Call It Courage, by Armstrong Sperry

Call It Courage, by Armstrong Sperry, continues my run of “boy comes of age” books. Our hero, a Polynesian boy of about 12 years of age, becomes known in his community as a coward. In a culture that lives mere feet above sea level and depends on the sea for food and travel, Mafatu is afraid of water. He does not go out to fish like the other boys his age. He sits on the shore with the (oh horror of horrors) women and girls. Thus he learns net-making, net-mending, how to make tools from bone.

Mafatu’s fear is attributed to a horrific experience he had as a child, in which his mother died. The gods of Mafatu's culture are active and personal; Mafatu hears the sea god calling to him…that he was supposed to die too and the god will make sure it happens. In addition to the gods, Mafatu feels pressured by family ties. His father is a hereditary chief—how will his fraidy-cat son carry on the family tradition of honorable leadership? Mafatu knows that he is a disappointment as well as a joke.

In a scene oddly reminiscent of “Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” Mafatu overhears other boys talking about him, calling him a coward, and deciding to exclude him from their “games” (activities).  In response, Mafatu takes off alone in a canoe. He doesn’t care anymore. Let the sea god take him.

What follows is the story of how Mafatu recognizes his own strengths and courage as he struggles to survive first on the open ocean and then on the island upon which he lands. Like Tom Hanks in Cast Away, Mafatu must master hunger, thirst, fire, shelter, safety, and loneliness.  Mafatu has an advantage in the loneliness department. His faithful dog has traveled by his side all the way. Mafatu also tamed an injured albatross, which follows him and occasionally guides him (especially toward home). The two animal associates validate Mafatu early on as a hero. We know that no ordinary boy would have such loyal friends.

Call It Courage is a small book and a quick read. It was awarded the Newbury medal in 1941. The text presents many native words in context gives the flavor of pre-colonial Polynesian life. However, I cannot verify the authenticity of the culture described. Perhaps it is oversimplified or romanticized. It didn’t feel that way. Certainly the land/seascapes were beautifully drawn—the vastness of the ocean, the surf and sand, the description of life on a coral reef. The boiling sun was over-present until a storm raged and I wanted it back. The author’s love of the islands saturates the writing.

Side Bar: Would you or wouldn’t you?

Would I survive such an experience as Mafatu’s? When I imagine myself marooned on an island or trapped on a mountaintop, abandoned in the ocean or in outer space, I have the feeling that I would not be a triumphant survivor. My survival skills mostly involve writing, not foraging. I might be able to figure out a shelter of some kind. (I’ve read enough books to know how it’s done fictitiously.) And I could probably do OK with loneliness. But I would be lousy at making a fire and keeping it going. And I’m lousy at weapons. In other words, I’m pretty much doomed.

I enjoy these would-you/wouldn’t-you questions. Like, if you knew the world would end in one week, would you try to survive? Would you just eat some cyanide? We really can’t know and I suspect that my guesses would be useless. There may be more than the two or three scenarios I imagine. A friend and I who quit smoking around the same time made an agreement that if we found that the world really was going to end, we would be allowed to smoke again—it wouldn’t matter anymore. But, having been smoke-free for many years now, I doubt that I would smoke at all. I wouldn’t meet the end with a butt on my lips. Why? Why not? What difference would it make?

I often wonder, too, if I would be one of those people who evacuates from a hurricane ahead of time or whether I would decide to sit it out. This was an easier question before I had pets. I would want to get the cats and dog to safety even if I wanted to stick around. Again, not much rational thought goes into this decision making process and in the actual event, I have no idea what I would do.

I also ponder questions about what I would do to survive. I’ve already decided that I would never kill another person, but that’s in the abstract. If my loved ones’ lives were threatened, would I kill or let them die? There’s a great Star Trek NexGen episode about this.

Would you or wouldn’t you? I guess we’ll have to wait and see…

The Sign of the Beaver, by Elizabeth George Speare

The Sign of the Beaver, by Elizabeth George Speare, will leave you feeling very sad because it is a very good book. Though it is told through the eyes of a white boy, the book illuminates the crisis of America's native people. If it were not written so well, your heart would be in less danger.

Set in the 1760s in the remote woods of Maine, The Sign of the Beaver tells the story of 13-year-old Matt, who is left in charge of his family's farmstead while his father returns to their former home to fetch the rest of the family. Matt is well instructed for, though fearful of, his long summer alone. His father gives him a set of sticks to notch--seven notches on each stick. After six sticks, he can look for his father to return.

