Jazz Funerals and Journal Entries

This is my notebook/journal entry for today, September 26, 2008, about Coleen Salley's funeral. It's rough. S'okay... yes? Just want to connect, today.
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I'm in my pajamas at 4pm, at the Lafitte House, sitting in the parlor, which is next to Walter's and my bedroom (we are the only room off the parlor, so it's like having a private parlor, very nice). I have cried and laughed and have had such a full day and a half, and there will be dinner tonight at Irene's, one of Coleen's favorite restaurants, a bunch of us including Joan Stevenson, Walter Mayes, Kimberly Holt, Terry Young, Traci Todd, and I'm not sure who else.


It was a marvelous, magnificent funeral. I can't get over it -- it was so sad, and it was so funny, and it was even joyful -- I am uploading photos to Picasa, but my connection here is slow, so I'll post just a few for now, but oh how I want to share these short movie clips with the band playing and the pageantry of it all. Soon, maybe.

Meanwhile, in the photos I've managed to upload (well, I'm uploading as I write... we'll see how successful I am), you'll see Walter in the red boa, Kimberly Willis Holt, Ellen Ruffin, and many others -- I loved seeing Lori Benton, Jeannette Larson, Jen Haller, Joan Stevenson, Janet Stevens and Susan Stevens Crummel, and Coleen's children and grandchildren... that's her grown twin grandsons at the front of the cart... and yes, that's a grocery cart -- it was Coleen's "hearse."


For 34 years, Coleen was part of Mardi Gras with her own "Krewe," the Krewe of Coleen. In the last photo, you'll see a picture of her in the grocery cart (it's on the mantle) with her crown next to it. Coleen was cremated, and the urn was placed in the grocery cart on top of several quilts, including one for "Who's That Tripping Over My Bridge," her first book. On top of the urn was the crown she wore when she was Queen of the Krewe de Vieux in 2004.

The service was a mass. It was good we got there early, because there was standing room only -- Walter and I estimate there were well over 500 people there. Coleen's son David gave the eulogy. It was so very funny and moving, and there was a song about God being a river and the river is me, there was communion, there was more music, and there was lots of laughter, and also tears.


David's remarks included the many names Coleen was known by: Coleen, Mrs. Salley (to her thousands of library students in the seventies and eighties), Ya-Ya (to her grandchildren), Aunt Coleen (to so many blood and honorary kin), Mama, and names that were unrepeatable in church. Ha. David was just under a year old when his father died in an automobile accident -- in fact, Coleen's kids were 4, 2, and 11 months when she became a widow. David called Coleen's colorful language "expletives of endearment." hahahaha. He framed his talk with three words he used to describe his mother, all starting with "F" and none of them "that F." They were family, friendship, and fun.


"She was a gift to New Orleans," said David, "to children everywhere, and to her family and friends." And, I would add, to children's literature and its creators, publishers, readers. She knew how to nurture relationship while being true to her self and we are all the richer for having known her.

When the service was over, Coleen's pallbearers and "Krewe," those who had marched with her at Mardi Gras for years (most of them wore special tee-shirts that said, "Queen Coleen: 1929 - 2008: What a Ride") and the Krewe -- and all in attendance -- chanted a lusty "Hail to the Queen!" and then the band came in to a jaunty tune, marched to the front, turned around and marched out playing the old hymn "Oh, For A Closer Walk With Thee," and folks left the church in tears. Sad, sad, sad...



But. As soon as we were all outside, the band started playing bouncing, happy tunes, including "Will the Circle Be Unbroken," and those who had white handkerchiefs began to wave them in the air (the symbolic wiping away of tears). Several people brought the traditional decorated umbrellas, and some folks dressed in outlandish costumes -- Kitty-Kat took the cake.

We marched the 11 blocks back to Coleen's -- a long, luscious march, because the crowd was huge, and the band was having a good slow time, and onlookers took tons of photos, and some joined in as second-liners. Overheard: David said to George, "We don't have enough food at the house!" but they did, they did.


The streets were completely blocked off along the parade route, and we stopped to deposit Joan in a police car at one point because she ran out of steam (it was a long walk!), and then we caught up. The police took Joan on to Coleen's. Chartres Street in front of Coleen's was blocked off, and good thing, as they needed the space -- people were everywhere.

In front of Coleen's home, there was one more raucous "Hail To The Queen!" and then Genevieve took the urn-avec-crown inside the front door, where she did just what her mother had asked for, and what David announced from the lectern: "Many times Mom said, 'when I die, I want a GOOD PARTY -- a GREAT PARTY -- and I want to be there. Prop me up in the corner so I can enjoy it, too." And that's what they did. Amazing.

