Scientific women

Dear Aunt Debbie,

Welcome back from summer! It's lovely to hear from you, and to get a glimpse of the goings-on at the National Book Festival.

You asked whether Harry Potter has made an appearance in Eleanor's life. It's interesting: several of her friends and 3rd-grade classmates have gotten very into the books, but Eleanor is holding off. Twice, she's tried starting to read the first book on her own, and each time she has stopped because she feels like it's "too scary." This from a girl who within the last year devoured all of Percy Jackson, and is two-thirds of the way through the Books of Beginning, both series which include great violence, battles, magic, and end-of-the-universe stakes. And yet there's something about Harry that she doesn't feel ready for. As we've discussed in person and you've mentioned on the blog, there's a lot of material in the later Harry Potter books that isn't really appropriate for elementary-age kids, so I'm fine with Eleanor waiting until the books click for her. I've thought about beginning it as a read-aloud, but right now most of our read-aloud time also includes Isabel, and I don't really want to start Harry Potter with an almost-6-year-old.... Ah, well. Thankfully, there's plenty of time for reading and rereading.

Isabel has started out her first-grade year by declaring that she wants to become a rock star, and that her favorite subject is science. As if by magic, two of your recent gifts chronicle female scientists who became rock stars in their fields. Both books have become huge hits over here.

The Tree Lady, by H. Joseph Hopkins, is a picture book chronicling the life and times of Kate Sessions, the scientist and tree hunter who brought trees to the desert climate of San Diego in the early 1900s.

On each page, Hopkins positions Kate as an exception to the rules of her world:

Katherine Olivia Sessions grew up in the woods of Northern California. She gathered leaves from oaks and elms. She collected needles from pines and redwoods. And she braided them together with flowers to make necklaces and bracelets.

It was the 1860s, and girls from Kate's side of town weren't supposed to get their hands dirty. 

But Kate did.

...

When Kate grew up, she left home to study science in college. She looked at soil and insects through a microscope. She learned how plants made food and how they drank water. And she studied trees from around the world.

No woman had ever graduated from the University of California with a degree in science.

But in 1881, Kate did.

A nice proud feminist vibe throughout!

The illustrations, by Jill McElmurry, are beautifully specific: pictures of plant cells, specific (labeled!) types of leaves and desert trees, a real sense of the desert climate in the San Diego scenes.

There's enough of a story here to make it interesting, and enough scientific detail to encourage questions and further investigation.



The graphic novel Primates: The Fearless Science of Jane Goodall, Dian Fossey, and Biruté Galdikas, by Jim Ottaviani and Maris Wicks, gets far deeper into the complexities and triumphs of scientific research. This is a book you can get lost in.

Primates provides a clear and well-dramatized introduction to the work and lives of these three primatologists, the first to live with and study primates for years in their natural habitats: Goodall with chimpanzees, Fossey with mountain gorillas, and Galdikas with orangutans. Each woman tells her own story in first-person, and in her own font and color, which helps keep the voices distinct. There are similarities in the stories, but the very different personalities of the researchers come through well.

The fourth voice in the book is that of Louis Leakey, the anthropologist and archeologist who gave all three women their start. He believed that women were better-suited to this kind of work: more patient, more observant. Through Leakey, the three women meet each other, so there are some nice moments of crossover.

Ottaviani and Wicks don't romanticize the details of living in the bush. You get a real sense throughout of the difficulties and privations of each woman's chosen career: leeches, trekking through forest, sitting for hours, days, weeks in observation. All three come across as passionate and unconventionally brilliant, deeply dedicated to the animals and their land.

While non-kid-friendly details are alluded to in the book -- Louis Leakey's womanizing, Dian Fossey's murder -- the stories are kept age-appropriate. It feels to me like a book that will deepen with rereading as you learn more about each woman's life from other sources.

I think that Isabel responds to the fierce determination of the women depicted here: their focus and refusal to be put off. I have a feeling there are more animals in her future.

