There's always room for one more (book)

Can we read? No. 61

Good morning!

Well, I busted my tailbone sledding this past weekend (after breaking it eight years ago cross-country skiing, which my body remembered immediately upon hitting a massive bump of snow at the bottom of a righteous hill), and I’m worried about my kids and my work, and there are now 83 — 83! My husband and I counted!— baby snails in our fish tank (provenance still unknown), and things feel way wonkier than they should at the beginning of a new year (is it only me?) But just for today, I am here. Just for today, I’m going to remember that every last one of the people who have ever lived on this planet has been through hard things, has done hard things, has overcome hard things, even the ones who have had it better than the rest of us. That’s the thing about humans: we have survived. In his book The Anthropocene Reviewed, John Green writes about this, about us humans — something like, “We just keep going.” (I may be mangling this quote; I read this book in one sitting weeks ago and returned it to the library the next day so I’m going off my shoddy memory here, but the gist is correct and humbling, and maybe even reason for a shred of hope, or something like it.)

We just keep going.

Unrelated: yesterday I experimented with an open thread — where you all can leave comments and have a larger conversation with each other — about family reading goals and dreams for 2022. If you missed it, it’s still open (and will remain so):

Family reading goals and dreams thread (Jan 4)

Okay, let’s get to it today.

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Bringing the Outside In by Mary McKenna Siddals, illustrated by Patrice Barton (2016)

I don’t know about you, but “bringing the outside in” happens nearly constantly in my house and always has. For awhile I allowed these collected items to take center stage on our kitchen table but I got tired of looking at, say, a deer hoof (my children really and truly found one; how it came to be separated from the rest of its body remains a mystery) while eating and thus established an antique cart nearby that we call simply, “the nature table.” That sounds quite Waldorf, not to mention Instagram-worthy, but alas and alack, it is not the place where I display my hand-felted weather gnomes and moon phase calendar I painted with natural plant dye I made by boiling an onion: rather, the outdoor explorers are given free rein of this area — deer hooves, leaves of all kinds, sticks and branches, moss, insect exoskeletons, feathers, bones, you name it, if they find it outside and want to keep it, this is the designated spot. The only rule is that with each season’s change, we go through the detritus — I mean treasures — and decide what to keep (in which case it most likely moves to the nature section of our huge bookcase in another room) and what to return outdoors or compost.

So when I got this book several years ago and started reading it to my littles — at the time probably 2yo and 4yo — it was easy for us to recognize not only the activities highlighted therein, but the absolute pleasure to be found in said activities: in bringing the outside in.

The title is a refrain repeated throughout this sweet rhyming narrative, which shows a group of small kiddos frolicking through all four seasons: relishing in the wonderful wet of spring (“worms in our clutches, wind in our hair, boots full of puddle, mud everywhere!”), the sun and sand of summer, the leaves and acorns of fall, the “nip in our fingers” and “icicle treats” of winter. Every outdoor scene is complemented by what happens afterward, indoors — the cleaning up, wiping off, shedding of swimsuits and snowsuits (anyone who has ever experienced the expedition-level preparation for going outside in 10-degree weather plus the aftermath of snow gear that entails will recognize the effort as well as the payoff, making this a good one for grownups to read when you just can’t muster the energy to do it — Barton’s warm, truly adorable watercolors will remind you it is worthwhile).

This book ends with a cozy scene in front of the fire as the children recall all the happy months of the year they spent bringing the outdoors in, making this a perfect book for January… or anytime you need to remember that the world outside is as surprising (and weird) and wondrous as a deer hoof found randomly lying on the ground.

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Always Room for One More by Sorche Nic Leodhas, illustrated by Nonny Hogrogian (1965)

Always Room for One More is a book that’s easy to overlook — it was published 56 years ago, the cover is old-fashioned, how does one even begin to pronounce the ancient Gaelic name, Sorche? (it’s “Sore-ka”) — but don’t let its outward simplicity fool you: this is a joyful read full of jolly, rollicking language perfect for preschoolers (though I wouldn’t deny older children the pleasure of this one for a minute).

Lachie MacLachlan lives in a small hut with his wife and their ten bairns. But instead of lamenting what he doesn’t have, Lachie lives by the adage, “We’ll be sharing whatever we’ve got.”

And so they do — he hails every traveler that passes by his door, telling them, “There’s always room for one more! Always room for one more!” One by one, people come: a sailor and a tailor, a “gallowglass and a fishing lass,” and on and on, and Lachie and his family welcome them all. There is dancing and piping and general merriment until the house literally explodes. But the rubble doesn’t sit for long — all the folks whom Lachie had taken in gather as one and rebuild the house, twice as big and as good as new, into which Lachie, of course, calls everyone, shouting, “There’s always room for one more!”

Based on a Scottish song the author’s father sang to her as a child (learned from his father before him), the text reads with that same relentless forward motion — the cadence, as well as the smattering of traditional Scottish words, can be challenging at first but both are worth mastering, as once you get the rhythm of the language, it rolls off the tongue like, well, music. Add to that Hogrogian’s expressive pen and watercolor illustrations (she only wrote four books in her entire career and two of them won the Caldecott, which is all you need to know) and you have a flat-out funny — and enduringly entertaining — read.