Within two weeks, trouble comes knocking--or, rather, bursts through the door of Matt's cabin. Much of his food and weaponry is lost and he becomes dependent on fishing every day for his meals. Trekking out to his fishing spot, he often feels like he is being watched. After an accident with a bee tree, it turns out Matt was right. Two Indians--an old man and a boy--rescue him and return him to his cabin. The trio become friends.

Attean and Matt learn much from each other and come to understand both cultures from a different perspective. Matt, especially, sees how it seems to the Indians for more and more white people to move into their hunting areas, how that encroachment threatens their survival.

The book's setting is beautiful... much of it I imagined as woods I have been in, creeks I've followed, deer I've seen. When I am out in the woods, I am aware of how much I do not understand about the interactions of all of its living and nonliving aspects. I am in the woods, but not of the woods, although I have approached "of" a couple of times. Attean and his grandfather give Matt (and us) a glimpse of "of."

As in The Bronze Bow, the writing completely disappeared from this book. It was like all of my surroundings--reclining chair, dozing cat, furnace humming, the weight of the book, and the words on its pages--just fell away, leaving me in front of a cabin in thick forest and alone. Somehow, Speare's writing cuts through layers and layers of awareness into the experience of a fictional world. Excellent. I again pay tribute to Speare's skill and giftedness. She did it again.

I appreciate that Speare did not take sides in the whites vs Indians issue. She merely portrayed what happened. As whites moved into the Maine woods, less game was available for the native people living there. They had to move to maintain their way of living or assimilate into foreign ways or fight. The fighting of the French and Indian War had just ceased...that was not the choice of Attean's people.They moved. It reminded me of the ending of the outdoor drama Tecumseh when, at the end, the Indians leave, moving slowly to the west (and at the amphitheater, it is actually west) and into death. It's one of the saddest images I know, a kind of fall from paradise, but through no sin of the faller. It's like Adam and Eve had been kicked out of the garden by squatters. (And reminds me of Faulkner's Snopeses, who infiltrated and mocked the mythical South.)

At the end of this book it is winter and when I re-emerged from the book I found that it had been snowing. I awoke into Matt's world and had to shake myself free. That's a good book, when you have to shake off one reality for another.

SIDEBAR: Tecumseh Outdoor Drama

The outdoor drama Tecumseh is performed every summer in Chillicothe, Ohio. To find out more, go to www.tecumsehdrama.com. It's an amazing pageant and drama and lots of fun.

SIDEBAR: Man's Worlds

It's funny to me that both The Bronze Bow and The Sign of the Beaver take place in a boys' and men's world. Female characters are somewhat ancillary, even with the inclusion of the sister and girlfriend in The Bronze Bow. In both books, women are noticed and their work is respected, but the action of both books is decidedly male. From her biography, I cannot tell whether this maleness is a common thread throughout her work. Her most famous book, The Witch of Blackbird Pond, is about a girl. It is on my list and I will read it as soon as I can procure it.

SIDEBAR: Where is your frontier?

I love that The Sign of the Beaver is set in the 1760s. Being an Ohioan, my frontier of interest is the pre-Western frontier...the settling of the Appalachian area rather than of the Great Plains and West. My war is the Revolution, not the war between the states. In an old tree identification book I have, Ohio is considered "the western lands." I have a fascination with the 1750-1800 time period and with Daniel Boone and Simon Kenton, adventurers who walked alone through my land, the land of my ancestors (at least as far back as about 1840). They walked alone through the pre-Columbian paradise and didn't even know it--they probably just saw a bunch of dollar signs or Christian settlements or utility. I don't know. But this book was right up my alley.

The Bronze Bow, by Elizabeth George Speare

A mountain in Galilee overlooking farmland. Much of The Bronze Bow takes place in this setting.

When I think about The Bronze Bow, by Elizabeth George Speare, I don't think of reading it. I think of living it. I was right there with the hero Daniel on the mountain above his village in Galilee, in the blacksmith forge in the village, and in the presence of Jesus, who is a character in this book. I had no consciousness of reading or of the writing. The writing dissolved into an experience of Daniel's journey into adulthood. The Bronze Bow is a hero journey--Daniel starts out as an angry adolescent, alienated, in hiding. As is typical of a hero journey, he undergoes trials and temptations, gains tools for his quest, and transforms into a strong man of love and understanding.

Here's Jeffrey Hunter as Jesus with his strangely
glowing gentile blue eyes. From King of Kings.