The inside of the house had been turned into a museum. The furniture was gone, and along the walls and on shelves, mantels, bookcases, were mementos of Coleen's life, and photographs galore, and it was just... lovely. If you have been to Coleen's during an ALA or IRA and you have signed her walls -- your signature was prominently displayed for all to admire. Two televisions screens played videos of Coleen telling stories. In the courtyard, Coleen's famous milk punch (ice cream melted somewhat and Jack Daniels, mostly) was served along with wine, beer, and Cajun food from Mother's, a NOLA institution.

It was ebullient, I loved it, and yet there were just so many people it took my claustrophobic breath away, and I couldn't stay too long in that loving-but-close crush of stories and people. I paid my respects to Genevieve -- could not get close to David and George; I heard they were in the back of the courtyard, hosting a storytelling-about-Coleen event, which was a lovely thing to do, so people could tell their stories.

Walter, Kimberly, and I caught a cab and skittled outside the Quarter to a fabulous dive, Willie Mae's Scotch House, at St. Ann's and Conti, that Walter had long wanted to frequent. Good food, he said, and it was -- fried chicken, pork chops, butter beans, red beans and rice -- as well as a respite from the emotional atmosphere of apres-funeral.


Coleen would have been thrilled with this party. Well done, George and David and Genevieve and all. Thank you for being so gracious, so welcoming, to all who loved Coleen. More to say but words are inadequate.

So now... a short nap. Home tomorrow late. I'm staying in the Quarter tomorrow morning and will write for a while before heading to the airport. You can catch up on my blog posts about Coleen here and here and here.
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Okay -- it seems I've been able to upload some photos from today here. There are several short (ten to twenty seconds) recorded clips, all at the end of the batch -- you can hear the band and watch the weaving, waving crowd and be part of this celebration, even if you weren't able to be there... although because I'm not able to figure out a few quirks, you'll have to watch a couple of the recorded clips sideways.

Be sure to watch the very last recorded clip: "Hail To The Queen!"

Long Live The Queen.

Home In Autumn

Welcome to a new season, here on this first official day of fall. I took this photo of my writing place this morning. I wrote most of ALL-STARS here, and am hard at work now on book one of the Sixties Trilogy.

My entire living/dining room in this house in Atlanta is my office/study. I can shut the doors and be alone here, next to the family room and kitchen, with three floor-to-ceiling windows that look onto the front deck and gardens, and write away. I alternate between this chaise I bought when I moved here in 2004 and the door-desk where I sit at the desktop, stare out the windows, answer email, pay bills, and do business. And play mahjong (curse you, Rita Williams-Garcia! :>)

In the years that I lived in Frederick, Maryland, fall marked a new year as my children returned to school and summer gave up its particular pleasures. I went back to work, long days, with my writing. Fall has the air of return, for me.

The air has changed, the routine has changed, the life of our household has changed. For one thing, it's chilly in the mornings and evenings -- I pulled a quilt out this morning for the first time so I can work in the early-morning dark and stay warm without turning on the heat and cooking those who are still in their beds.


I'm home more than away this fall, for the first time in several years, working away on the next novel each morning. I can't describe how grounding this feels... so let me show you. Home in autumn means time for making music with friends (happy birthday, Jim).









Home in Autumn means earthy foods like squash and wild rice and homemade cornbread; meals with heft, like lentil-eggplant soup and bananas and carrots fresh from the ground.








Home in autumn means my homemade cocoa recipe.














Home in autumn means I have time to notice the praying mantis who likes the colors of my house.














I admire his colors, too.














Home in autumn means I can be patient as I wait for a shot of the hummingbirds visiting the feeders, gathering fuel for the last of the insect-catching and their coming journey south.










The puppy can admire the lemon balm and columbine and wish I'd let him romp in the garden.














Home in Autumn means sitting on the front porch and admiring the last wag of the garden in September.

I can work in the garden at my leisure -- what a treat this is. And what a lot of work needs to be done, to put the garden to bed for the winter. I believe this rooster was cast from a photo of Rooster Herman in LOVE, RUBY LAVENDER.






Home in autumn means quilts on the table in Irene, with good friends and family to share bowls of chili, and the ease of good conversation.








Then, as evening falls and the temperature drops, home in autumn means lighting a fire in the chiminea on the back porch and listening to the crackle of sticks as the table is set for a simple Sunday night supper: leftover chili, cornbread, salad, and some freshly made miso soup.













The light in autumn slants in a heartbreaking way, doesn't it? I love here the gleam of the glow from the fire on the right, bookended by the soft yellow light coming through the kitchen windows on the left.

I love that I have time to notice this. How I have missed being present, home, in autumn.






From my seat in front of my white bowl of miso last night, I gazed back into the house to see Cleebo lounging on the table.















I didn't have the heart to move him. He had been missing for almost two weeks when he showed up a few days ago, hungry and ready to sink back into his routines.

He looked so comfortable, so serene, so at-home at home, and I know that feeling, I didn't want to disturb it. I know what it's like to want to come home in autumn.

