A Wrinkle in Time

A Wrinkle in Time
Joshu is the Zen master cat of this house. He is himself unto himself, unless he needs breakfast, belly rubs, out of the house or into it. Joshu has taken to crying his let-me-in cry to me from outside on the shed top while I’m on the computer. He is trying to drive me nuts. Last night he was doing his crying thing and making me feel guilty. Finally, I left the desk, walked down the hall, opened the front door and miaowed down the space between our house and Mr. H’s. As I turned in disappointment to go back in the house, there was Joshu. He tessered, because “there is such a thing as a Tesseract.”
In this year of my Lord 2012, we celebrate the 50th anniversary of A Wrinkle in Time by the great Madeline L’Engle. For most of us, this single slim volume is the door to all of science fiction. Before we read Heinlein or Bradbury or Asimov, let alone Gaiman or Jordan or Card, we read Wrinkle. How did the ALA give this book the Newberry Award in 1962? Well, even a stopped clock is right twice a day.
  “It was a dark and stormy night.” With this hoary line L’Engle opens A Wrinkle in Time and weaves her web there from. In that storm, we find our main character, Meg, up in her attic bedroom, worrying about everything. In a few short sentences, L’Engle shows us the whole Murray family: scientist parents, the perfectly normal twins, the scary brilliant littlest brother, Charles Wallace, and especially Meg. She is everygirl, with a mouth full of braces, glaring at the world through glasses and always ready for a fight. Her old friends confuse her with their sudden sense of affected maturity and neighbors drop insults about her family. Meg is uncomfortable in middle school, bored and missing her father. I have never seen a better or more succinctly drawn image of early adolescent angst.
The hero’s journey into the darkness to retrieve knowledge or gift is one of the two or three primary tales of human mythology. Meg wants her daddy back and will face any danger and the turmoil of wisdom to get him. During her journey, Meg meets guides of great power, a Happy Medium, the loving Aunt Beast and, terrifyingly, IT. In the sweet arrogance of the very young, Charles Wallace gets caught by a terrible power. As our heroine moves through dimensions and planets, she slowly dons the armor necessary to save her brother Charles. Daddy can’t save his baby boy. It is the myopic and snaggletoothed Meg who does battle against ultimate order with the chaos of love. Oh, and she gets her first kiss from a boy.
Now we come to the primary criticism of Madeline L’Engle and of A Wrinkle in Time, that she is writing Christian apologetics disguised as children’s literature. It seems that every civilization but ours is allowed to reference its sacred texts in its literature. When one of us quotes our scripture, as L’Engle uses “the foolishness of God” from 1st Corinthians, we are suspected of ulterior motives. But this great book is not a stalking horse for the Spanish Inquisition; no one is trying to brainwash anyone. Mrs. Whatsit quotes St. Paul because it is the clearest way to make her point to Meg. If L’Engle had quoted the Dhammapada, her critics would have thought her hip and open-minded. Instead, they pick at her with suspicions of duplicity. Give the old girl a rest—it’s just a story.
But, of course, it is far more than just. A Wrinkle in Time has opened so many minds to science fiction that we still recommend it 50 years later. To celebrate this wonder, I put it on display at the cash wrap. A few days ago, a handsome young woman was gazing lovingly at the original cover art on the anniversary edition. Her swain asked, “What is that book? I never heard of it.” Well, now he has and he reminded me that I, as a bookseller, still have work to do. The Tesseract is out there to be understood and Madeline L’Engle will show us. Joshu knows how to tesser. Do you?

walking around

Ambulatory: the space behind

(A place for walking, esp. an aisle around the apse or a cloister in a church or monastery)

What do you do with extra space? You store stuff there. In your house or office, or even church. A living church has stuff and since we share our sanctuary with a school, there is even more stuff. There are chairs, old wedding candelabra, Mustard Seed banners and canned goods. Stuff needs to be put away where you can get to it and it won’t be in people’s way. I know this because we pass this stuff all of the time, getting to and from the choir stalls. We float by in our surplices and hope not to get caught on any stray edges. The lights turn on automatically and all is well, unless you are the church curmudgeon. The church curmudgeon is a good musician, a lovely man and an complete formalist. His church is so high I can’t see it. As such, the c. c. objects to the condition of the Ambulatory. “It is sacred space,” he says, and he is right.

