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.

Reflections on 28 Deaths

Twenty children, six adults, one mother and one son. Dead in Connecticut.

My heart is heavy. Twenty-eight deaths by gunshot in one day. We spasm through a communal grief, fear for the safety of every child, desire to have a giant rubber eraser for time. Can't we erase back to a point where other choices could be made? How far back would we have to go?

We don't see the dozens of other deaths by gunshot that occur each day singly and in isolation. Twenty-eight deaths by gun happen every day in America. It's quite common. We are not outraged. We do not spasm. It is not news. The grief, though, the grief flows out in waves of pain from pierced bodies.

I've had my griefs, my losses. Enough to know that grief does not kill you and it does not particularly make you stronger, but it does alter you. If you're lucky, it stretches the heart unbearably till it can hold the love that you can no longer physically express. And you end up with a more expansive understanding for those who suffer (including yourself). If you're not lucky, grief can seize up your emotional innards like hard water choking off the openings in a shower head. I've had it happen both ways. It hurts both ways.

I am not in shock from the shootings in Connecticut. I am horrified, but not surprised by this lone gunman with his weapons of mass destruction. His life was a surfeit of guns. When you go crazy, you grab what's handy. It might be a credit card. It might be a knife. It might be language. If you are surrounded by guns, you grab guns. It's no surprise. I don't know why death comes as such a surprise. It is our one truly universal experience. Maybe if we acknowledged this truth more we would kill less. It's a paradox.

I am calm about my own death. I know I will go into the ground and eventually rejoin the processes of my planet--erosion, remodeling, creation, destruction. I know that any impact I have must be in the here and now. I can't waste my time. I have come out of the earth, my body made of water, carbon, calcium, iron, and many other earth elements. It makes sense that as I rise up as an entity I then subside back into the arms of the mother planet. I am comforted.

Although I have just posited a soul-less death, I feel like our national obsession with guns is an illness of the soul, the sacred psyche. These young men who kill so spectacularly are so desirous of acknowledgement of some kind, desirous of comfort, of meaning. My heart goes out to them as much as to grieving loved ones of the dead. Many of us have felt the way those young men feel, but we either (1) did not have access to a huge amount of ammunition and ready guns or (2) had resources, had relationships, and, in my case, had a few treasured gifts like the ability to express in words and an indomitable sense of humor. We are them. They are us.

The song that keeps repeating in my mind is "Where Have All the Flowers Gone." It's meant to mourn the loss of young men in war but seems entirely apt to describe the loss of children in an armed nation. Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing? Where have all the flowers gone, long time ago? Where have all the flowers gone? Gone to graveyards, every one. When will we ever learn? When will we ever learn?"

Winnie-the-Pooh, by A.A. Milne

Disney's Pooh

Mild, gentle, genuine, funny. The Winnie-the-Pooh stories are wonderful. Somehow I feel that not much is going on and then find that much has. Winnie-the-Pooh and his friends roam through the hundred-acre woods exploring their world and their friendships. If there's a child inside you, give A.A. Milne's classics another read. If there's a child beside you, these stories are essential.

I read a compilation of the Pooh stories called A World of Winnie-the-Pooh, which contained all of the stories on my Eager Reader's list--and added in some poetry. It also included the original illustrations by E.H. Shepard, which are much more evocative and whimsical than the heavily delineated Disney versions with which we are over-familiar. (E. H. Shepard was an illustrator for Punch, which Milne wrote for.) However, this volume was over-sized and ran to more than 200 pages. It was heavy to hold and the line lengths were too long for the type size. I never felt comfortable while reading it. Loved the content. Hated the packaging.

E.H. Shepard's Pooh

It is impressive that these little characters--stuffed animals come to life--maintain their dignity and personhood through a range of adventures and problems. Their character flaws are accepted in a friendly way, mocked a little bit, but not seen as any barrier to affection. For example, Rabbit likes to organize. The friends go to him when they need organization. And then politely ignore him.

Pooh is presented as "the bear of very little brain," and is thought stupid by himself and the others (except for human boy Christopher Robin). Pooh's smart solutions to the jams he and his pals get in are considered cause for wonder. And they are all amazed that with such a small brain (or not brain at all), Pooh comes up with relevant poetry for every occasion. I can see how children, who are so often dismissed by older siblings and adults, would relate wonderfully to Pooh, who makes big mistakes with absolutely no malice aforethought. He maintains his integrity. Maybe little kids can also.

