One of my favorite settings for the books I write is a park in my imagination called Gill Park. I have invited people from all over to write about their favorite parks.
My favorite park is on the outskirts of Blue Earth. It has a circular walking path and a walking path in the woods. The leaves have changed colors and are falling off the trees. There is a flower garden that people volunteer to weed at the park. Our club had a picnic last May and it was really windy that evening.
J.G., Blue Earth, Minnesota
My son is five now and is really starting to get into books about adventures....Our favorite park is just across the street from us...I draw a picture of something we are going to search for at the park or guessing games on what we are going to do at the park. It makes for a fun morning or afternoon and gets us out of our apartment. Fall is the best time with all the leaves, acorns, and pinecones. When we see a bird's nest, we will try to get up and take a picture of it to put in our "Fun Days" scrapbook.
N.G., Hiawatha, Indiana
Our favorite is called Two Rivers Park. It is just off the interstate but you'd never know it. There is a three mile paved walking course, where you'll see serious runners, casual joggers, families on bikes, or folks just meandering through enjoying the day. It is very common to see a herd of deer as you walk along in total peace and quiet, broken up by the occasional hiss of an armadillo. We love the quick respite from the busy day.
J.S. Mabelvale, Arizona
I'll tell you about the park I most remember growing up in San Antonio, Texas. Brackenridge Park is a large park (433 acres) on the north side of San Antonio. Inside the park are the White Museum, the Japanese Sunken Gardens, and the San Antonio Zoo. There's also a train that takes you through the entire park with stops along the way for the various sites--you can get on and off at each of these stations. That was always something I looked forward to each time we went to Brackenridge Park. Whether we were going "just" to the zoo, or going for a picnic, or going to the Witte Museum. I always wanted to ride that train. Because the park is quite large and the tracks go through some wooded areas, it has the dubious distinction of being the "victim" of the last train robbery in America. Yes, in July 1970 two armed and masked robbers stopped the train in a secluded area and robbed the passengers! Several of the passengers thought they were actors and just laughed at them, but they were serious. They were eventually apprehended and sentenced...
FTB, Bayside, Wisconsin
I love my park. It's at the end of my block and my brother has played some of his baseball games there too. Then my grandparents all come watch too. When we had a dog, we went there everyday to throw her the ball. She loved it too. She was so fast!
C.R. Blaine, Minnesota
PLEASE ADD YOUR DESCRIPTION OF YOUR FAVORITE PARK TO THE BLOG!
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Children's Lit Festival
Yesterday I went to the Keene State Children's Literature Festival. Always good to hear what people immersed in the art have to say. I liked Jane's three R's for writing poetry: Revise, revitalize, reinvent. I liked Lita's, "I show up every day." I liked hearing Katharine Paterson read from A Bridge to Terabithia. A group of seventh and eighth graders and I put on the play years back. I can still hear the girl who played Maybelle shouting, "I want my Twinkies!" It was a wonderful project! I liked seeing the array of books and illustrators who have influenced Beth Krommes. And Lois Lowry seems to me like a warrior out of Homer. She's seen it all, and sits by the fire, flames flickering in her face, telling the tales...
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Writing Workshops
I love to give writing workshops. I begin by working with a group as a whole and combining improvisational techniques with brainstorming. I long ago took a workshop with the great teller of tales, Jane Yolen, and she encouraged us, when we were starting out a story, to think of the four elements: earth, air, fire, and water. I have found this to be a wonderful jumping off point for young writers. We discuss what setting might be inspired by each element and then vote on one as a group. Working with a group like this takes the pressure off individuals and everyone becomes invested in the outcome. By starting with a sense of play, even reluctant students begin to take creative risks.
As a drama teacher for most of my thirty years of teaching, I learned that playing is creating. The best writing comes out of a spirit of play that is then shaped and revised. And as a rather shy person myself, I enjoy helping shy people find their voice.
Here is an affirmation from a fellow writing teacher, Leif Riddington:
"The writing that Amy Gordon inspires in children sets imaginations aflame...she activates children into self-expression before they know what has happened to them..." Leif Riddington, Director of Summerwrite!Camp, Western Massachusetts Writing Project
Let me know if you are interested! I also love to talk about where ideas for writing come from.
Here's to that spirit of play!!!
As a drama teacher for most of my thirty years of teaching, I learned that playing is creating. The best writing comes out of a spirit of play that is then shaped and revised. And as a rather shy person myself, I enjoy helping shy people find their voice.
