes put a small tot-friendly Bibliography of a scant two or three books in the back it would have made this book a fabulous storytime AND non-fiction source. Ah well. You go with what you’ve got.

None of this is to say that the back matter in this book isn’t welcome. There’s a printed selection of sheet music which allows the more talented amongst us to sing this song in our story programs. An amusing section entitled "How Many Babies Do They Really Have?" also clarifies points like the fact that in spite of the delightful suggestion that sloths can have nine babies at once, this is not actually the case. One wonders why it was put in the book in the first place, but at least the author had the good grace to nip concerns on the factual matter of the text in the bud. A nice portion on "The Rainforest Community" covers the four layers of tropical rainforest and even gives a couple websites for further information (kudos there).

It's a surprising little book, giving far more to the reader than they'd expect to receive. It's clear from the get-go that Ms. Berkes is certainly a former librarian, knowing as she does how important it is to put something this storytime-friendly into publication. Though I've a quibble here or there, this is a strong effort and worth owning. It also happens to make a very nice complement to Graeme Base's The Water Hole. Two thumbs up.

The Strongest Man In the World: Louis Cyr by Nicolas Debon. Groundwood Press. $17.95

Okay people. Fess up. If a teacher tells all the kids in her class that they are now doing projects on famous Canadians and that everyone has to come back with at least one great Canadian hero, what biography would you hand them? Hm? Yeah, see, that’s what I thought. You can’t think of any great biographies of Canadian heroes off the top of your head (and no, Paul Bunyan doesn’t count). The fact of the matter is that Americans know so very little about their neighbor to the North that they hardly ever fret such matters. And truth be told, your child may never be given this assignment. But what if they were? And what if you knew of this super-cool graphic novel style picture book biography about (not to put too fine a point on it), “The Strongest Man In the World”? How cool would that make you? Well sit back and relax, puffins, cause here I hand to you a gem of a book. Chronicling the life of Louis Cyr and written by Canadian/Frenchman Nicolas Debon, this is not your average tale of strength and daring-do. It has heart. It has soul. It has facts. What more could a person wish for then?

Emiliana is worried about her father, and she has every right to be. It's the early 20th century and he has just been told by the doctor that he must retire from public life. And maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, but her papa’s not just any man. He’s Louis Cyr, a strongman of great fame and fortune. Owner and creator of the Louis Cyr Circus, Emiliana’s father reminisces with his daughter over his long and remarkable life. Readers see his early days, when he was coached by a grandfather convinced that his grandson would be strong since, “In this tough world of ours, a man without strength is nothing.” Then at seventeen he lifted an imported French drayhorse in a contest and his life’s work began. Debon sketches out Cyr’s years, taking into account various challenges and meaningful moments in his life. We see food contests, a brief stint as a policeman, and finally the European tour that allowed him to follow his dream to start a circus of his own. In the end he must quit the circus life, but as Louis himself says as he leaves, “I’ve been called the strongest man in the world, and one day somebody else will be even stronger… But maybe the strongest of all is the man who knows how to leave what he has loved with no regret.” An Afterword contains photographs and facts on the real Louis Cyr and there is a section of Further Information that includes books for supplemental reading.

Debon cleverly uses the character of Emiliana to bring up various rumors associated with Cyr’s life that are deftly put down from time to time. I suspect that in Canada such rumors would be better known than here in the states, but it’s fun to hear them just the same. Did he really carry off six bandits to jail all at once? No, probably more like one or two. Did he lift a horse when he was just a kid? Not at all. He was seventeen at the time. I was much impressed with the writing in this book, alongside Debon’s sense of storytelling. Essentially, what we have here is one great big flashback. But rather than feeling stilted or herky-jerky, the text flows from Cyr’s memories of the life he has led. Coming to the conclusion, you get a real sense that this man did exactly what he set out to accomplish. I couldn't help but hope for a Timeline in the back, of course. The Afterword really only touches on some of the aspects of Cyr’s life. We don’t know why he died or what of. I did find the photographs of him very interesting, as well as the mention that “Remarkably, despite dramatic improvements in strength training and lifting techniques, some of his records remain unequalled to this day.” Still, it would have been nice to hear which records those were.