Love, Annie

More migration

Dear Aunt Debbie,

We opened Isabel's birthday box on Thursday night, as you'd surmised, and have been happily reading and re-reading the new books since then.  One in particular was a happy surprise to me, due both to its subject matter and its authorship.

Gotta Go! Gotta Go! is not at all a bathroom-related book, but the story of a "creepy-crawly bug" who hatches from her egg with an immediate purpose:

The creepy-crawly bug held up her head, looked out at the beautiful meadow, and said, "I don't know much, but I know what I know.  I gotta go!  I gotta go!  I gotta go to Mexico!"

She eats and crawls her way across the meadow of her birth, encountering other small creatures who are curious about her destination:

"Mexico?" said the grasshopper.  "What on earth is Mexico?"
"I have no idea," said the creepy-crawly bug.  "But if Mexico is where I'm going, and it is, then Mexico will be wherever I get."
And she creepy-crawled away just as fast as she could go.

You have to admire this bug's self-assurance.

After some time, a shedding of skin, and a very long nap, she emerges again as "a creepy-crawly bug with wings," a.k.a. a monarch butterfly, as is clear from Sue Riddle's illustrations.  The journey toward Mexico continues, now slightly less improbable, though still insanely long.  There is resting and dancing with other butterflies, and then the journey back, and a lovely ending which mirrors the first page of the book, implying a repeating cycle.

Because, of course, this is the story of the migration of the monarch butterfly (the second monarch migration story we've received, and loved, for Isabel's birthday).  While Bird, Butterfly, Eel tells it at a more poetic remove, Gotta Go! Gotta Go!, like its title, moves forward at a pleasing pace.  It's fun to read, and inspires chanting.  Of course, we may need to visit Mexico sometime soon because of it.

The author is Sam Swope, who I know personally through two great organizations.  I met Sam through the New York City Public Library's Cullman Center, which runs a series of workshops for teachers which are among the best professional development I've ever taken part in.

Sam's new brainchild is a terrific organization called the Academy for Teachers, which aims to bring together great teachers from New York City public schools (and someday, schools around the country) in seminars with great public figures (Gloria Steinem is holding one in February) at cultural institutions throughout the city.  I've known for years that Sam was a tremendous organizer and intellectual, as well as a tremendously charming man; I didn't realize that he was a terrific children's book author as well.  This may be one I'll need to get autographed someday soon.

Love, Annie

Three migrating animals

Dear Aunt Debbie,

While you were hanging out at the National Book Festival listening to excellent YA authors, we were having Isabel's third birthday party, a few days before her actual birthday.  Less of a crowd for our event, but I'm guessing better cake.

One of the presents Isabel received from friends is a gorgeous picture book by James Prosek: Bird, Butterfly, Eel.  I hadn't heard of Prosek before, but he's an interesting guy, as his website attests: just about my age, an accomplished painter, author, naturalist, and activist.  Most of his books are for adults, and starting with Trout: An Illustrated History, most have something to do with fish, and are sumptuously illustrated with his paintings.

Bird, Butterfly, Eel begins by depicting these three animals on a Connecticut farm.  The text is spare and calm:

It's summer on the farm, and bird, butterfly, and eel are at home.

Butterfly is a monarch.
She lives in the meadow behind the pond.

Eel lives in the dark, cool waters of the pond, below the lilies.

Bird lives in the barn at the end of the meadow, in nests she made of mud and straw.
She loves being safe, high up in the rafters, away from the barn cats.

Each double-page spread opens one of these habitats in luscious detail:

When fall comes, each animal begins her migration journey.  There's a map, and an astounding page of facts -- who knew that barn swallows flew eight thousand miles to Argentina, or monarch butterflies three thousand to Mexico?  Before their return, there's a lovely page depicting the loneliness of winter, with the details of Prosek's artistic craft left lying on the table:

We sat down to read this book for the first time last night, and it felt like the perfect respite after a party-filled day.  A book about observation, beauty, and facts of the natural world.  Both girls seemed calmer as we finished, and I've found myself returning to the images all day today.