Here is an affirmation from a fellow writing teacher, Leif Riddington:
"The writing that Amy Gordon inspires in children sets imaginations aflame...she activates children into self-expression before they know what has happened to them..." Leif Riddington, Director of Summerwrite!Camp, Western Massachusetts Writing Project
Let me know if you are interested! I also love to talk about where ideas for writing come from.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
At the Crossroads (2)
In my new life, I didn't know I had left behind my childhood, but it took me awhile to adjust to the fact that my new room had its own air-conditioning unit and its own bathroom. I had my very own door to the balcony that ran along the entire side of the house. When I stepped out onto it, I could see the Corcovado, the rock mountain at the top of the hill above the house with the statue of Christ perched on top, arms outstretched protecting the city.
( This image from the blog of viajantesdaterra.wordpress.com/.../)
My skin against the warm air did not feel like my own skin, but I didn't know that was because I had molted.
On the very first morning of this new life, I ate breakfast alone at one end of the balcony while my mother still slept. My father had already left for his office. A servant in a white jacket and black trousers brought me a slice of papaya and a roll. His name, I learned, was Idvigus. There was a huge tree that draped its fronds over the balustrade--in my memory it is a flamboyant tree, but the word "jacaranda" also comes to mind. They are both similarly exotic names, and it seemed like an exotic tree to me. Just beyond were two royal palms and several banana trees.
The house was four storeys high and my parent and I lived on the third floor. Double doors closed us off from the official part of the house; this was where we had our private sitting-room. It even had some familiar furiniture: a glassfront bookcase and some end tables and a couch that had all made the long journey down to South America. It didn't matter that I hadn't read the books in the bookcase--the familiar navy blue spines with the gold lettering were like old friends. The couch had once served as my horse.
Beyond the double doors, the hallway curved along endlessly, door after door opening onto bedroom after bedroom. Each bedroom had a personality of its own. When we didn't have guests, I could inhabit any one of them that I liked.
In my new life, I quickly learned not to make my own bed. My bed was made by Elvira. My clothes were hung up by Elvira. The clothes were all new, and designed for a tropical climate. No more sweaters--at least not bulky, woolen ones. I wore more dresses and blouses and skirts now. There made of cotton or silk. I did not feel like myself in these new clothes, but of course I was not my old self anymore. When the clothes stopped being new, Elvira sewed on missing buttons. She pressed my socks and underwear. If I removed a book from a bookshelf, it was returned to the bookshelf the next time I went to look for it.
Back in childhood, if my father wasn't home, we ate supper in the pink kitchen at the pink formica table while my mother served up hot dogs and beans. If my father was home, we ate in the dining room around a polished, shiny table. I want to say it was mahogony, but I really don't know. We would have meals like peas, mashed potatos, and roast beef. My mother sat at one end of the table, my father at the other. My brothers would sit on one side, and my sister and I at the other. The conversations were often hard to follow and I counted the peas for something to do.
So, slightly formal dining arrangements weren't completely foreign to me, but now, in my new life, "formality" would have to be redefined. There were, first of all, all the place settings: The plates were a stark, bone white, with a gold American eagle at the top, gold stars marching around the rim. Instead of counting peas, I now counted stars. And there were so many things: A large dinner plate, a soup bowl, a small plate for bread, a plate for salad, a plate for dessert. Small fork, large fork, small spoon, large spoon, small knife, large knife. Linen napkins. Water glass. Finger bowls. Yes, there were crystal finger bowls with a delicate scent of lemon rising up from them.
It was very hard to get used to being served by Idvigus while I ate.
And who did all the washing up?
( This image from the blog of viajantesdaterra.wordpress.com/.../)
My skin against the warm air did not feel like my own skin, but I didn't know that was because I had molted.
On the very first morning of this new life, I ate breakfast alone at one end of the balcony while my mother still slept. My father had already left for his office. A servant in a white jacket and black trousers brought me a slice of papaya and a roll. His name, I learned, was Idvigus. There was a huge tree that draped its fronds over the balustrade--in my memory it is a flamboyant tree, but the word "jacaranda" also comes to mind. They are both similarly exotic names, and it seemed like an exotic tree to me. Just beyond were two royal palms and several banana trees.