A Little More Coleen

So much mail about yesterday's blog post, most of it about Comfort's Top Ten Tips and Coleen Salley -- thanks, y'all. I want to direct you to a wonderful, full obituary (Life Notice, Comfort would call it) in the Times Picayune yesterday.

Coleen often said to me, in that gravelly voice, "Honey, you KNOW I don't read those LONG books. I only read those books with PICTURES -- with three exceptions, and they are WONDERFUL, BEAUTIFUL, SOUTHERN exceptions. I read ALL the long books by YOU, Darlin', and all the long books by Kimberly, and that young girl... that young girl..." and then I'd say, "Kate," and she'd say, "Yes, Kate! I looove her!" Kimberly Willis Holt's remembrance is here. It's beautifully written. I read it and nodded at my own recollections of visiting Coleen... how she squeezed oranges for juice each morning, sent me on my way in the Quarter with a key for returning by lunch with muffalettas from Central Grocery, and the late-night gossip sessions she held court with until we were so tired we couldn't see straight.

A wonderful article about Coleen and her Mardi Gras exploits is here. Some of my remembrances of Coleen start with yesterdays's post and take off here. And there is more, much more, on the Web today.

For those wanting to send regards and condolences, this is from Coleen's daughter, Genevieve:

In lieu of flowers, Coleen wished donations be made to the Autism

Society of Oregon, P.O. Box 396, Marylhurst, OR 97036 or the Cancer

Services of Greater Baton Rouge, 550 Lobdell Ave., Baton Rouge, LA 70806.

In terms of cards, those can be sent to:

The Salley Family

921 Chartres St. #9

New Orleans, LA 70116

The funeral is at 10:30am on Saturday, July 27, from St. Jude's on Rampart St. in the French Quarter. A jazzzzz funeral, the kind of funeral The Queen requested. We will suit up and show up, and we will be enriched, one more time, with Coleen's larger-than-life presence.

I had the wild thought to say next, "We now return you to your regularly scheduled program," but that's not true. There is no regularly scheduled program. Life is what happens when you're making other plans. And, as Uncle Edisto tells us, death and life are inseparable, woven into a common fabric.

Coleen and I were working on an oral history, but mostly we laughed and forgot to turn on the tape recorder, while we roamed the Quarter, supped at Irene's (where the staff knew just how she liked her martinis -- five olives in a separate glass, so as not to dilute the gin), or Galatoires (where she had her own personal waiter), or her own courtyard, where we'd greet the neighbors as they passed in and out of our line of sight.

Often, while yet another story came to its loving or raucous conclusion, Coleen would lean across the table, cock her head to the side and fix me with soft, sincere eyes and say, "You know, Honey, I've lived A WONDERFUL LIFE, A GOOD LIFE. If I die tomorrow, I die a happy woman."

I knew she meant it; those words sustain me.

Top Ten Tips For First-Rate Funeral Behavior

In 2003 my mother died, and then my father died, and then my divorce was final, and I also turned 50. Some other stuff happened, too, but these things were earth-shattering, taken all together within a five-month period, and they all signaled a death... death of youth, parents, a long-term marriage.

I was beside myself with grief in 2003, and confessed to my editor, Liz Van Doren at Harcourt, that I was no longer a writer, that I couldn't write anything worth reading anymore, that I couldn't concentrate on anything but staying afloat, making a living in the world, and taking care of my kids. I had been plunged into this period of loss at the end of 2000, just weeks before my first books, FREEDOM SUMMER and LOVE, RUBY LAVENDER were published. My then-husband came to me in December of 2000, right after the launch party for FREEDOM SUMMER, and used the words "internet" and "soul mate." I thought my life was over.

I had no idea that it had just begun. Again. I had to learn -- again -- that every ending is a new beginning. I had to believe it. Cling to it. I learned to navigate a new world of my own making, as I began to find my way in schools, at conferences, with the new books in the world asking for attention, and eventually I began to write again.

"Put Elvis in a drawer," said Liz, referring to my novel in slow, fitful progress, "and make me a promise. You are forgetting you are a writer. Writers write. I want you to sit at your computer every day and ask yourself this question: 'what can I write?'. Will you do that?"

I promised her I would. And I did. And from that promise came EACH LITTLE BIRD THAT SINGS. I watched my mother waste away in front of me, and all I could think about was loss, loss, loss, when I heard a girl's voice: "I come from a family with a lot of dead people." I wrote it down. I dated the page. It was May 3.

I wrote ten pages filled with a loving, eccentric family who lived above a funeral home in Snapfinger, Mississippi. The little girl's name was Comfort, for I needed a lot of comfort. I sent the pages to Liz. She sent me a note, two words: "Keep Going."