In big old churches like York and Durham, the Ambulatory is a wide aisle that surrounds or cushions the high altar. In these great spaces there is room for shrines and altars and memorial windows. These are places of awe and contemplation. Tour groups address the shrine to St. Cuthbert at Durham or the various chapels, windows and gorgeous tapestries behind the high altar at York. These are Ambulatory with a capital A. We, at little bitty St. Paul’s, don’t have the beautiful space. There are no shrines or important windows. We have a hallway. Joshua and I walk sideways to get where we are going. When Philip is walking, just wait. But as small and plain as it is, our Ambulatory is blessed with functionality. It’s a place to put stuff.

Chairs, candelabra and canned goods all serve individually. The children sit on the chairs for Friday Chapel (listen, you little nits, that’s Carol Luther talking to you, sit up straight and pay attention). Orchestras also sit on those chairs; they can’t play if they can’t sit. The old chandeliers are messy but so dear. If I’d been married at St. Paul’s I would have wanted them. The food on the shelves of the ambulatory is a gift from those who have to those who don’t, manifesting “all that we have is Thine alone, a trust, dear Lord, from thee.”

Chalices and communion plates are obviously sacred, and have their own special cabinets. But we also need to store food, clothes and toiletries, things that are sacred because they serve Christ’s people. These gifts, on plain metal shelves, make the space sacred. It could not be more so even if it were perfectly empty, wet with holy water and reeking of incense.

I love my church curmudgeon. He’s a terrific musician and a dear friend and he keeps me thinking on higher things. But I think he is wrong about our Ambulatory. It is a sacred space because it is properly used.

infant baptism

At St. Paul’s we love the liturgy. From the glory of the Mass to the quietude of Compline, we enjoy worshiping together. We mourn together, and the service of the last rites gives the hearts ease. Weddings make us love-drunk and

lead us so often to dreams of babies. Squeaking and interrupting and looking like angels at the communion rail, the small ones are the life of our church. But they are also individuals and some things just can’t be decided for them. We can tell them when to go to bed and what to wear but we can’t tell them who they will love. We can’t make them love Jesus.

There are two sacraments in the Protestant Church: Baptism and Communion. They were instituted or participated in by Jesus. He participated in the baptisms His cousin was performing in the Jordan. For Jesus, baptism was the first manifestation of His godhead. For us, it is the first public statement of our faith. When we take baptism, we proclaim our faith before the entire congregation of the faithful. It is both intimate and communal; I know this because I was baptized when I was 21 years old. Baptism is the first statement of faith. How can we ask that of a baby?

St. Paul, in first Corinthians, describes love pretty comprehensively and it is dependent on free will. Some great marriages can be compelled, but they are the exception and they finally turn on the choice to love. The individual soul chooses between Christ and not-Christ. Because the name of our god is Love, that choice must be free. Love cannot be imposed or forced or compelled. No one, not even an adoring parent, can choose love for us and it cannot be confessed unless it is known. The soul either responds to the call of Christ or it does not. Choice cannot be impelled, or it is not choice.

Now here comes Matteo, Sarah’s great work. He is perfect, with a full head of black hair and long eyes, just like his daddy’s . On Easter Vigil this year, he will be baptized into the Episcopal Church. I can only ask, why? He, and all other babies so treated, are perfect. They cannot renounce Satan—they do not know him. They have no sinful desires, and they do not know Christ as separate from the love that surrounds them. That is the point: baptism is for those us us who must confess Christ as Lord and Savior; a perfect little baby cannot do that.

Let us celebrate these new lives. We can name them publicly (why isn’t christening still in the prayer book?). Mauricio can hold them up before the congregation, and ask us to help their parents in loving and raising them in our faith. These tiny ones are the future of our church. But my darlings , baptism is that first, hard, statement of the interior truth of faith in Jesus. This work is for adults only.

there was no blood

There was no blood.

or, teaching cooking on Christmas day.

Christmas starts on Christmas Eve. I walked out of the store at 2pm; this was not a miracle but the great gift of my boss. I got to See’s and Safeway and Smart & Final and walked in our front door at 3:30. That was a miracle. I did what prep I could and was in bed, after the best, most draining week of book-selling I’ve ever known, by 8:30.

This year Christmas fell on a Sunday, so Philip was supposed to have all Saturday to clean the house. But then there was the dishwasher problem and a desperate afternoon call from the choir director at St. Augustine’s who needed the all-reading basso, like, right then. One of the joys of being middle-aged is realizing that the beef is bought, the potatoes are boiled and sleep is better than obsessing about an unclean house.