Don’t judge this one before trying it — there’s a reason it has lasted this long.

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Fred by Posy Simmonds (1980)

Fred is the story of a cat with a secret life. (Say no more; I’m in.)

It is only after Fred’s owners, young Sophie and Nick, learn of his death from cat flu that they discover he led a whole life when he was not at home with them (sleeping on everything, on the ironing board, on top of the fridge) — a life as a cat rock star named Famous Fred.

The children learn of this at his memorial service:

Sophie: But why was he famous?… WHY?
Cat mourner: Kindly lower your voice!
Sophie: But he just SLEPT all day!!
Cat: He slept all day… but… at night…?
Sophie: At night Mum put him out…
Cat: Yes! And every night, how we waited for that moment…when the back door would open…and the lights went out, and all was hushed… and then, Fred would make his bow..and start to sing… MeYOWL!
Sophie and Nick: Fred SANG?!!

The story proceeds from there as the children learn more about Fred’s fantastical double life, full of lots of, well, caterwauling (that pun practically wrote itself), which serves to make it that much clearer how much they have lost by his death — I won’t give away all the details, merely say it’s such a charming tale (tail! that’s another one!), it’s impossible not to love it.

Reading graphic novels out loud can be challenging for sure, but Simmonds’ work is terrific across the board (if you want a grownup read, try her satirical twist on Madame Bovary, titled Gemma Bovery, which is just as infuriating and fascinating as Flaubert’s original) and her long experience as a newspaper cartoonist is obvious: the plot, along with her distinctive, precise drawings that pop with luminous watercolor here, moves with a pleasant velocity and after a few minutes you won’t remember you’re reading panel by panel. (Because I have one pre-reader and one emerging reader, I use my finger to point out who is speaking and where we are in the text, since graphic novels don’t designate this verbally — i.e., using various repeated iterations of “they said.”)

Some people dismiss graphic novels (for many reasons), as if such a seemingly simple vehicle cannot possibly convey authentic emotional truths, but those people are wrong (also for many reasons). Fred is undoubtedly a humorous book (if earnest funeral-going cats in top hats aren’t funny, I don’t know what is), but there are real messages here about loss and the ways in which we mourn — mainly the essential one that, if we have to be in sorrow, together is the way to be.

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The Dragon Slayer: Folktales from Latin America by Jaime Hernandez (2017)

The minute I saw this book in my daughter’s Scholastic catalog, I knew I’d be buying it: doesn’t it just look FUN?

It is.

And no wonder. Hernandez applies his award-winning, seasoned graphic and storytelling skills to the three Latin American tales here: The Dragon Slayer, Martina Martinez and Pérez the Mouse, and Tup and the Ants, each of which is packed with action, charm, and the classic tropes and values we recognize, regardless of our culture, from folklore around the globe (see: courage, smarts, community-mindedness, fairness, the wisdom of elders, the value of hard work, among others).

I like two things especially about this book: first, the tales are simple and accessible enough for early elementary kiddos to follow and enjoy; and second, the text and images work quite beautifully (visual literacy skills are a huge reason to read graphic novels with children).

Could you read this out loud? Absolutely. That’s what’s happening in my house. But I suspect the best experience is direct — so hand this one to your 8yo+ independent readers (especially those who enjoy graphic novels, or reluctant readers not all that motivated by chapter books). It’s an amusing read that can be consumed in part or as a whole, and will bring satisfaction either way.

(If you’d like a version of Martina Martinez and Pérez the Mouse for preschoolers, I highly recommend Martina the Beautiful Cockroach: A Cuban Folktale by Carmen Agra Deedy, which I reviewed in issue No. 54.)

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Thanks for being here today! Don’t forget to hop over to the open thread and put your family reading goals and dreams in writing — Goal Setting 101 says committing it to paper (er, a screen, as it were) makes it more likely to happen, no?

Family reading goals and dreams thread (Jan 4)

Happy reading,
Sarah

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Some of my previous reviews of books for babies and toddlers

• Mr. Gumpy’s Outing by John Burningham (issue No. 5)

• Over in the Meadow by John Langstaff, illustrated by Feodor Stepanovich Rojankovsky (also issue No. 5)

• One Gorilla by Anthony Browne (my Spotlight On: Counting Books, one of my favorites issues ever, available to all subscribers in the archives)

I know many of you have 1-3yo children in your life, so for awhile I’m highlighting past reviews of titles for the littlest littles (especially in issues where the titles aren’t going to work for you yet, like the latter three in this one). If you’d like more suggestions, you can always check out my Bookshop.org book lists — Books for 3-12 months old, Books for 12-18 months old, Books for 2-year-olds, and Books for 3-year-olds. (If you use those links to purchase something I get a small commission but really this is just an easy way to help you find fantastic books for your tiniest readers.)