The stories are saturated with the loving kindness that Milne must have felt for his son (Christopher Robin Milne). He enters into the world of childhood with a light touch and an understanding of the seriousness of slight things and the slightness of serious things. The dialogue is plain old funny--through it each character is fully revealed. Eeyore: "It's snowing still... And freezing. However," he said brightening up a little, "we haven't had an earthquake lately."

I don't remember reading the Pooh books as a child. Somehow, though, they wafted into my consciousness. I knew about them long before I read them. I believe that I saw cartoons of them (probably the Disney movies) before I read the books. I remember very little of what I did read as a child. I don't have memories of being tucked into bed with a story. We did go to the library a lot and I knew that my oldest sister and my mom always brought home books and read them. I knew that Dad and Grandma read the newspaper every day.

Cabin in ice storm

The first real book I remember was a chapter book that I liked so much I checked it out over and over again--but I can't remember the title. It was a juvenile mystery about a group of middle-school-aged children (and adult chaperones) who got trapped in a cabin during an ice storm. And, of course, a criminal was on the loose. The ice storm gave a surreal survivalist feel to the book and the criminal put the children in just enough jeopardy for the reader to be thrilled without being terrified. If anyone knows the title of this book, let me know. I checked it out over and over again from the children's department at the Middletown Public Library in the mid to late 1960s.

I'm struggling to make this post longer, but there isn't that much to say about Winnie-the-Pooh. It is so straightforward and unaffected...no need to dig deeper than what it presents. Get it. Read it. Laugh with it, cry with it. Practice the forgiveness and acceptance it portrays. Enjoy.

You Can't Hug Gift Wrap

Low-money, High-meaning

I struggle with gift-giving every year, and as the years go by, I do less and less of it. We all have so much stuff. More just adds to the clutter. All of that clutter comes right out of the earth and then leaves huge carbon and garbage footprints behind. And, do all of those gifts really make you feel happier? If they do, that's great. But if you want to spice up your regular gift-giving or replace it all together, here are some wacky ideas you might want to try.

I developed many of these ideas for my sister's family, with whom I celebrate Hanukkah, which I celebrate better than I spell. I'll give suggestions for adapting these ideas for non-Jews. My sister's family is strung across the United States, so these ideas also focus on how to share experiences via social networks and technologies. However, these, too are adaptable, for low-tech folks. Please post a comment on this post if you try one of these ideas. Let me know how it went.

Please note: Get someone to create a Facebook page for your family's holiday activities if you try any of my suggestions. You'll need a place where you can post and view photos from each other and comment on the activities you choose to do.

Remember, I've already said "wacky." If you are looking for dignity, go somewhere else! Here we go...

Phone Chain. Organize a phone chain by alphabetical order of first names (or age, or location, whatever) for sharing something specific, like something you love about the callee. The first person calls the second person and tells him or her what makes him or her great, the second person calls the third, and so on. At the end, scramble up the names for another round of calls. Scramble the names for every night of Hanukkah (or 12 Nights of Christmas?), using topics like a favorite memory, things that made you jealous, if that person were a tree what kind would he or she be...be creative. Post or Tweet comments to each other if you want.

Sharing a meal. Pick one night of Hanukkah (or other holiday date, like Christmas Eve). Make sure that everyone in your group is eating the exact same food at the exact same time that day no matter what the time zone. Post photos of yourself eating for everyone else to see. Anything from Big Macs to fruit cake would be acceptable, as long as you are all together.

Holiday Collage. Have everyone take a photo of lighting the Menorah (can’t spell this very well either) or doing some other holiday ritual, like hanging a stocking on the mantle. Post the photos for each other. See if someone in your family has the talent to convert the photos into a family collage.

Give a Gift to a Stranger Day. Give something away--a dozen cookies, a pair of gloves, a snow globe--use your imagination--to a stranger. Just tell them it is "Give a Gift to a Stranger Day" to celebrate the holidays. How did it turn out? Any surprises? Share comments on Facebook, Twitter, or by email. (Or tell the next person on your  nightly phone chain about it!)

Random Acts of Kindness Day. This is a variation of giving a gift to a stranger. For a whole day you'll have to keep your radar out for ways to be kind. Have everyone keep track of and share the experience. How much good will can you generate as a family?