Love, Annie

You -- yes, you! -- are reading this book

Dear Aunt Debbie,

You have your finger on the pulse of the children's book world with your thoughts about superhero books!  In this weekend's NYT Book Review, Roger Sutton touches on the same subject (though I must say, he's a little more dour).  I'm kind of sorry to see Bumblebee Boy go off by himself -- afraid, I guess, that his solo books will be aimed at boys and perhaps take boy readership away from the Ladybug Girl books, the way Dora was more okay for boys to like until Diego came along.

Writing last week about books that engage the reader with the idea that a book is being constructed as they read got me thinking about a few picture books written in the second person which are big hits at our house.

Right Where You Are Now, by Lisa Montierth, came to us as a family gift: cousin Molly sent it recently to Eleanor and Isabel (she's friends with the illustrator, Ashley Burke).  I wasn't at all sure what to expect from the cover, which has a sort of Hansel and Gretel vibe, but the book is based on an interesting idea, and the illustrations are terrific.  Each double-page spread includes a scene of today's world on the left, and a scene from prehistoric times on the right:

It gets you talking about prehistory, with all its lava and lush rainforest growth, and it certainly increases your prehistoric animal vocabulary: plesiosaur, merychippus, nimravid.  If you're concerned about telling these guys apart or pronouncing their names properly, never fear: the last pages include a visual dictionary, so you can be sure you're not mixing up megacerops and uintatherium (as I did on the first reading).  It's kind of awesome to hear your 2-year-old yelling out "Nimravid!" when you turn the page to see the face of a saber-tooth cat-like creature (actually not a feline, but related as much to hyenas as to cats).  It's my favorite kind of nonfiction book: well-written, imparting its information in context, leading to lots of questions.

There Are Cats in This Book and its sequel, There Are No Cats in This Book, are purely playful.  Viviane Schwarz is the author-illustrator here, and the two books focus on a trio of cats (Tiny, Moonpie, and Andre), who address the reader directly.  In the first book, the cats want you to play with them.  They tell you when to turn the pages, and ask you to throw them balls of yarn and open the boxes they're hiding in.  When they get wet on a page full of fish, they ask you to blow on them, and emerge all fluffy.  The pages abound with flaps, and the cats are very good-natured and eager for what's going to come next.

In There Are No Cats in This Book, the cats are antsy.  They want to get out of the book, and will try pretty much anything: pushing the side of the page, jumping out (the book becomes a pop-up for a moment), and finally, asking you to wish them out.  Then they send you a postcard, before eventually returning to the book.  The cats' manic energy is totally engaging.  Even though Eleanor and Isabel both know that they're not really changing the content of the book by doing what the cats ask, they get into playing with it.  Another way of exercising your superpowers, I suppose....

Love, Annie

Guest Blogger: Stars and Outer Space

Dear Aunt Debbie,

I'm looking forward to having a chance to check out more kidlit blogs next week, once the grading slows down.  (I'm looking forward to a lot of things after the end of this little crunch period.)  For today, we have another wonderful guest blogger: my friend Holly, mom of Eleanor's best friend Ian.  Your last post mentioned the blog Book Loving Boys, which among other things takes up the question of what books boys are drawn to.  I hate to admit it, but in our experience there's been a definite difference.  While Eleanor is All Narrative, All The Time, Ian is much more into nonfiction.  Here's what Holly has to say:

I’m sometimes a bit jealous hearing about what books are in circulation over at Annie’s. All my attempts to get Ian to read The Wizard of Oz, or Rapunzel, or my childhood fave, The Wonder Clock, have been met with “Leave out the scary parts.” Which leaves pretty much the title pages. But I’ve come to love reading endless books about how asphalt is made and feel pride at not stumbling when reading through lists and lists of saurases and ceratopses.