Imagine a French Raymond Briggs and you get a sense of what Debon’s style resembles. The illustrations here are painted with thick earth-tones. Lots of browns, peaches, and blues are at work. The endpapers of this book display multiple acts that would have performed with Cyr during the height of his circus days. I was particularly taken with John Callahan, described as, “the funniest Clown in the Universe”, though he looks anything but. The graphic novel style works within the story Debon is trying to tell. At first I was suspicious of the format, fearing that Debon would rely too heavily on the style rather than the substance of his subject. However, the visual style works within the context of Cyr’s tale. If Louis Cyr was larger than life then it only seems fair that a picture book biography should find a technique that conveys all the drama and action of his life from start to finish.

I do wish that a little more time and attention could have been given over to Debon’s sources, to say nothing of the inclusion of a Timeline. Still, as new biographies go, “The Strongest Man In the World”, certainly does its darndest to pack a wallop. Infinitely readable and engaging, it’ll have kids all the more interested to learn about early 20th century circus life, and the feats of one man in particular. An engaging, unique little creation.

The Zoo written and illustrated by Suzy Lee. Kane/Miller Book Publishers. $15.95

Sometimes I'll hold off on reviewing a book if I feel that it's received enough attention on the other blogs. I'd do the same with this title too if it weren't so doggone amazing. So I apologize if you've heard it all before. If the purpose of this blog is to review the best and brightest, far be it from me to leave someone out.

American publishers, by and large, move with the speed of pure, refined molasses when it comes to introducing U.S. audiences to foreign picture books. Considering the scads of remarkable books available all over the world, it’s a crying shame that more than 95% of what we see on the American picture book market tends to be of the homegrown variety. Don’t expect this situation to get better any time soon either. With cries proclaiming that picture books are no longer profitable, I wouldn’t be any too surprised if publishers decide to play it "safe" for the next few years. Maybe that’s why I like Kane/Miller so much. Far from limiting their scope, they do everything in their power to bring this country some eclectic, fun, and funny titles from a variety of different regions. Take Korea. You may have read a Korean picture book once or twice in your life. I myself am rather fond of, “While We Were Out” Ho Baek Lee (who is South Korean). But while we might be able to rustle up some Korean-American writers, books straight out of that general vicinity are not entirely common. “The Zoo”, by Suzy Lee ends up all the sweeter then as a result. Not only is it a visually stimulating lark but it also happens to be one of the more creative picture books you’re likely to get your hands on this coming season.

A child is going to the zoo with her mom and dad. Sadly, there isn’t much to see in the uniformly empty cages. So as the older members of the family strain to catch even a glimpse of a bear on Bear Hill, the little girl follows a wayward peacock. Immediately the bird leads her to a multi-colored landscape where the child plays gleefully amongst watering holes, long-necked giraffes, and (in a burst of flight) even the sky itself. The parents are in a panic, but soon find their little one sleeping peacefully on one of the zoo’s many benches. Was it real or just a dream? The answer is left to the reader. One thing everyone can agree on though, “I love the zoo. It’s very exciting. Mom and Dad think so too."

The feel of the book took me back to my childhood. I lived during the heyday of foreign language children’s programming, where animated shorts from all over the world would sometimes play on basic cable. Reading “The Zoo” is a similar experience. Everything in the book is easy to understand with a straightforward plot. Yet at the same time, it feels different from the roughly 2 billion based-in-Brooklyn storybooks currently out there. The signs are in Korean. The people are all Korean. The feel of the narrative, scope of the vision, and subject matter (which I doubt any American writer could get away with here) is foreign to our senses.

