Reading Independently: My Crush on Nathan Hale

I remember hearing about and seeing pictures of cotton-haired George Washington and the cartoonishly-shaped Abraham Lincoln in the days before I could read by myself. Cherry trees and log cabins. They were so neatly bundled in February that they didn't make much of an impression.

A couple of years passed, and I was reading independently. Somehow, (maybe from my aunt?) there came into my possession an illustrated book of American history. Starting with Christopher Columbus and ending...I don't remember how. Highlights of American history were summarized in an informative paragraph, accompanied by a picture in full color. It was a handsome volume.

There were two pages I was particularly stuck on: One was the 'story' of Pocahontas and John Smith. What a great picture: John Smith with his hands bound behind his back, head on a large boulder, face looking worried and brave, all at once. The would-be executioner's hatchet coming down, and Pocahontas, running in, arm fully extended for the interception, looking scared but angry. The paragraph said that she shielded him from the fatal blow. Of course, I had to look up 'shielded' 'fatal' and 'blow'. Wow.

Then there was Nathan Hale. I can't find the exact picture I saw in the book, but it was somewhat like the one above, except that Nathan Hale was standing on the left, defiantly facing right and wearing a white shirt with no jacket. He had the rope around his beautifully strong neck. This was the first time I'd ever heard of someone being hanged. Also, the language was a little beyond me.  I double-checked with my father. Yes, hanging was a method of killing. "Giving [one's] life" meant that they died. Also, Nathan Hale was captured by the British for spying. He was a spy. What was a spy? And the paragraph said he was 19. I cried. A lot. Because this wasn't a story. A fairy tale. This was a true story. Nathan Hale was real. This really happened.

For a long time, I brooded on Nathan Hale. Where had his Pocahontas been? If only we weren't 200 years apart! I could have rushed in and shielded him from the fatal...blow? I wasn't exactly sure how hanging was accomplished. Yes, I thought, I would have rescued him. Of course, I would have given him a chance to make his stirring, final speech, then I would have defied those ugly guys in red jackets. Then Nathan Hale could have gone back to being a spy, and maybe I could have somehow helped. Maybe by bringing him some water, like Molly Pitcher?  No, I'd make him show me how to help him with spying. 

Revisiting a Childhood Favorite: Patricia's Secret

A couple of months ago, I reread an elementary school favorite, Patricia's Secret by Ruth Daggett Leinhauser, originally published in 1956. This book was one of the first "chapter books" I read. I was eight.

I found my copy again while cleaning out my mother's garage. I had to reread it to see why I loved it then and what it might mean to me now.

Then:
Easy to see why eight-year-old me loved Patricia's Secret. the story of a ten-year-old motherless girl whose Air Force officer father has finally come to pluck her from her helicopter maiden aunts in a small town in Iowa to live with him on a military base in California. Patricia hasn't seen her father since she was three, so she is, in effect, going off with a stranger. The secret of the title refers to her plan to be so naughty that her father will banish her back to Iowa.

The father is perfect. Handsome, patient, kind, nice. He reminded me so much of my own father, also a military man (non-comissioned). The military base setting was familiar and attractive. I thought Patricia was definitely wrong-headed, and when her father gave her the puppy for her birthday...oh my! Stop calling him "Father"! Call him "Daddy"! Can't you see that wistful look, you dimwit? I wanted to jump into the book and give Pat some much-needed counsel. It was pleasing to be smarter than a ten-year-old (she turns eleven during the course of the novel). The last chapter scared the crap out of me. I thought Patricia's father might be in peril. Imagine my relief when he comes up the walk. Sorry about the spoiler.

Now:
I'm still crushing on the father, but for different reasons. He is a little bit too good to be true, and his perfect grammar makes for somewhat stilted conversational prose. I still love the military base setting, and all the adults on Officer's Row that do their best to make Patricia feel at home. Patricia's "naughtiness" seems funny now as well as her efforts to adjust and it's obvious that her father fully sees her homesickness and confusion about the startling change. The aunts in Iowa hover so much, they seem almost like modern parents. Now, like then, I couldn't imagine why Patricia would prefer life with them to her new adventure. As for the last chapter, I could see clearly as an adult that it was set up to showcase Patricia's dramatic change of heart.

This double-vision exercise was fun. I'll have to find a copy of my very first novel, Ginnie and the New Girl and try it again.

My brother and me, about the time I read Patricia's Secret

Blob is 13!