His recent obsession is space, and he is madly in love with the A True Book series by Elaine Landau, each about a planet in our solar system (or a dwarf planet). They are pretty heavy handed with flashy graphics, but that, combined with the really beautiful pictures, good pacing, and very clear but somehow not heavy descriptions of basic principles make them very exciting to read. Instead of relying on corny cartoons or retched puns (don’t get me wrong, we read our share of Magic School Bus, too) they rely on the interest in the subject itself to carry you along.

Our other current favorite is Find the Constellations, Second Edition (yes, Pluto deniers, now with Updated Solar System Information!) by good old H. A. Rey. It starts with the Big Dipper and shows how you connect the stars to make a picture, then goes into what a light year is, names of stars, the zodiac, and has very lovely seasonal star charts which we’ve played with a lot. As well as, to my joy, bits and pieces of the back stories of some of the leading constellations, like Orion. We even got through the story of Andromeda, which is pretty scary!

But here’s the part that gets me:

“Do you see the little curlicue near Andromeda’s knee? This is the famous Nebula of Andromeda. You see it on clear, dark nights, a wisp of faint, hazy light. It is tiny yet it’s worth looking for: it is the most distant object -- the farthest-away thing -- anybody can see with the naked eye. And this wisp of haze looking so small is in reality the biggest single object you can see. It is a galaxy, a gigantic swarm of stars, a hundred billion of them, far, far out in space.”

I can’t help wondering if Ian thinks of all of it as just an elaborate fiction, given that he’s never even seen the Big Dipper. Here in Brooklyn we are lucky to see two or three stars in the whole sky. When I point one out he says “that’s the Andromeda Galaxy” and I just nod and tell him the other one’s Betelgeuse.

More, certainly, for us to check out.

Love, Annie

Do tadpoles lead to the birds and the bees?

Dear Aunt Debbie,

I love the image of your new store, all those books waiting to be discovered by kids and parents.  Sounds like a busy, fun time.

This week, Eleanor picked up a book at the library called Growing Frogs, by Vivian French.  It's part of a series put out by Candlewick Press (they have such good taste) called "Read, Listen, & Wonder": the narrative is meant to teach a bunch of interesting facts, and the book comes with a CD containing both a read-aloud version and a bunch of extra facts, in this case about frogs.

Perhaps it's my English-teacher-fiction-loving heart, but I didn't expect to like this book as much as I do.  It's quite charming: the story of a girl who lives near a pond and her mom, who teaches her how to take frog spawn out of the pond, bring it home, and grow tadpoles in a fish tank.  (There are many clear instructions on how to do this without hurting the pond or the tadpoles.)  When the frogs get big enough, the girl and her mom return them to the pond.  There are clear, readable explanations of all the stages of tadpole-to-frog development, including a few bits in smaller font that add to the narrative without being exactly part of the story: "Tadpoles have gills on the outside of their bodies at first.  Then they grow gills inside their bodies, and the outside ones disappear."  It's enough to make you want to go out and get some frog spawn -- if, you know, you didn't live in the middle of a city.

One of the extra-informational bits in this book explains the process of fertilization: "Male frogs croak to attract female frogs for mating.  Mating occurs when the male frog covers the female's eggs with his sperm.  A tadpole will only grow if an egg joins with a sperm -- this joining is called fertilization."  Reading this aloud to Eleanor last night, I wondered if it was going to spark questions about how babies are made -- I was very aware that it was the first time I'd introduced her to the word "sperm."  She hasn't picked up on it yet, and probably won't in this context, but it gave me a moment of Huh, I wonder when and how the sex conversation is going to happen.

I'd just finished reading a very funny article by Jill Lepore in the Oct. 18 New Yorker magazine on the subject: a round-up of several new How to Explain Sex to Kids books.  As far as I remember, we never had any of them in the house growing up.  My dad enlightened me on the facts of life when my mom got pregnant with Michael -- I was 3 1/2, about Eleanor's age, and can actively remember being embarrassed by the conversation.  But I was never misinformed.  Still, I remember friends talking about having childhood sex-ed books (including one pop-up book, which just seems like a bad idea).  What's your take on this genre, animal husbandry or human sexuality-wise?

Love, Annie