The book takes place at the time Jesus was preaching in Galilee--shortly before his journey to Jerusalem. As in Ben-Hur, a book also reviewed in this blog, the Jews of the time were looking for an earthly king to lead them in overthrowing their Roman occupiers. One of Daniel's friends is a Zealot named Simon, who has made it his mission bring freedom to the land. After fleeing his village, Daniel is befriended by another band of rebels led by the warlord-esque Rosh, who lives off the land (meaning he pillages the local farms and fields). Daniel believes that Rosh will be the one who throws off the Roman yoke.

The most important gift of Daniel's hero journey is a set of friends--Joel and Thacia. For the first time, Daniel has someone with which to share his hopes, his dreams, and his story. Daniel's life has been harsh, filled with violence, losses, and poverty. The camp of Rosh seems like luxury to him--plenty of food, a warm fire, a mission to perform. Joel and Thacia enlarge Daniel's view of the world and bring him face to face with some of his prejudices.

In addition to playing Jesus in King of
Kings, Jeffrey Hunter played an equally
intense James T. Kirk in the pilot episode
of Star Trek. Those limpid eyes!

Daniel's friend Simon invites Daniel to hear Jesus preach at the local synagogue. Jesus is somewhat romantically presented, like the Jesus portrayed by Jeffrey Hunter in the movie King of Kings. Even the camera seems to have its breath taken away whenever Jesus is shown in that film. In The Bronze Bow, Jesus has a magnetism about him, and a magical voice, and a huge amount of somewhat fevered charisma. In other words, he is not portrayed as a man, but as an already-god. As with Ben-Hur, Daniel wishes Jesus would use his powers to call together an army and to establish an earthly kingdom. Like Ben-Hur, Daniel must come to terms with the idea of a heavenly kingdom, a kingdom of the heart and soul.

I think Daniel's conversion is somewhat elided. It doesn't make logical sense in terms of the story. It sort of happens because it is supposed to happen, because if you meet Jesus it must happen. And, I know that religious conversion is not necessarily logical, but a novel must play itself out in certain ways and this one doesn't. However, that is the only flaw I find in this book, and less critical readers will probably be OK with Daniel's change of heart. And I was glad for it. He was so miserable. Still, how would his situation have been resolved in a purely Jewish context? People from all faith traditions deal with developmental crises. I guess it bothers me a little bit that the only solution presented for Daniel was Jesus. I worry that Christian writers don't fully take into account the seriousness and cultural dissonance of a conversion of a Jew to Christianity. It makes me a little queasy.

Daniel's sister is a weaver. The weaving seems to be her
way to bring order to her disordered psyche.

The book is deeply humanized by the character of Daniel's sister Leah. Her response to the losses and violence was withdrawal rather than anger. Over the course of the book, she is brought out, drawn out, by Daniel, by Thacia, by a Roman soldier, and eventually by Jesus, who cures her of her maladies. Her gradual reaching out into the world is beautifully drawn; and Daniel's relationship to her illuminates him also.

The Bronze Bow is a book rich with love and the conflicts that love sometimes brings about. How much sacrifice is too much sacrifice? How does being true to oneself relate to sacrifice? When is love not enough? What is healing? What is a commitment? These are big questions and they are addressed in this book. They are the questions of fine literature and so are appropriate to this fine book. I am still amazed that the writing in this book sort of disappeared in the experience it was describing. That's a huge accomplishment and I salute Elizabeth George Speare for it.

I have a few more books by Speare on my list. I'm very interested now in how they will strike me. Is the transparency of Speare's writing particular to The Bronze Bow? I can't wait to find out.

The Hobbit (1 of 3): Movie Notes





I actually saw The Hobbit (part 1) while it was still on its first run (thanks, friend Linda). The defining word for the film? Action. All over, all the time. I got a bit worn out with some of the hyper-extended chases, escapes, and battles. The scene of escape from the caves had at least six times when you thought Gandalf and the dwarfs were out, only to have some additional peril appear.

Then there were the thirteen dwarfs. Yes, the make-up geniuses Jackson works with did make each one look distinctly different from the others. But why? They functioned as a sort of belching and farting Greek chorus, almost always acting together as a clump. A running (and telling) gag was Gandalf counting the dwarfs after each battle “ten…eleven…twelve…” He didn’t call them by name. Who could? (OK, Jake Shapiro probably could.) I hope that over the course of parts 2 and 3, the dwarfs will differentiate in a meaningful (not just cosmetic) way.

That’s about it for criticism, though.

The movie had several saving graces. The primary one was the spectacular film-making--whether it was soaring and majestic aerial shots or painstakingly real filming of miniatures. The movie is gorgeous, wonderfully lit and put together, seamless. Seamlessness is important because I know (from watching hours of extras on the extended version DVDs) that Jackson’s movies are a collage of live action filming, miniatures, computer-generated effects, maquettes, puppets, and motion-capture. The blend is superb. Even my awareness of Jackson’s techniques did not detract. The Hobbit is, indeed, a coherent visual and textural world.