And I did. I wrote through my 50th birthday on May 7, my mother's death on June 6, my father's death in September, the divorce decree in October; I wrote in airports and in hotel rooms and in bed. I wrote as I watched my youngest child graduate from high school, as I sold the house I had lived in for 25 years, as I moved from Maryland to Georgia, as I watched my old dog die... I wrote and wrote, and as I did, I began to laugh again.

Comfort was a sassy young lady. She thought she knew everything about death, right down to her Top Ten Tips for First-Rate Funeral Behavior, which I'm going to list here today, because I need them.


My friend Coleen Salley died yesterday. As I wrote to some friends, Coleen was a true champion of children's literature and its creators and caretakers. Her body of work (i.e. children's books) was small but significant. She was a storyteller extraordinaire, a professor and maven of children's literature, and a ferocious advocate for children and their tender hearts. She gave her whole self, her entire marvelous heart, to those she loved, and I was only one of very many who loved her right back.


I've written about Coleen so often on this blog that I won't repeat myself. You can revisit those posts here, though, if you want to. I did. Next Saturday morning, Sept. 27, there will be a jazz funeral in New Orleans, for Coleen. The Queen wanted it that way. I expect we'll all be on our best behavior:

Special to the Aurora County News
(Mr. Johnson: Please print this whenever you've got a slow news day)

Top Ten Tips for First-Rate Funeral Behavior

Life Notices and Tips by Comfort Snowberger:
Explorer, Recipe Tester, and Funeral Reporter

1. You don’t have to wear black to a funeral. Any old color is fine, just don’t wear a wedding dress or your torn shorts. No bare feet or flip flops. Comb your hair. The deceased (a fancy word for the person who died) will wear more makeup than all the mourners combined, so if you run out of time getting ready to come to the funeral, don’t worry about makeup.

2. Let’s talk about the deceased. The deceased lies, all dressed up, in the open casket (which is a nice word for a coffin) with his hair combed better than he ever combed it when he was alive. During the viewing, which happens the day before the funeral, people wander up to the open casket and stare at the deceased and say things like, “He looks so natural,” which is silly, because he DOESN’T look natural, he looks dead. But that’s okay, he’s supposed to be dead. But don’t say, “He looks so dead,” that’s not a good idea. Some people are queasy about looking at the deceased. Don’t worry about it. He doesn’t mind.

3. A visitation, which happens right before the funeral, is a time for folks to visit the family and to offer them comfort. The casket is closed during the visitation, so if you don't want to see your dead one laid out in the open casket, just come to the visitation and not the viewing. People who come to the viewings, visitations, and funerals are called the mourners (that’s you). The folks who are related to the person who died are called “the family” (they are also mourners). In Snapfinger this can be most of the folks in town. Be nice to the family and talk to them. At the viewing they are usually standing in The Serenity Suite next to the open casket (where the deceased is lying) and wishing the deceased would sit up and talk with them, but of course the deceased isn’t talking, so you have to do the talking. Here’s what to say to the family during the viewing, visitation, and funeral time: “I’m so sorry.” That’s all. Then move on. Don’t say, “He’s gone to a better place,” or “You must be relieved,” or “That shirt doesn’t go with those pants.”

4. This is not a good time to remind the family that the deceased owes you money.

5. You will find boxes of Kleenex stationed all around the visitation room. At Snowberger’s, there are also handkerchiefs available. Don’t fake your crying like some folks do – it’s impolite and people can tell. On the other hand, don’t genuinely sob so much that you call attention to yourself (you know who you are). The visitation is also a good time for laughing and remembering funny stories about the deceased. A visitation is sort of like a sad party, with the deceased being the center of attention.

6. Take all arguments and fist fights outside to the parking lot.

7. Here’s the order of events on the day of the funeral. One: Visitation at the funeral home for an hour before the funeral service. Two: Funeral service at the funeral home. Three: After the funeral, everybody at the funeral service gets into their cars and drives, in a long line, to the cemetery (you can walk it, but nobody feels like walking on a funeral day). Then there’s a graveside service at the Snapfinger Cemetery. Go to the bathroom before you get in your car to go to the cemetery, in case Preacher Powell gets long-winded at the cemetery.

8. Order flowers from Snowberger’s Flowers next door and they’ll be at the funeral home before you are, where they’ll dress up the visitation room. The family appreciates it (they don’t feel like decorating at a time like this), and they’ll keep the little cards of sympathy that come with the flowers. All the visitors (that’s you) will walk around in The Serenity Suite and read the cards that come with the flowers, to see whose flowers are the prettiest, whose are the biggest, whose are the best-smelling. It’s kind of like a contest. If you don’t send flowers, everybody will notice. Don’t send balloons or candy or presents. This isn’t a birthday party, it’s a funeral. Just send flowers.