The house was four storeys high and my parent and I lived on the third floor. Double doors closed us off from the official part of the house; this was where we had our private sitting-room. It even had some familiar furiniture: a glassfront bookcase and some end tables and a couch that had all made the long journey down to South America. It didn't matter that I hadn't read the books in the bookcase--the familiar navy blue spines with the gold lettering were like old friends. The couch had once served as my horse.
Beyond the double doors, the hallway curved along endlessly, door after door opening onto bedroom after bedroom. Each bedroom had a personality of its own. When we didn't have guests, I could inhabit any one of them that I liked.
In my new life, I quickly learned not to make my own bed. My bed was made by Elvira. My clothes were hung up by Elvira. The clothes were all new, and designed for a tropical climate. No more sweaters--at least not bulky, woolen ones. I wore more dresses and blouses and skirts now. There made of cotton or silk. I did not feel like myself in these new clothes, but of course I was not my old self anymore. When the clothes stopped being new, Elvira sewed on missing buttons. She pressed my socks and underwear. If I removed a book from a bookshelf, it was returned to the bookshelf the next time I went to look for it.
Back in childhood, if my father wasn't home, we ate supper in the pink kitchen at the pink formica table while my mother served up hot dogs and beans. If my father was home, we ate in the dining room around a polished, shiny table. I want to say it was mahogony, but I really don't know. We would have meals like peas, mashed potatos, and roast beef. My mother sat at one end of the table, my father at the other. My brothers would sit on one side, and my sister and I at the other. The conversations were often hard to follow and I counted the peas for something to do.
So, slightly formal dining arrangements weren't completely foreign to me, but now, in my new life, "formality" would have to be redefined. There were, first of all, all the place settings: The plates were a stark, bone white, with a gold American eagle at the top, gold stars marching around the rim. Instead of counting peas, I now counted stars. And there were so many things: A large dinner plate, a soup bowl, a small plate for bread, a plate for salad, a plate for dessert. Small fork, large fork, small spoon, large spoon, small knife, large knife. Linen napkins. Water glass. Finger bowls. Yes, there were crystal finger bowls with a delicate scent of lemon rising up from them.
It was very hard to get used to being served by Idvigus while I ate.
And who did all the washing up?
Friday, October 16, 2009
At the Crossroads (1)
AT THE CROSSROADS
I moved to Rio de Janeiro in 1961.
I was still there in 1962, the year Brazil won the World Cup, even though Pele was injured in the first game. Amarildo came in for him, and Garrincha, one of the best wingers of all time, finished top-joint scorer.
But I didn't write about soccer in my diary. At thirteen, my preoccupations were elsewhere.
"At gym we were throwing medicine balls," I wrote the same day as the first-round match between host Chile and Italy. "I got hit on the head, and then when I went to change, Chris H. walked by me and said, 'You sure got clobbered out there!' I looove Chris. He is soo nice."
I also didn't write, "I left behind my childhood." But that is precisely what happened during that first year in a new country.
Back in my childhood, I had lived in a house where I made my own bed.
I lived on a wooded hill in a neighborhood, and we, the kids who lived there, had been free to roam, delighting in new schemes; we were transcendentalists, finding God in the swirl of the maple leaves. We went ice-skating on ponds in the winter and rode bikes, as Davy Crockett or Tonto or the Lone Ranger; back on a grassy patch of green we called the Common, we played Spud and Kick the Can.
At night, in this childhood, I curled up in a cocoon of a messy bedroom with a cat at my feet and a dog on the floor beside me. Somewhere in the house, there was my mother and father and two brothers and a sister.
In the winter, the radiators ticked, a strangely comforting sound. In the spring, the scent of peonies rose up through the open windows; in summer, the crickets sang.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Playing
How did cars become gods in our civilization? We (my boys and I) wanted to express our feeling that perhaps cars are not gods. This was not too long after 9/11. There was so much sadness, and we thought we could cheer things up a bit. We were also making a political statement. Conflict over oil has terrible consequences.
It was a white car, too, just asking to be painted.
We were inspired by Wassily Kandinsky. He was a painter who was born in Moscow and spent his childhood in Odessa (where Ooma always said she was from.)
Primary colors--red, blue, and yellow, tend to be inherently playful, don't you think?
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
The Bags of Fortune
This entry was supposed to be the first entry of the blog but I somehow deleted it. I also deleted the fact that Deborah Sloan helped me set up the blog. If you are at all interested in children's books, I strongly recommend her sites, www.authorbuzz.com/kids & www.thepicnic-basket.com.