The great day began very well with regular Sunday service and our church decked out in Christmas greenery. Most of the guests were arriving on or about 3pm. Joshua and Stacie came early, to decompress, eat pie, drink champagne and become my willing hands. I knew that Joshua could sweep and iron, so, for some reason, I thought that he could do food prep. He’s a smart guy, he sings killer Bach and likes to talk religion, so he should be safe with a sharp paring knife, right? “You believe that, Jane, if it brings you comfort.”

I set the dear man to peeling boiling onions. This pleased the Stacie no end because she loves them and knows that they take time to prep. I am not a good teacher. I took that paring knife and showed that smart man how to top, bottom and peel those little buggers. And every time I turned around I had a moment of heart-stopping terror, seeing him getting ready to open an important vein in his hand. On the third go round I finally realized that he was seeing things backward and then stood in front of him, exampled once again, and all was well. I told you he was smart.

Now, let’s talk about the oranges. Being a native Californian, I think that all people know how to address and dispatch oranges. My section leader and sous chef is not a native and what he did to those poor innocent oranges beggars belief. There was pulp, there were pieces of peel in strange shapes and there was pith everywhere. Oh, well, it’s still early in the citrus season and by the time we are done, the great tenor will be able to produce supremes worthy of any salad.

It must be said here that Stacie has good knife skills. She made quick work of the carrots and parsnips. I didn’t need to worry about her. She is threatening to get fish off the boat from Half Moon Bay and bring it over. I want to cook more with that girl.

Dinner itself was just what I wanted: spinach with the aforementioned onions, the carrots and parsnips, garlic mashed potatoes and the beef of Merrie Olde England. Because I had time to reduce the beef stock, the gravy was the best of my career. Christopher was very happy to dine, almost exclusively, on mash and gravy. Many wines flowed and all were very good but the best of all was the Norman Monster. (Go to the Paso Robles Appellation, just go.) The company was so convivial that the clock raced toward 7pm when Verah, Joshua and Philip all had to be back at church for Compline service (I do not understand why any service is necessary on Christmas Day.) Stacie went to hear her sweetie sing and the Kulas wended the way to their respective homes.

For a couple of hours I was alone in my home. Self-reflection on Christmas Day can be very dangerous. Old sorrows and fears can raise their ugly heads. But no ghosts came to darken my day. I petted my cats, enjoyed my tree (the Christmas curmudgeon thinks it’s too big but everyone else says it’s pretty) and relaxed.

After Compline the exhausted Larsons got themselves up the stairs, into the house and collapsed. But with a little pate, wine, chocolate and Scotch, life returned to our dear friends and they were ready for a story. Philip told the tale of Scapa and Highland Park while I got all dreamy-eyed about Orkney.

Of such things the perfect Christmas is made. We sang, we cooked and there was no blood. “Who could ask for anything more?”

Lake Berryessa - June 20, 2011

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
 A stately pleasure-dome decree:


Where Alph, the sacred river, ran


Through caverns measureless to man


Down to a sunless sea. “Xanadu - Kubla Khan” by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Where is your pleasure-dome, where do you find your ease? Is your sacred river the mighty Colorado, water source for the Southern West? The Sacramento, as she begins her journey from Redwood Park? Is your palace filled with luxury and every want fulfilled? Or is it a hot afternoon, in a dry place with enough water?

We sat in the scarce shade. Himself was washing his brain and, as I looked at the hot beauty of Lake Berryessa, Coleridge’s couplets came, unbidden, to my mind. We all name our own Xanadu.

Take me for a ride in the car. Take me away from home, if only for a few hours, and my batteries are recharged, my soul renewed. As the cheapest date on Monday, just a tank of gas and a destination, I chose vegetable shopping. We woke late after a lovely Sunday dinner with friends, slowly did our daily work, pulled ourselves together and didn’t leave the house till about 2:30. Our first stop was Larry’s Produce, a big truck farm just outside of Fairfield. My fantasies to the contrary, there were no worthwhile tomatoes, but beautiful peppers and even an edible cantaloupe were ours to be had.