9. Bring a covered dish of food with you to the funeral home. At Snowberger’s there is always a covered dish dinner back at the funeral home after the graveside service. Favorite dishes: Chicken casseroles and Jell-O molds of all colors and descriptions, anything with mandarin oranges in it, Vienna sausage and Ritz cracker trays, pimiento cheese sandwiches (cut into triangles), and dog treats for Dismay, Funeral Dog Extraordinaire. Nobody eats the asparagus or Brussels sprouts, and I don’t know why anybody would bring those to a covered dish supper (unless they’re just so depressed that they need to bring depressing food), so those of you who bring these unpopular dishes, please stop. Also, just a gustatory note (as Florentine Snowberger would say)-- you can never have too many brownies. Bring your recipes, too. The recipes for all these dishes and more will be printed in the forthcoming Fantastic (and Fun) Funeral Food for Families and Friends, by Florentine and Comfort Snowberger.

10. Remember that death is a natural thing – it’s all around us, as Edisto Snowberger always said. Don’t try to hide death from kids. If Grandpa has died, don’t say, “We lost Grandpa,” because little kids will want to know why don’t you go look for him. Just say “Grandpa died.” Don’t say “Grandpa passed” either, because we’ll wonder what grade he was in. Just say he died. We get it. Kids are better at death than grown ups give them credit for unless the kid is Peach Shuggars. Discourage Peach Shuggars from coming to your funeral. Discourage Peach Shuggars from visiting Snapfinger, Mississippi. Discourage Peach, period.

If They'd Just Listen To Me

I've disabled comments, in an effort to streamline mail. You'll see my email address now listed in the left-hand column. If you're using my old email address, please keep doing so; all mail will migrate to one address. Blah blah blah. Housekeeping!

Here's what I'm thinking about this morning as regards the novel and the sixties:

When I was a kid, I used to lie in bed at night, after saying my prayers with my mother listening, after reading under the covers with a flashlight, after listening to my parents' television in the bedroom next to me sing out "Heeeeeere's Johnny!"... after all that, I drifted to sleep to a letter I composed in my head, to Nikita Khruschev. It was 1962, and in school I was ducking and covering under my desk, practicing for an air raid, afraid of the Russians and rockets and war.

The idea of peace seemed so simple to me. I was sure that if I could just sit down with Chairman Khruschev and President Kennedy in a room together all by ourselves, I could explain to them how easy it was to understand that we shouldn't hurt one another, because we all had mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and sons and daughters and... well, we all liked meatloaf and potatoes and we all liked to play kickball or baseball or lie on our backs in the grass and spy rabbits or cars or George Washington in the clouds.

I'd lie in bed, staring at the pink canopy in shadow above me, and marvel at how I could see this and they could not. I also thought I must possess some sort of mystical, magical something that allowed me to see this -- it was so clear! And yet I never talked about this to anyone. It was just something I knew, and yet at the same time I felt wildly unsure of saying it out loud to anyone... I mean, who was I to know such a thing, after all? I was nine years old.

In October 1962, Americans gathered around television sets and listened to JFK tell them about the threat of attack from Russia using missles from Cuba, and I fell asleep composing my letter to President Kennedy, asking him to allow me some time to speak with Chairman Khruschev.

I never wrote that letter... but maybe, in my novel, Franny does. That's what I'm thinking about this morning.

Have you ever had that thought, "if they'd just listen to me, I could explain it"? What did you want to explain? And to whom? Write a page about it in your journal or writer's notebook. Try to make it about one clear moment in time. See what comes up. You never know where it might take you:

"If they'd just listen to me, I could explain it, I could help." Were you scared? Were you angry? Were you... what? Write from your head, your heart, and your gut, the three places that story comes from: what you know and remember, what you feel, and what you can imagine. Then -- share it with someone. A story becomes complete when it is shared.

photo from the U.S. State Dept. in the JFK Library and Museum, Boston

Teaching Personal Narrative Writing

We interrupt this program to catch up on the mail.

I'd like to offer some thoughts on teaching personal narrative writing, in an effort to gather the teaching information into one document, and then I'll go back to catching up on the mail one letter at a time. I've got an unpublished page on my website that details my teaching work, and if you want more information after reading this, shoot me an email.

I've been teaching writing for over 20 years. I've seen so many rubrics, guides, assessments, techniques and tools come and go, and I've tried my hand at teaching all genres, but I was a freelancer first and the essay is my first love -- here is an essay I wrote for Hallmark Magazine in February '08 -- it's an example of what I'm about to talk about -- writing personal narrative, writing short, writing from the three places that story comes from: the head (what you know and remember), the heart (what you feel) and the gut (what you can imagine). (Hmmm... the link at Hallmark appears to be broken -- here's my blog entry about that one clear moment.)