An equally primary saving grace is Martin Freeman as Bilbo--an inspired choice. Freeman underacts Bilbo, making him a foil for the gauchery of the dwarfs. He plays us, places us in the action. His hesitancy is our hesitancy, which makes his bravery also our bravery. Freeman is not derivative of any previous Hobbit character, but plays Bilbo fresh and strong. I can’t wait to see him in the next two parts of the story.

A third grace is the development (backwards!) and presentation of Gollum. He is the other side of Bilbo--the other character that we relate to. Bilbo is that part of ourselves we are proud of; Gollum is who we all worry that we might be. The fact that there’s a strong measure of Gollum in all of us makes this character powerful and compelling. And the combination of puppetry, cgi, motion capture and actual acting (thank you, Mr. Sirkis) is amazing--and invisible. Gollum is authentic as a living being.

Gandalf was a bit muggy, repeating almost exactly certain facial expressions used in the LOTR movies. He is used a bit much in this film I seem to recall from the book that he was somewhat absent. I compared him to Aslan, who is more present as an idea in the Chronicles of Narnia than as an actual character.

And Galadriel makes an appearance. Nicely done. I believed in her, added a scene with her into my memories of the book.

So, this was a great movie. My only problem was with the relentless pace of the action. I needed a few more platforms to rest upon. When (not if) I see The Hobbit again, I’ll see how it feels. I’ll be able to relax a bit more and trust my filmmaker. Thank you, Mr. Jackson, for another beautiful film.
　

Pollyanna (1913), by Eleanor H. Porter



Hayley Mills is the ultimate
Pollyanna, although a bit too
aggressive for my image of
the character from the book



This edition of Pollyanna, which I bought from Barnes & Noble online, was completely devoid of copyright information--no ISBN number, cataloging information, year of publication. Is this book in the public domain? I usually read the copyright information with interest…it can place the book in context of publication, ownership, and so much more. In fact, this book does not even give a publisher, internally or externally. In the blurb on the back cover, the publication date 1913 is given. On the final page it says simply, “Made in the USA, Lexington, Kentucky, 18 December 2012.” Is it a bootleg? My best guess is that it may have been published as part of a series that was then split up or something. Odd. For the record, I bought this book in good faith with the full expectation that a portion of the cost would go to some authorial representative.

Now, to the book…

Orphan girl redeems cranky people by the force of her inner goodness. That about sums it up. Pollyanna follows in the great tradition of Anne of Green Gables, The Secret Garden, Heidi, and so many other girl-of-inner-goodness books. It’s a stale plot, completely predictable. Pollyanna, however, manages to rise a bit above the banal structural formula. It’s the writing.

Porter’s writing is fine--wry, funny, understated. She respected the reader enough to use hints and inference instead of excessive detail. The twist of a smile, an intake of breath. She strews the clues along like colored eggs at an egg hunt (or, as I first imagined it, as scattered Skittles) and as I collected them I increased in both hope and despair. This despite my awareness of the good orphan girl formula.

The story proceeded as much through vignettes as through narrative. Pollyanna, orphaned in “the west,” is sent back east to live with her Aunt Polly, a stern, love-lacking spinster lady. Pollyanna is Aunt Polly’s niece. Aunt Polly always blamed her sister’s husband for stealing her away to the west and estranging them. Pollyanna, of course, is cheerful and so damned glad all the time. Quite annoying.

The reader meets Aunt Polly, Nancy the cook-housekeeper and old Tom. On her errands through the small community, she makes the acquaintance of an old invalid, an orphan, a cranky old man, and many others. Gradually, Porter weaves these strands together into a net that starts to draw tighter and tighter around us and around the principle characters in the book. Porter has a light touch, but a masterful one.

Pollyanna is transformative. She symbolizes giving up gloom and criticism and allowing the gladness into your life--keeping on the sunny side of life. Her father taught her the gladness game, whereupon whatever happens to you, no matter how bad, you are challenged to find some gladness in it. I got a bit sick of it, but the case is made as the people Pollyanna’s life touches are changed and then the whole community changes. It’s quite preachy when I write it out, but Porter manages all this beautifully.

I recommend this book. It’s entertaining, fast-paced, emotionally rich, salubrious, and wholesome. Pollyanna is a great heroine, brave and true. You’ll laugh and cry and hope and urge the characters on. You’ll be engaged. That’s priceless.