From there, we headed up the lush and very leafy Wooden Valley. This is such a pretty drive, past low fields filled with grapes and those big fans that fight off the spring frost. The road is serpentine and the flora change as we climb, from the deep greens of irrigated farm land to the sparse scrub with narrow, tall pines natural to that place. And then, just before you wonder why you are doing this, Lake Berryessa appears on the right. This reservoir lake is a glorious sapphire set in the golden hills of east Napa County. It is a very democratic place, supporting many little private marinas and public lake-side parks equally. One of the public areas was our final destination, Spanish Flat public picnic area.

There is a concrete boat launch that stretches out into the lake, where the green, shallow water meets the blue, deep. When we first came picnicking at Berryessa, two years ago, the launch was dry all the way out. We sat in the clear heat and ate tomatoes and peaches. This year, the launch is underwater, the first fruits of this long, rainy, snowy winter. This water calls to everyone from the hot valley lands. From Dixon, Vacaville and Travis AFB, folks come with their food and children to frolic in the waters of their own Xanadu. Oh, and dogs. There was a blissed-out black Lab-mix, who desired nothing more than a stick thrown in the water. “Ok, guys, just somebody throw the stick.” Happy dogs are always good at a picnic. Even the very nice, hard working park ranger understood that a water dog wanted to be in the water. That’s hard to do on a leash.

The very best things at a lake picnic are water apes, especially the younger of the breed. They wear water wings of various kinds, they splash, they cry, they laugh and take care of each other. If you want a silent water experience, Lake Berryessa is not for you. But if you want to watch a mad young man (14 years?) try to swim after a dinghy that had escaped from a power boat, this is your place. After watching that boy test himself, a cooler head got in the boat and went after him. The afternoon current was strong, he couldn’t have caught the dinghy, but it was instructive to watch him try. Boys are strange and fascinating, I’ve thought so all my life.

We packed up our melon rinds, picked up some errant trash and headed home. On our way out, we saw three deer and two fawns, still with their white spots, heading up the narrow gullies. Birds sang and we got lost. We turned right rather than left on Highway 128 and headed over the hills to the Silverado Trail. It’s a beautiful drive, especially late on a summer afternoon. The light of the Napa Valley is very specific. On early foggy, spring mornings, it is pewter. And on early summer afternoons, it becomes golden. I appreciate the Napa Valley, it is deeply beautiful and a drive down its eastern side is a treat.

We all find our own pleasure domes. For my best friend, it lies in deep, drippy forests and cool ocean views. For me it is heat in the basin and range. Everyone knows about Lake Berryessa and many dismiss it as too common, too hot and too noisy. I just love it.

In Xanadu did Kubla-Khan a stately pleasure dome decree.

Twain Hart

I speak of a dream. A dream of hills and tall pines, a little lake and a cozy cottage. It is only a dream.

We crossed the great valley to the strains of “Götterdämmerung” and with no offending traffic. If you don’t know about KXSR 91.7 fm, the Groveland repeater for Capital Public Radio, you really should. Once on the eastern side of the Altamont Pass, you get a great public classical music station with a very strong signal that covers the whole central part of the state. We pulled up to the lake cottage before 11pm, all was cozy and very quiet.

Saturday dawned clear and bright and we finally got to appreciate the lake. It’s a small round spring- and snow-fed bowl with cottages all around. Now it might be informative to define “cottage.” Our little place has two decks, a large living room, good kitchen and two bedrooms. Its true luxury is its inside coziness and outside view. But there are four- and five-bedroom cottages in the neighborhood, and at least one has a pool. Why do you need a pool so close to that pretty lake? Some delicate flowers just can’t stand a little cold water, I suppose.

The kids started to arrive about 9am. There are two slides and a diving platform for the young water apes to enjoy. The first one in was an intrepid nine-year-old boy in long black trunks and swim goggles. He hit that COLD water and came up yelling “I can’t do this!” But, of course, he could, and did, for the rest of the morning. As their parents chatted and read, the children there assembled swam, yelled and thoroughly enjoyed that cold little lake.

We finally pried ourselves away and headed down the hill to Vallecito and Murphys and really good wine. Murphys’ wine community organizes a “wine passport” weekend every June and, quite by accident, we were there for that. You buy a glass and get a passport and go around to all the tasting rooms, getting free tastes and good nosh. A perfect time to go drink wine.

As you wind up the hill to Twisted Oak Winery, in the great metropolitan center of Vallecito CA (pop. 491), you start seeing rubber chickens. Rubber chickens hanging from trees and on road signs and on pinions, flying in the hot breeze. Once you achieve the summit, The Celebrated Jumping Rubber Chicken of Calaveras County welcomes you to a handsome tasting room and outdoor eating area.