I teach only personal narrative writing, as it's what I know best, it's where I started (and I believe it is the springboard to creative writing), it's what schools are mandated to teach, and it's the kind of writing that -- when understood -- brings much personal satisfaction and a vital sense of accomplishment. Personal narrative gives us a storyline. It helps us see how we belong, how we are -- or aren't -- safe in the world, and how we love, how we fear, how we want to change, too... personal narrative reveals to us our hearts and gives us all we need to know to understand ourselves and one another. I always say, it's hard to make someone your enemy when you have shared your stories honestly with one another.

I often use poetic forms when teaching personal narrative, but we always end up with a narrative, a story, beginning-middle-end, short, one clear moment in time, that comes out of life experience. Kindergarteners can do this. So can you.

I teach teachers, in day-long or after-school workshops, I teach at conferences, and I teach always on-site, never through the mail or email (although I love to see finished narratives arrive in my mailbox -- what a motherlode! How amazing they are!). In schools I target grades 3 and up, and particularly grades 3-6. I have taught high school writing and I spent some time teaching "Writing Techniques For Teachers, ECED 422" at Towson University in Baltimore, Maryland (Hello, my amazing students!), but, if pressed, I will declare that my teaching sweet-spot is upper elementary school. Oh, how I love those emerging writers.

When I teach, your students become my students for a day or for up to one week. I assign homework. I teach each grade, and each class, differently. I work closely with classroom teachers -- we are partners -- and school administrators to achieve your goals... we work out beforehand what those goals are, and we go from there, tweaking as we go. We work hard and we have fun. There's lots of laughter, and sometimes there are tears, especially when someone taps into a meaningful vein, and others are there to listen to that story, to support that writer, to support the writing community we are creating.

Here are some photos (and a narrative!) from a day spent at Mantua Elementary School in Fairfax, Virginia last year, working with the entire fourth grade, teachers and students, in a two-day personal narrative residency. I'll be back at Mantua in January, to work with the third grade students and teachers -- I'm so looking forward to it.

Last month, I worked with the lower-school teachers at Heritage School in Newnan, Georgia, and last August at Wayne Avenue School in Dunn, North Carolina, with the fourth- and fifth-grade teachers (Hey, Karen!). A look at my calendar page on my website will give you an idea of the different residencies and workshops I've done over the years. These days, even an author visit to a school is conducted as a writing day; it's instructional time, even in an assembly program. Sometimes there are unexpected results. :>

I am well-versed in the tenets of six-traits, four blocks, umpteen other assessments, theories, rubrics I've worked with. When I teach I pull from them, as well as from some of my teaching heroes, such as Lucy Calkins, Donald Graves, Katie Wood Ray, Georgia Heard, Ralph Fletcher, Shelley Harwayne, Nancie Atwell, Nancy Johnson and Cyndi Giorgis, and many, many more whose books adorn my office bookshelves and have been lovingly and enthusiastically absorbed.

But my most important teachers have been the writers who write personal narratives so well: E.B. White, Patricia Leimbach, Anna Quindlen, Erma Bombeck (yes), Jean Shepherd, John Gould, Noel Perrin, Donald McCaig, Annie Dillard, Gladys Taber, Doris Kearns Goodwin, Joan Didion, Phyllis Theroux -- I know I'm leaving out some of my favorites. There is a reason I had Jim Williams build me so many bookcases in this house. I need them! I have collected my heroes for so long, and have spent so many years, in the trenches, pulling apart their work.

For me, this learning to read like a writer has been just as valuable -- more so, dare I say -- than any how-to book on writing (although BIRD BY BIRD comes close). I think we need both, and that's how I teach; some modeling, some instruction, and always the questions: What makes writing good? -- Let's put together our own list. And look at this author -- listen to that voice! How does she do that? How can you do that, too?

This is an organic way of learning -- absorbing what is going on in a text, what it says to you as a reader, AND as a writer. "How does he DO that?" is the quest I was on as I learned to write... I am still learning, always learning, and "how does she do that" is my holy grail. And, this search for the answers and integrating them enthusiastically into my writing, then leaving the models behind and charting my own unique path... this is the way I teach.

Oh, I do keep in mind those traits and blocks and more -- I know them by heart. And they are all taught intuitively when you love the work you are doing and have torn apart text after text, have been trained to listen for voice, to notice word choice, to appreciate sentence rhythm and fluency, to analyze structure, and to pass on these skills daily, throughout the day, to your students... it becomes second nature.

It amazes me that we place so much emphasis on testing and writing in schools, and yet, in undergraduate teacher education, we so rarely teach the art of "how to teach writing" to prospective teachers. And yet, we hold these teachers accountable for so much. They step into the classroom inheriting so much that is beyond their purview. And they must step up the plate, and teach each child how to write.

Writing is hard. Good writing is especially hard. Consistently good writing requires consistent practice, consistent attention, consistent love (sort of like learning how to love a new puppy) which brings with it a passion for stories, and we all have stories. We ARE stories, waiting to be found, and we are our own best documentarians. Ideas are everywhere. They are the air we breathe.