Today in the Bags of Fortune, I found some photographs of my grandmother, Dorothy Gordon, (Ooma), in costume.
I would say that my grandmother liked to play...and playing leads to creativity...Friday, October 2, 2009
If You Can't Play the Violin, Then Write!
There are always gifts that are handed down to us by our families. My grandmother Ooma was a singer. One of my earliest memories of her was singing songs from Gilbert and Sullivan. My father played the cello. My sister played the flute. One of my brothers played the violin. My other brother played the oboe, the clarinet, and the piano. Well, everyone played the piano. I played the...I played. I think I always wanted to be just plain playing rather than practicing the piano.
My feelings about piano lessons came out in The Secret Life of a Boarding School Brat (Holiday House). Here is the scene between Lydia and her music teacher, Mrs. Clarke:
"What have you been working on?" Mrs. Clarke asked. I was going to tell her I hadn't practiced in awhile. I actually started to, but her perfume and bad breath made me not want to open my mouth. I was having trouble even breathing. I barely manged to start the Clementi which was the last thing I had been working on a hundred years ago. I started to play, but my hands weren't connected to my brain. I saw them reflected on the piano just above the keys. They looked like two lumpy fish. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Mrs. Clarke smiling in that fake way she has when she is impatient.
"We haven't practiced much, have we?" she said.
"No we haven't," I said...I curled my hands into fists.
* * * *
"Well," she said with a big sigh, "do get on with it."
So I uncurled my hands and started playing again. I didn't care anymore how bad it was. I played for awhile.All of a sudden she stuck her arm right across my face, pointed to the music, and said, "Lydia, this is the fifth time you have missed the B-flat. I have been counting."
That's when I felt the prick in my chest, and the black and white piano keys were all blurry and mixed up with Mrs. Norma Clarke's white face, her black sweater, and the white flecks of dandruff on her black sweater. All I could smell was her perfume and bad breath, and here was this dry flaky arm across my face. The next thing I knew, I bit her. Oh ugh ugh ugh. I can still feel her dry flaky skin in my mouth...
Mrs. Norma Clarke stood up from the piano bench and yelled, "She bit me, she bit me!"
In The Gorillas of Gill Park (Holiday House),Will asks Mr. Pettingill what his favorite instrument is.
He considered a moment. "I think it used to be the sax. Or the trumpet. You can communicate joy with these two almost better than anything else--you know, a wild kind of joy. The kind that makes you want to dance or do handsprings."
My feelings about piano lessons came out in The Secret Life of a Boarding School Brat (Holiday House). Here is the scene between Lydia and her music teacher, Mrs. Clarke:
"What have you been working on?" Mrs. Clarke asked. I was going to tell her I hadn't practiced in awhile. I actually started to, but her perfume and bad breath made me not want to open my mouth. I was having trouble even breathing. I barely manged to start the Clementi which was the last thing I had been working on a hundred years ago. I started to play, but my hands weren't connected to my brain. I saw them reflected on the piano just above the keys. They looked like two lumpy fish. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Mrs. Clarke smiling in that fake way she has when she is impatient.
"We haven't practiced much, have we?" she said.
"No we haven't," I said...I curled my hands into fists.
* * * *
"Well," she said with a big sigh, "do get on with it."
So I uncurled my hands and started playing again. I didn't care anymore how bad it was. I played for awhile.All of a sudden she stuck her arm right across my face, pointed to the music, and said, "Lydia, this is the fifth time you have missed the B-flat. I have been counting."
That's when I felt the prick in my chest, and the black and white piano keys were all blurry and mixed up with Mrs. Norma Clarke's white face, her black sweater, and the white flecks of dandruff on her black sweater. All I could smell was her perfume and bad breath, and here was this dry flaky arm across my face. The next thing I knew, I bit her. Oh ugh ugh ugh. I can still feel her dry flaky skin in my mouth...
Mrs. Norma Clarke stood up from the piano bench and yelled, "She bit me, she bit me!"
The truth is, I never bit my piano teacher, and although I never got beyond Clementi's I'm-not-even-sure
what number Sonata, I love music, and music plays constantly in the background of my Gill Park books. "It was the park music that did it," says one of the characters. "Growing up with it all my life--that's why I'm a musician now." Well, I couldn't play music so I write about it.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
A.A.Milne and Friends
My grandmother initially found radio very disorienting and alienating.