First, we tasted the new reds and got our club stuff. Then we went out to the special table set up for members and passporters. I think the guy pouring was the wine maker and I know the tall guy standing next to him was El Jefe, the owner. At the table we found the three varietal wines that make up this winery’s greatest blend, The Spaniard. (As in, “My name is Iñigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die.”) Garnacha, Tempranillo and Graciano are the grapes of this complex, rich, beautifully balanced steamroller of a wine. The week before our trip, on our actual 20th anniversary, we drank our 2002 Spaniard (its first bottling) and oh, my dears, it was a huge, blackberry and smoke and plum and copper wonder that stayed clear all the way through. To taste the wines that make up this blend was great fun and very informative. As we drank the blood of these grapes, the discussion turned to a new blend whose working name is “Old Chumbucket.” I’m really not kidding, we tasted one iteration of it and they’re just getting started. We were there on the ground floor. There are perks to membership and the carne asada soft tacos were really nice.

Our wine trail led down the hill to Murphys and Milliaire, a different kettle of seeds and stems. There it is, right on Main St., that sweet little yellow filling station is their tasting room. Milliaire is very low key and matter of fact. They may be faking it, but the sweet ladies there act like they remember us from one visit to another. Steve Millier, the winemaker, is a subtle devil. Zinfandel is my drug of choice and its making requires special knowledge. Heat loving but difficult under the best of times, the grapes in each bunch mature at different rates. Perfectly ripe grapes and mushy, overripe grapes and hard green grapes are all on one stem. So weird but Millier can handle them. With three major and who knows how many smaller vineyards, he blends turn-your-teeth-purple, clear-your-mind Zins with spice and greengage plum and yes, copper. (Where are we, again?) His Ghirardelli Zin, yes, that Ghiardelli, is a single-vineyard wine, lightly spiced, with chocolate, a whiff of tobacco and clear, bright blackberry. And their Simply Red is the best plonk on the market for by far the best price.

The food treats were even better at the little yellow filling station than at Twisted Oak.

Out behind the tasting room is a smallish concrete deck that can (barely) hold 6 circular tables. The great beauty of the space is a huge spreading fig tree that protected us from the Calaveras sun. And over in the left hand corner was a man, a charcoal barbecue and oysters. A trio (two singers and a drummer) made sweet music as Murphy’s creek chattered and burbled an obligato, just on the other side of the chain link fence. The oysters, although not Californian, were very good. Just a little hot sauce and oh, yes, give them to me. Milliaire was pouring lovely champagne (take that, you Frenchies) and we could have stayed till sunset.

We packed up our wine and headed back to the cottage. I did bring some food but we needed salad stuff and went in search of same. Not knowing the town at all, we blundered around until we finally came upon the grocery store. Don’t think this is some country store with just a few items. Think Andronico’s or Piedmont Grocery or Village Market, north. This place is Rockridge, Oakland, only at the end of long drive, with a lovely lake and snow. We got really nice tomatoes and other elements of a good salad and spent a evening enjoying one of our new wines, dining informally and watching Snow White. Any lake cabin is wonderful, but if it’s filled with books and movies, it’s perfect. We would stay forever, except for those pesky paying guests who come in July and August.

Sunday morning called early. Laundry and cleanup needed doing, so we would be invited back. By 10am the Little Blue Opera House was pulling out of the driveway and heading toward the Valley Floor. In California, with numberless valleys of great beauty, there is just one Valley Floor, and that is Yosemite. Taking the 120 south/east and passing through Chinese Camp, we set our sights on Groveland and the the Northern Gate of Yosemite. This road cuts through perfect Bonanza country, with low rolling hills and wide smooth valleys dotted with green black live oaks. I was expecting Adam, Hoss or Little Joe to ride up any minute. You make that left turn at New Priest Grade, the climb begins. It is pretty steep and twisty, but the original Old Priest Road is very steep, and straighter. Either way it takes a long time to get to the treasure that is the Valley Floor.

Once up this road and into the Park, there are still 45 minutes of drive. The El Portal burn area reminds us of the fire cycle that renews the land here. So we drove and drove and drove, until I almost got bored. But then, we turned a corner and there it was, Yosemite Valley. The Tamarack Falls Overlook is the first view of the Valley. Straight up, to the left, there are the falls themselves (two of them, this watery year), and, to the deep right, the Valley, and

Bridalveil Falls pouring herself down to her mother, the Great Merced. Merced herself was white, in June, still tearing up the Valley Floor as she pleases. All the rest of the way down we saw many little unnamed waterfalls, like little kids, running down the steep hills, running to their mother.