All the how-to books in the world cannot compensate for daily reading and writing, and daily examination of how a writer accomplishes her task of producing that finished piece from the rough first draft of her imagination. And that process is best taught using models of "what makes writing good."

In the classroom I read and read and read, and ask question after question -- and model for my students what I want them to do. I have them write short -- you can teach every convention of good writing by writing short. Revision is easier to comprehend if you write short, one clear moment in time.

Try, I say. It's hard, but it's so rewarding. Risk. Let's see how such-and-so does it. YOU have a story to tell as well, many stories... what are they? Get out your notebooks. Let's get to work.

And So We Got A Puppy... and Twitter

I'm fiddling with the website, the blog, and twitter. Tomorrow I'll post the next personal canon post -- I've already written it, and I can't wait to introduce to you a trilogy of books that has meant so much to me. Not part of the southern personal canon, but part of the historical fiction personal canon. So... tomorrow, then?

In the meantime, I'm twittering here, and I'm linking the twitter posts to this blog, so if you are visiting the actual blog on the web (instead of using a reader or reading on email), you'll see my twitter updates in the top left column. What do you think?

It's all Wanda Jewell's fault (thank you, Wanda!). We had so much fun at the twitter-inspired event at the Decatur Book Festival, that I'm hooked on twitter (for now, anyway) and I'm thinking of using these 140-characters-or-less updates (the definition of twitter) daily on the blog.

They won't come into your email inbox or your reader, but if you want to know more about the day-to-day of what's happening as I create a writing life here in Atlanta, please stop by the blog -- or twitter -- and take a look. I'll put a pitcher of iced tea on the kitchen table and a couple of frosted glasses. Tell me what you're up to.

If you are already on twitter, you can visit my page and "follow" me -- or sign in with a new twitter page of your own, start twittering, and follow me, too! I've noticed there are lots and lots of children's book authors on twitter already, publishers are there with their 140-characters-or-less announcements of new books, The New York Times Book Review is there, everyone who ran for president this year has a twitter page -- it goes on and on... I love this short-and-sweet, to-the-point format. But I still love my blog stories as well -- remember, story is everything... so I'll still be here, blogging away at least once a week, usually twice.

If you're following me already on my twitter site you'll notice I mentioned the word PUPPY a few times. As if the house isn't already full-to-overflowing, with daughter Hannah through with school and home again, friend Richard living in the laundry room downstairs (it looks like a beatnik hideout now), husband Jim recovering (nicely) from surgery and beginning to gig again, and a deadline looming for the first of the Sixties trilogy novels.


But my theory is (and my experience has been), no better time to create a bit more chaos (if you must; if you feel so compelled; if you just know you NEED a puppy) than when the chaos level is chugging along at full tilt.

And no time like the present for a puppy, when you've got great boarders who happen to drain the orange juice and eat the last eggs and use up all the hot water (they are wonderful, truly -- this week's dinners are home cooked by Hannah), and who ask to be useful, helpful. Well! Guess who is sleeping with the puppy every night? Thank you, thank you, Richard. A beatnik puppy den, downstairs.



But it's not all work. Let's face it, there's just nothing like having a puppy eat your ear.









Anyway. We've got a puppy. He's nine weeks old, a standard poodle puppy. We keep calling him puppy... he needs a name. Any suggestions?

One Wide Sky Love

Here is my child, the smallest (so far) of five, a babe who was well-nourished and nurtured, but who failed to thrive in the way her bigger siblings did -- her bigger siblings being FREEDOM SUMMER; LOVE, RUBY LAVENDER; EACH LITTLE BIRD THAT SINGS; and THE AURORA COUNTY ALL-STARS -- showboats, all.

ONE WIDE SKY is shy. She is quiet, and languid, and ever-so-gentle... she doesn't presume, and she takes longer to ease into a conversation, so sometimes she feels less loved... and as her mother, sometimes I feel she is overlooked.

Not this weekend. In all the lovely hoopla that was the Decatur Book Festival this weekend, one moment shines as "what it's all about," for me, why I do what I do, and why I try to allow each book-child to become whomever she needs to be without too much interference. I am fond of saying, "When a book leaves my hands, it no longer belongs to me, it belongs to the reader." And I mean that. But sometimes, particularly with ONE WIDE SKY, I wonder... who is that reader? And where is the love?

On Sunday, after I presented on the children's stage, after I signed copies of all the other books, here came a wee family to the signing tent: A mother, a father, a toddler girl. And in the little girl's hands was a well-worn copy of ONE WIDE SKY... the book of mine that was not even on the book table, not even for sale.

The toddler, safe in her mother's arms and none-too-sure of me, was named Josie. Her mother, Jan, said, "I almost cried when I saw you were going to be here. ONE WIDE SKY is Josie's favorite book. I read it to her multiple times every night before bed, and when we get to "three kisses, soft and sweet," Josie kisses me three times...."