Happy 13th birthday, Blob! I can't believe you've been my very own sweet darling book blog since 2004! What do you mean "Whatever"?  And what's with the eye roll?

Here's some economy-sized Clearasil. No, you can't drive the car. Not even to a bookstore or a library. Okay, I'm really, really mean.

 Look, I found a picture of myself when I was 13! No, dinosaurs did not roam the earth. Yes, there were books. Not scrolls or hieroglyphics on a cave wall somewhere.

Well, yes, I was a bookworm when I was 13. No, I didn't read "a bunch of stupid shit". Maybe some, but hey. At least I was reading. Let's hop in the time machine and I'll show you 13 glimpses of my bookworm self at 13, would you like that? Spare me the theatrical sighs. Corny? Really? Whatever:

1. When I was 13, I enjoyed the horror genre, which led me to a book called Carrie by a new author named Stephen King.

2. My mom liked nurse romance novels, so I bonded with her by reading a lot of Arlene Hale.

3. Science class was boring, so I read books behind my science textbook. Every day, I would bring a book and every day, Mrs. Briley would catch me reading and confiscate it. She never gave them back, either. I got smart...smarter and started bringing school library books. She must have had at least 50-100 books in her desk by the end of the year.

4. I liked books about gypsies and Roma culture. I thought a caravan might happen by and ask me to join their carefree life. No science or math classes. I wanted to be ready.

5. I read The Outsiders for the first time. Two-Bit was my favorite character and I pronounced Socs as Socks rather than so-shez. I also felt a sense of urgency. S.E. Hinton wrote the novel at 16, and I only had 3 more years to write something timeless...maybe something about gypsies?

6. A girl in my class convinced me to read the Betsy-Tacy books by Maud Hart Lovelace. She said they were the best books EVER. They were very good, but not in the same league as the Little House series. I'm still grateful to this girl, even though we fell out a little bit later.

7. I enjoyed Reader's Digest Condensed Books, but the illustrations always disappointed.

8. A cute boy in my class told me that I would like a novel about horses. I wanted him to LIKE ME like me so I read it. I forget the title. I didn't like the book. I don't remember the boy's name.

9. My brother got the bright idea to throw my mass-market paperback copy of Gone with the Wind from our third-story apartment window. I screamed. My parents laughed for a long time. When they finally recovered, they ordered my brother to go downstairs and fetch the damn thing.

10. My library card number at the post library was 778.

11. I checked out Lady Chatterley's Lover because I had heard it was a dirty book. I couldn't make heads or tails of it. Back to the library it went. Then I found a racy novel in my parents' room written at about fourth-grade level. I was very Ewwwwwww! for days.

12. Here's a book that kept me entranced and entertained for hours on end. I came away with the idea that no film made after 1945 was worth seeing:

13. 778 was invited to volunteer in the post library's summer reading program. I started off shelving books in the children's section, then was asked to shelve in the adult section. After admitting that I didn't understand how to do the nonfiction, the assistant librarian kindly and quickly explained the Dewey Decimal System. To paraphrase Dr. Seuss, I felt as if my brain grew three sizes that day.

Farewell, Mary Shanahan

She was tall and terrifying. She stalked through the classroom, always somehow finding students who were unprepared for her classes. She fired questions rat-a-tat. Students dodged and weaved and tried to keep up. As for leading students to understanding, she would go along with that for a while, then she would pick a class up collectively and throw it through the door of knowledge.

She was Mary Shanahan, and she was one of my undergraduate professors when I was an English major at Cameron University in Lawton, Oklahoma.

 I thrilled to her hauteur, her theatrical style of teaching. I idolized her and feared her and came out of her classes trembling and wrecked from trying to keep up with her forehand smash tennis-match style lectures. I swore each semester that I would not return, and the following semester found me front and center.

Shakespeare (16 plays in 16 weeks). English Literature, I and II. Bloomsbury. She cracked me open as a learner; I've never been the same.

I don't read what Mary Shanahan read, but she changed how I read. I pay fierce attention. I am obsessive about sussing out meaning.

Mary Shanahan died in Wisconsin last month on May 11. I found out last week, and it was hard news to take. I had hoped to see her again one day and bask in her steely gaze.

Paying tribute here feels small and pale and incomplete, so I want to read something in her honor. Perhaps Bleak House (at one time, she had a cat named Lady Dedlock) or a novel by her especial favorite, Virginia Woolf.

Go here to see Mary Shanahan remembered beautifully and properly, as was her due.