She said, "There's no audience, no people...I think a stage person always needs that relationship between an audience and an artist...There was this tiny round thing in front of me. I said, "But nothing will happen. Don't tell me that I sing into this thing and then it goes out and someone hears it. He laughed at me. He said, "Of course you will be heard by more people than you realize."
...the thrill that thousands of miles away your voice was being heard is something that is to this day indescribable to me...
THIS FEELS A LOT LIKE A DESCRIPTION OF BLOGGING TO ME..
(For a full copy of the interview: http://chnm.gmu.edu/courses/hist409/radio/gordon.html
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
First Things First
My very first book was The Talking Bird and the Story Pouch. (Harper and Row 1987) The Storyteller really does not want to go out and collect stories, although that is his job. He'd MUCH rather go fishing.
Amy Lawson was my name then; it is Amy Gordon now, but that is another story. Many people know very clearly what soil their families are rooted in. But my grandmother on my father's side--we called her Ooma--never quite told us the same story about where she came from. Somewhere in Eastern Europe. What I do know is that she was an amazing storyteller, and judging from this old photograph, she must have loved fishing, too.
My grandmother, Dorothy Gordon, sang folk songs for children all around the world. She was the “Song and Story Lady” on the Children’s Corner, where she narrated and dramatized folk stories. In 1939 she produced Yesterday’s Children, a program that featured the favorite childhood books of a famous person. After telling or dramatizing the story, my grandmother would have that week’s guest explain why he or she had loved that story as a child.
Ooma also had her own TV show called "Dorothy Gordon's Youth Forum." She always insisted that the Youth Forum include children from all racial, religious, and social backgrounds. She invited an adult “expert” on each program. Among the illustrious guests were Averell Harriman, Dwight D. Eisenhower, Golda Meir, Norman Thomas,William O. Douglas, and Ralph Bunche.
Ooma had also met A.A. Milne, the creator of the Winnie the Pooh books, and when we were kids, I think that made us a feel especially connected to books we already loved.
E.H. Shepard's illustration from Winnie-the-Pooh (original version from 1926)
In the Talking Bird and the Story Pouch the Storyteller finally goes out and starts telling stories, but the Kulloo-Makoo comes along and steals his words and eats them. As you can see, he has a very big belly full of words. (Craig Brown was the illustrator, and I believe that was his first book.) The Kulloo-Makoo is based on a Native American story:
Amy Lawson was my name then; it is Amy Gordon now, but that is another story. Many people know very clearly what soil their families are rooted in. But my grandmother on my father's side--we called her Ooma--never quite told us the same story about where she came from. Somewhere in Eastern Europe. What I do know is that she was an amazing storyteller, and judging from this old photograph, she must have loved fishing, too.
My grandmother, Dorothy Gordon, sang folk songs for children all around the world. She was the “Song and Story Lady” on the Children’s Corner, where she narrated and dramatized folk stories. In 1939 she produced Yesterday’s Children, a program that featured the favorite childhood books of a famous person. After telling or dramatizing the story, my grandmother would have that week’s guest explain why he or she had loved that story as a child.Ooma also had her own TV show called "Dorothy Gordon's Youth Forum." She always insisted that the Youth Forum include children from all racial, religious, and social backgrounds. She invited an adult “expert” on each program. Among the illustrious guests were Averell Harriman, Dwight D. Eisenhower, Golda Meir, Norman Thomas,William O. Douglas, and Ralph Bunche.
Ooma had also met A.A. Milne, the creator of the Winnie the Pooh books, and when we were kids, I think that made us a feel especially connected to books we already loved.
E.H. Shepard's illustration from Winnie-the-Pooh (original version from 1926)
In the Talking Bird and the Story Pouch the Storyteller finally goes out and starts telling stories, but the Kulloo-Makoo comes along and steals his words and eats them. As you can see, he has a very big belly full of words. (Craig Brown was the illustrator, and I believe that was his first book.) The Kulloo-Makoo is based on a Native American story:It is only safe to tell stories in the winter-time, because that is when the rivers and ponds are frozen; otherwise there is a creature who lives underwater who will come up and steal your stories. I figured he must have large ears to hear with and a big waterproof body.
My family has other storytellers in it, but that is a story for another day.
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