The cover says it all. You go to the zoo and what do you get a ton of? Empty cages. It’s very interesting, but this book actually requires that you remove the dust jacket to get the whole story. Take off the dust jacket and the empty cage on the cover wraps around to reveal an escaping gorilla on the endpapers making good his escape. Turn to the back of the book and the gorilla is back in his cage tenderly holding a hot pink shoe. The shoe, actually, is a testament to Lee’s playful sense of humor. Sharp-eyed readers will be able to detect the exact moment when the little girl’s shoe falls and into what pair of hands it lands. Better still is the fact that she is not seen wearing a second shoe for half of the book, playing with the sense of what is real and what is make-believe here. Sadly, for all its cleverness and (dare I say) necessity, the cover may turn off potential purchasers. Empty cages that make a point are all well and good, but if a browsing patron isn’t interested in reading the book through they may discount the drab gray packaging too soon.

As for the art, it balances the monochrome blue-gray dreariness of mundane everyday life with the sparkle, color, and flash of the animal kingdom. The first official two page spread shows the family entering the zoo, with the only visible color appearing on the girl’s flushed cheeks and a peacock sitting high above. While the text reads off a seemingly mundane list of places visited, the girl and her peacock friend are easily identifiable by the splotches of bright shades and hues adorning them. You can also spot the girl via the bird-shaped balloon that hangs above her. That balloon goes on a kind of journey of its own, as it happens, and it’s well worth rereading the book to discover where it goes. Lee never drops a single detail, and in the midst of raucous colors, fine drawing, and panache there’s a current of realism beneath it all. When the parents discover that their daughter is missing, distraught doesn’t even cover what they’re feeling. She may be having a wonderful time with the animals, but reflected in the hippo’s watering hole is the face of every parents' deepest fear.

Is it for all parents? Oh lordy begordy, no. Wish it were the case, but you’re undoubtedly going to get a couple here and there that see this book as a story where it’s okay to run away from your parents in a public space. Obviously, every child that reads this book isn’t going to be instantly swept up in the notion of going walkabout on the next family outing would lead to adventure. Still, it’s hard to brush the image of the girls’ parents running as fast as possible through the empty zoo in a blind panic. Personally, I think the book identifies how wonderful freedom feels to a child. You’re forever under someone’s protection. How cool would it be then to transfer that protection to the wild and wacky animals in the zoo? Add in the amazing details, good storytelling, and smart art and there’s very little left to gripe about.

Frankly, I see no reason why a person couldn’t pair this book easily alongside Peggy Rathmann’s, “Goodnight, Gorilla”, for an entirely zoo-oriented bedtime series. There’s a lot of sleeping and animalian mischief going on in both of these titles. “The Zoo” is going to be one of those books that catches on purely through word-of-mouth. As smart and funny as it is, American consumers will need to know about it from a reliable source before giving themselves over to its purchase. Trust me then when I tell you that this one’s a keeper. Subtle without being so understated as to alienate its child readers, this book feels like a silent film where the narrator sits next to you, quietly telling you the story. Rare and wonderful.

Other Blog Reviews of This Title Found At:
Seven Impossible Things Before Breakfast
The Thinking Mother
Book Buds

Alligator Boy by Cynthia Rylant, illustrated by Diane Goode. Harcourt, Inc. $16.00

I imagine that it must be the nicest thing in the world to have a collaborator with whom you’ve worked for twenty odd years or so. How comforting that must be. The pairing of author Cynthia Rylant and illustrator Diane Goode began long long ago when they first worked together to create “When I Was Young In the Mountains”. Badda bing, it wins a Caldecott Honor and the rest is history. I wasn’t aware that the two were still doing any shared projects, and then this lovely little book arrived on my desk. “Alligator Boy” is a small simple picture book that goes against expectations beautifully. If you happen to be in desperate need of a book that will delight your small children, boys and girls alike, but that falls on the understated side of the equation, I cannot recommend this story enough. Charming, charming, charming.

After taking a trip to a museum and seeing a life-sized stuffed alligator in all its reptilian glory, a young boy decides that becoming an alligator is his life’s goal. His aunt, who hears this wish over the phone, is happy to help the kid live his dream and sends him an easily worn alligator head and tail. Though his father is fine with the change, his mother worries about his health and a vet (the doctor wouldn’t come) is quickly dispatched. But as it turns out, there’s nothing wrong with the little alligator, so it’s off to school he goes. And wouldn’t you know it but it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Now he can do everything the other kids can, but he’s also adept at scaring away the school bully and rescuing dogs from dogcatchers. The last image in the book is of the little alligator, tuckered out at the end of a long day, sitting sleepily and happily on his loving mother’s lap.