Ponyboy at the Movies

I woke up this morning with bookworm brain, which is not a bad thing at all.

Running through my mind was the first (and last) lines of The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton. I don't have a copy of the book, so I must paraphrase. Ponyboy says that he has two things on his mind: Paul Newman and a ride home from the movie theater. Right after that, he gets jumped by the evil Socs, and Paul Newman is forgotten.

I first read this book in 7th grade and went on to read it many more times. Like most of my early reads, I internalized the book, but even though I love movies almost as much as I love books, it never occurred to me to wonder which Paul Newman movie Ponyboy had just seen. Somewhere out there in the world are stay-gold devotees of the novel that have probably gathered every last obsessive detail about the setting, the plot, and the characters. Perhaps the question has already been answered, but that's not going to stop me from playing detective.

Since The Outsiders was published in 1967, I assume that the time frame is current. I'm also trying to put myself in a Greaser state of mind and try to think which Paul Newman movie would have impressed Ponyboy so much that he wasn't mindful of the danger around him.

I wish so hard that it had been Cool Hand Luke, but I don't think so, because both appeared the same year.  The Hustler came out in 1961, and that's too early because Ponyboy refers to The Beatles often, which means the novel is set after 1963. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid came out at the other end of the decade, and that would have been too late. That means that it was probably Harper, a movie in which Newman plays a smooth private eye.

Now I need to get a copy of The Outsiders and see if I can figure out which movie Two-Bit, Johnny, Ponyboy and Cherry Valance (and Dally, briefly) saw a few nights later. I remember they went to the movies and Bob, the nastiest Soc, was a malevolent presence, but what was the movie?

I'm off to the library with a side trip to the store for some microwave popcorn.

***

UPDATE:

From S.E. Hinton herself, via Twitter:  Hud.

Hud! 1963. Paul Newman is the title character, a dissolute younger son of a rancher. I didn't even consider this movie, because he plays such an unsympathetic character, but by Greaser standards, Hud is both tough and tuff. As Ponyboy points out, both are compliments.

Read & Reel Part 1: The Great Movie Stars: The Golden Years - David Shipman

Since I moved next door to a cinema almost three months ago, I've had movies on the brain.  Old movies, new movies -- it doesn't matter.  I started missing this book, which is safely (?) in my U.S. collection:

The Great Movie Stars: The Golden Years (1970) is a big, heavy hardcover film encyclopedia crammed with mini movie bios of stars that made it big before 1945.  There are also beautiful black-and-white movie stills on every page. The copy I have in the United States is actually my second copy, which I found at Larry McMurtry's bookstore in Archer City, Texas.

My first copy was bought at a Stars & Stripes bookstore in Germany.  I was 12 years old, and for some reason, I was in there with both my parents and my brother. I think we were killing time before going to a movie. Anyway, I took one look at this book and thought -- no, knew -- that I would love it.  I had just seen a re-release of Gone With The Wind and was attracted to the picture of Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh as Rhett and Scarlett on the dust jacket.  Problem: it cost 12 dollars!  I can't remember how I convinced my parents to buy it for me.  Perhaps it was close to my birthday or Christmas because I went home with it, and read it over and over again.*  It was mesmerizing. I carried it to school and showed it to my uninterested friends.  Well, one girl said that she liked Ingrid Bergman's dress in the Saratoga Trunk still. Otherwise, it was a boring book.

The Great Movie Stars: The Golden Years helped me define how I would educate myself about movies. From late middle school and all through high school, I went through TV Guide and circled the movies I wanted to watch the following week.  I had two rules:

1. No movies newer than 1945.

2. If the movie was newer than 1945, it had to be in black-and-white.

When I was in 9th grade, we had an assembly and the principal announced that we were going to watch The Hunchback of Notre Dame.  As he droned on about appropriate behavior while the first reel was being loaded onto the projector, I cast my mind back to Shipman.  Let's see. There were two versions of this movie.  One came out in the 1920s and was silent and the other one came out in the 1930s and started Charles Laughton. (It would be years before I realized that his name was pronounced "Law-ton" rather than "Laff-ton".)  Older was better, but either of these versions would be acceptable. I leaned forward expectantly.

The movie started.  The credits came up.  Lon Chaney!  That meant we had the silent version! Excellent!  (I had seen Chaney in the 1930 movie The Unholy Three the year before at another school, and admired his work.)  The teachers and students caught on a few minutes later when they didn't hear any talking and there were title cards.  The students started rumbling and the teachers and the principal got into a huddle with Oh, fuck! looks on their faces.  I think I was the only one in the auditorium that was happy.