In this year of high water, Yosemite Falls is the voice of the Valley. Even as far away as the horse stables at Upper Pines, you can hear the dense, low, white noise. The closer you get to the base of the Falls, the louder it gets and becomes a physical force to the body. You feel it, right in the solar plexus, but it doesn’t hit you, it grows.

There are two lookout points for Yosemite Falls. One, on the right, brings you to the actual contact point, where the water hits the Valley Floor. I’ve seen it as an adult and don’t care for it. It’s really loud, of course, and, at least for me, quite scary. It’s just too much. But if you take the left hand trail, you come to a secluded viewing area. From this vantage, you can see the lower falls without being beaten up by them. The mature redwoods and pines guard the clear ripply creek that reflects the descending chaos.

I stood, ensorceled by the falling water, when I began to see them: the white horses that Gandalf conjured at the Ford of Bruinen, charging down the granite wall. There is no reason for you to believe me, go and look for yourselves. The heads and shoulders of great white horses, pouring out of Yosemite Falls.

Finally, after a homeric struggle with the temptation to stay, the Little Blue Opera House (LBOH from here after) turned its snout toward Oakdale and home. We pulled in just in time for Philip to wash and change and get to Compline. I unpacked and wondered at all I had seen.

Now, look deep into my eyes, you are becoming sleepy, very sleepy. Just listen to the sound of my voice. Everything I told you about the cabin by the lake is a dream, only a dream. And when you wake, it will have been only be a beautiful dream.

Pippi and Harriet

Pippi and Harriet

(feminist icons)

Always read the publisher page of your favorite books. You will find many interesting things. Beezus and Ramona, by the great Beverly Cleary, was first published the year I was born, 1955. When I read that date so much of my early life made perfect sense. My elder sister is the good daughter, dutiful and hardworking. I am the chaotic slacker. I am Ramona. My sister loved all Ms. Cleary’s books and the first volume of the Ramona chronicle was her very favorite. The old librarian in me just loves a publisher page.

In 1953, the heart of the button-down, commie-fearing Fifties, a harbinger of freedom came to this country from Sweden’s Viking shore. She came not with a sword but a horse and a monkey. With diamond blue eyes and red pigtails, Pippi Longstocking skipped into the hearts of legions of American girls. Her influence cannot be overestimated. In a period of rigid social conformity in the US, Pippi was a beacon of chaos, joy and pancakes for dinner. Here we find a nine year old girl, with her own house, no one to tell her what to do, unlimited funds and good friends next door. If you threaten her friends she will mess you up. But if you are ready for fun and maybe a good story, she is the best time imaginable.

Now, add 18 to 20 years to 1953 and you come to the Second Wave of American Feminism, with its nonsensical and perhaps koanic talk of women, men, fish and bicycles. That streak of nonsense, that ribbon of crazy fun, breaking expectations and freeing the mind to all possibilities, can be traced to Pippi Longstocking. Money, a home of your own, loving but absent parents, a horse and a monkey, what else could a girl need? Well, if you aren’t a magical child with superhuman strength, you might need to be of your world and not just in it.

Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzhugh was first published in 1964 and is a real breakout. Before Harriet, middle reader books were about perfect families and very small problems. (Ramona doesn’t deal with a problem as hairy as her father losing his job until 1977. This is no criticism of the great Ms Cleary, bless her ears and whiskers.) But Harriet wants to watch unseen and uninvolved. Her home life is not perfect, her working, distant parents want her to take more care of herself. Her beloved babysitter is looking at a life of her own. This a very early modern children’s novel, if not the first. It addresses four themes that have informed middle-reader literature for the last 45 years: school politics, family dynamics, change and self-knowledge. Seeing your own real life on the page is every inch as liberating as your own horse or monkey.

Every day I’m called on to suggest books. There is very good new stuff: The Sisters Grim, The Penderwicks, and the deeply wonderful Ivy and Bean are just a few of the new books and series out there for middle-reading girls. Even as we stand among all these riches, we must never forget the revolutionaries of children’s literature, Harriet, who shows us our real lives and Pippi, who lives the life we want.