Now when I read this story I full expected the boy to tire of his gatorial garb at some point in the proceedings so as to learn a rote lesson. Perhaps he’d find that people didn’t trust him as much or that he scared kittens. Then he’d go back to being a boy and we’d get some twist ending where he starts wearing a panda outfit on the last page. This is the standard procedure that a whole heckuva lot of picture books follow, and it’s deathly deadly dull. How much more interesting then to find that the boy wants to be an alligator, becomes one, and is then accepted by friends and family alike. The last image in this book is of the boy snuggled contentedly on his mother’s lap, seemingly without a care in the world. Now, I don’t like to read too much into a book, but this is a picture book that’s going to speak to a lot of people on a lot of different levels. For anyone who has ever felt that they were born in the wrong body and want to change their appearance drastically, this is the perfect gift of a book. This title also struck me as a subtle (and better illustrated) follow-up to Charlotte Zolotow’s, “William’s Doll”. Basically, it's about accepting someone for being what they want to be. Yet unlike those didactic children’s stories out there, this tale is sweet enough that the message (if indeed there is one at all) goes down so smoothly you won’t even realize you’ve learned it until a great deal of time has passed. Kudos to Ms. Rylant then for her good taste.

Of course, equal consideration/congrats/rose petals should be thrown at Ms. Diane Goode. Over the years Ms. Goode has pared down her style to its essential elements. In this story you’ve picture created with line on paper alongside watercolors and gouache. The color palette is a comfortable series of greens, blues, and serene (though certainly NOT pastel) shades and tones. As for the characters themselves, Goode places them in an abundant amount of white space. She knows how to show them off. To let them stand and pose and prance about without cluttering up the images. Yet for all this simplicity, she also conveys some very tender and dear emotions. Cleverly, the alligator head is able to show the emotions of the boy inside of it. And aside from his human hands and legs, you might begin to believe (as the kid himself undoubtedly does) that he really is an alligator incarnate. Now Ms. Goode chose to set this story in a time that never existed, which is rather interesting to look at. By the clothing, you might think that this story took place in the early 20th century (maybe the 30s). Heck, the bully in the book (who proves easy enough to frighten) wears a soft cabbie hat and blue suit. All the boys are in short pants, all the girls are in dresses, and the teacher is prone to a bow tie or two when he feels the yen. On the flip side, this is a fully multicultural books. The vet is black, the schoolmates are all sorts of ethnicities, and there’s even a girl in a wheelchair in one of the scenes. So while this is a time and place in world history that probably never happened, you’ll come to wish that it had.

Ah, but I did have one objection to this book and I’m afraid it deals with the choice to make this a rhyming text. It’s always a dangerous decision on any author’s part. Now by and large and for the most part Rylant does very well by her words. “His days were quite happy, his days were a joy . . . / What a good green life for an alligator boy.” That’s all well and good. Unfortunately, there are times when the rhymes don’t scan. “He found his dear dad and told him the story / of being a lizard, no longer a boy.” Now insofar as I can tell, that’s supposed to rhyme. The entire book is ABABAB. Um… this line doesn’t. Also there is the brief moment of awkwardness here and there. “She asked a good doctor to come and to see / this boy who could not a boy now be.” Doesn’t scan all that well and it’s doggone difficult to say properly aloud.

Quibbles aside, I have a very special place in my heart for this book. Really, it belongs in the same camp as “Imogene’s Antlers” by David Small. By sheer coincidence, it also is coming out in the same year as Emily Jenkins’, “Daffodil, Crocodile”, about a little girl who dresses up in a crocodile head to distinguish herself from her sisters. But where “Daffodil, Crocodile” is madcap and crazed, “Alligator Boy” is small and quiet and supremely sublime. A fantastic book for one-on-one sharing and a great story for any kid who has ever wished to take their dressing up to an entirely different level.

On shelves June 1, 2007