That happiness was short-lived, because the movie stopped and the principal returned to the podium.  There was a mistake; they'd gotten the "wrong" movie, and we all had to go back to class.  Everyone looked disgruntled.  I was late getting back to class because I stopped off in the girls' restroom to cry.  Why was a silent movie anathema?  Didn't they realize that this movie was like...history?  I couldn't believe that I was being thwarted.  Never mind.  I blew my nose on a long strip of  toilet paper and flailed around for some icy dignity.  I had David Shipman and TV Guide.  I would educate myself.

A few weeks later, we 9th graders were herded back into the auditorium* to watch House of Usher with Vincent Price.  Since it came out in 1960 and was in color, both of my rules were broken, but I watched it anyway.


*The book stood up to my constant handling for a while, then the binding gave way and the volume broke into sections.  At some point, I lost track of it.

**This determination to foist a film based on a classic upon the 9th graders must have been a way of meeting a district/state curriculum requirement.

Guest Post by Faraway Hammer: "Creating Riches for Unpopular Writers"

•  Many thanks to my friend Valerie Hamer for agreeing to do a guest post about her fledgling bookworm days for this blog.  Valerie is a British writer and teacher currently living in South Korea. Between making marmalade cakes and working on her first non fiction book, she can be found blogging at Faraway Hammer Writing & Publishing. She can also be found on Twitter @farawayhammer.
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  Non fiction writing, Faraway Hammer Writing & Publishing

  www.farawayhammerwriting.com
  

  Faraway Hammer writing features non fiction articles, blog posts and books related to expat life, travel & teaching.

On my eleventh birthday I celebrated by applying for my adult library tickets. They were made from green stiff card and quickly became my treasure. I'd long been bored with what the kids' section had to offer - now here was the world of Jackie Collins and Danielle Steel at my grubby fingertips.


Being a ferocious reader, borrowing four books at a time just wasn't enough. How could I choose from the vast array of goodies? I tried hiding the surplus behind larger books, or in a different section, but they were never there on my next visit. Eventually a kindly librarian suggested I use my parents' tickets as well. Result! In no time I was working my way through an average of twelve books every week or two, and was in literary heaven.


One day I read a newspaper article which blew my mind. Evidently authors made money not only from book sales but also based on how popular they were in libraries. It was thrilling to think that I'd been contributing to their riches simply by checking out something they'd penned. For a few weeks this dominated my borrowing habits. If I was torn between two books I'd decide based on the author cover shot. Those who looked kind or were handsome tended to win!


As time passed I got to thinking about the forgotten writers. How sad they must feel when there was never any kind of royalty cheque for them. How many books were neglected, overlooked? It was quite easy to track them down. I simply spent a couple of afternoons stalking users and noting their habits. After the first dash to the returns trolley - somehow a book that's just been read by another is the first choice for many others - the majority headed for the romance, large print or contemporary paperback sections. Not one ventured to the very back of the building, where shelves of dusty cowboy stories lined the walls. Success!


Eagerly checking the fly leaf for date stamps I found most of them had not been borrowed since well before I was born. Despite having achieved my goal I felt a momentary sadness. Words are like living creatures - they need to be noticed, loved, enjoyed. But hey, I was about to make a difference. Pretty soon recognition would be coming their way and I could hardly wait.


Twelve at a time I hauled these cowboy novels home. Three times a week I returned them and did it all again. At the beginning I tried to read them too. I'd grown up with western TV shows like Bonanza, and had a keen interest in the stories and lifestyle. But try as I might the tales of 'Gunslinger's Revenge' or 'Showdown at the Cactus Saloon' were as dry and unpalatable as desert dust. It would have to be enough that they were being checked out. I just couldn't bring myself to give these unknown authors anymore than that.


My mother watched this ritual with amusement, and it was likely the non reading which worried her the most. So one day, having asked what I was up to, she listened carefully to my grand plans of creating riches for unpopular writers. It must have been hard for her to burst my philanthropic bubble. But what choice did she have but to share her knowledge of author royalties, copyright time limitations and the public domain? It had all been for nothing.


In some ways being released from this self imposed duty was a relief, leaving me free to read for pleasure once again. But any rite of passage carries a bittersweet memory, and that day I took one more step into the adult world. A place where achievement doesn't always mean success, and effort can sometimes be futile.

The First Book I Ever Loved