WELL. There went my heart. Josie of the cherubic face and bouncing curls, I am your biggest fan. Thank you for loving my quiet little book-child, the one who doesn't jump up and down for attention, but who waits for you to find her. You found her, and I am so glad.

It's a good book, isn't it? 88 words in rhymed couplets, a hymn to the natural world and family, dedicated to my children, and all the days we spent outside, under one wide sky. When I finished the book, I envisioned perhaps a peace anthem, with "one wide sky" over, say, the U.S., and "two clouds glide by" over, say, Ethiopia. "Three songbirds sail the air" in Afghanistan, maybe, and "four fir trees over there" in... where? China?

But what I communicated to my editor at Harcourt, Liz Van Doren, was how I wrote the book while sitting outside for many days, all day long, in my backyard in Frederick, Maryland, where I lived for 25 years, raising a family and putting up a tent every summer, all summer, in which we would sleep sometimes, backyard camping.

Then the art arrived on my desk in the fall of 2002 -- beautiful artwork by Tim Bowers, but not at all the vision I had for ONE WIDE SKY. I had written a lullaby, and Tim Bowers had turned my words into a frenetic day for a family of squirrels, squirrels I do not even mention in the text. There is a story in the art that doesn't exist in the text, and when I first pulled Tim's art out of the large FedEx envelope it arrived in, I burst into tears of dismay. "You're going to love it," Liz had assured me. I called her. "Help me learn to love it like you do," I said. We compromised by putting "A Bedtime Lullaby" under the title, but I was not happy.

Here was my book-child, turning out not-at-all the way I had envisioned her. She had a slow-to-warm first year, and an almost invisible second year. She failed to earn back her advance, year after year, and I ached for her. At some point, I found copies of the book at Book Depot for $2.43 each -- I bought all one hundred of them. I wanted them to have a home, and I gave almost all of them away, mostly to friends and to school libraries, where they would be -- I hoped -- read and loved. But I was not sure.


I wrote ONE WIDE SKY -- the only book of mine that is not inspired by my own childhood -- because I wanted to distill, somehow, the magical quality that surrounded the days when my children were growing up, particularly when I had one child in high school, one in middle school, one in elementary school, and one in diapers. They were 15, 13, 5, and 1. For about two years, I called these "the glory days," and I wanted always to remember them... so I took out my notebook and began to chronicle those backyard summers, summers when we had a garden, a sandbox, a treehouse, a tent, a fire, hot dogs and marshmallows on sticks, overnights under the stars, bumblebees all day long, and a steady stream of dogs and cats to play with and miss when they were gone.

I had read Molly Bang's TEN NINE EIGHT and had been so impressed with it, that I had typed the words into my computer, and had sat for days with the printed version, tearing it apart with a pencil and scissors, to see "how did she do that?"

ONE WIDE SKY was the result of that study. This is the short version of how the book came to be... when I speak in schools, I use SKY to teach story structure: beginning-middle-end, 1 to 10 and back again, morning-noon-night. Word choice: "Nine shadows butter the yard." I worked hard for that verb, I tell my students; that word is a reward of revision.

Today, countless kindergarteners have danced with me to ONE WIDE SKY, courtesy of the music written and recorded by Jim Pearce, who read the book in galleys and said, "Those words suggest music." Now I take that music with me to schools, and I tell students that story is danced, and sung, and painted, and told, and written -- story is everything, I say, do you see? And we have the best time.

I have learned to love this book-child with a passion that borders on rabid... I have learned to love her looks, too. As the years have crept by, ONE WIDE SKY has found its niche. Parents and grandparents buy it for baby gifts. How many times have I inscribed the book "welcome to the world!"

And, I have discovered that kindergarteners adore SKY -- they love the art! They love those squirrels. They do. They laugh and laugh at their antics. Maybe Liz knew something that I didn't. Those kindergarteners never get tired of dancing to the music, singing the words... They adore the whole shebang. I have learned that kindergarteners adore... everything.

I wish I had had my camera on Sunday, to take a photo of Josie and her family. As I opened Josie's copy of ONE WIDE SKY, I felt the backing give -- the book had been read so many times the spine was breaking. That's big love. That's the kind of love I have for ONE WIDE SKY, my quiet child. I inscribed the book, "For Josephine.... count!" and I closed it gently, handed it back, looked at Josie's mother:

"I have music for ONE WIDE SKY. Would you like it?"

It's already on its way. Who says my smallest child isn't growing up? She's just taking her time, finding her audience, one meaningful reader (dancer, singer, painter) after another. I'll continue to be her champion. Who knows whose heart she's touching right this moment. I can live with that. That's exactly what I DO live for, with my books: Readers... someone with whom to share the story.