Remember When... Have each person write down a few Hanukkah (or Christmas, or Dewali, or Ramadan, or...) memories to make a little booklet. I bet someone in your family can use a graphics program to put a polish on the final product. And surely someone knows how to scan old photos into the mix.

Unity Feast Un-united. This idea is purely for the wackiness of it all. It makes no sense. I love it. Each family member is assigned to make one dish for the feast. But, since you can't be together, you'll only get to eat the one dish you fix. (You can snack later.) Like, one person does latkes, but that’s all that person gets to eat. Other people have dessert or a salad, but that’s all they get to eat. And so on. Eat this meal on the same night. You could try Skyping together as you eat. Post photos.

Wackiness Against the Machines. Call a vending service person to complain that your money won't fit into the money slot. Make the technician pull the fact out of you that you are trying to buy a diet coke with Hanukkah gelt (chocolate money wrapped in gold foil). Share your experiences. I know this is a bit mean, but humor can be ugly. Please don't call a service technician out of bed at midnight on Christmas Eve when there is a blizzard just to do this. Or, OK, go ahead.

Wackiness Against the Machines (a kinder version). Stand at a vending machine till someone comes along and then try to get the Hanukkah gelt to go in the slot and complain about it to the person waiting for you to finish. It's up to you what tack to take--puzzled, angry, surprised. I guess you could try fake (children's) toy money, but that could get you arrested. As usual, chocolate is always a good fallback position.

Three-Way. Get your mind out of the bedroom, I'm talking about phone calls. Do a three-way Skype (or other videophone technology) and try to sing a song together (something a little more complex than the Dreidel song--I recommend the Hallelujah Chorus). I suspect that some laughter might ensue therefrom.

Skype With Puppets. I've just recently had my first Jetsonesque videophone experience and I keep thinking of bizarre things to do. So, make sock puppets, or brown paper bag puppets, or just draw lips with a red pen on your thumb and forefinger. (No, you do not have permission to go to Pinterest for instructions. Use Google like regular people.) At the Skype time, have the puppets talk to each other on camera. I don't know what will happen.

Fright Makeup. Likewise, you have my permission to apply fright makeup before Skyping with your parents, no matter how old you or they are.

Do Good With Money (Real, not Chocolate).  Pick a particular charity and see how many donations your family can generate in a single day using your various networks—email, Facebook, LinkedIn, Twitter, Google, phone, knocking on doors, begging at bus stations. Have people donate in honor of a departed loved one or a famous hero like Rosa Parks or Harvey Milk. May I recommend Outreach International (outreach-international.org/) if you don’t have a charity in mind? This is actually a socially responsible suggestion--how did it sneak in here?

Chocolate Money Attack. Go out on purpose to put Hanukkah gelt into Salvation Army bellringers’ buckets. You decide whether to sneak it in or do it for all to see. Share your experiences. Have a handful of (real) coins or a five-dollar bill ready to sooth any bristled feelings and provide plausible deniability. "Oh, that's right, I keep the real money in my other pocket!" Remember, they're not called "army" for nothing'.

Be extravagant. Do a nightly Skype call to discuss anything you’ve been doing. You can even Skype together as you light your Menorahs every night, or as you open a window on your advent calendar.

Rewrite. Change the words of a popular holiday tune or verse to describe your family. For my family, we'd have to find rhymes for outrageous, talkative, and loyal (of course, royal). You are only limited by your personal tolerance for weirdness.

SIDEBAR: THE SOLSTICE

The winter solstice occurs on December 21 or 22. Every year. It's not something to believe in, like a religious faith. It's an event that happens and has happened every year of your life. The darkness is over! The sunshine is returning! This is my favorite event of the winter. Go druid. Affix leaves to your gonads and run around on a hillside. Just have a party. Turn on every light in your house. Put on suntan lotion on spec.

To me, the solstice is also a reminder of the strange coincidence that allows life to exist on earth--if the earth tilted a little more or a little less, or if it orbited a little closer or a little farther from its star, we wouldn't be here. We wouldn't be here to marvel at ourselves, to tremble with outrage, to cry with sorrow, to feel like the most important thing in the whole universe, to gawk, to wonder, to love. We wouldn't be here to be wacky and then recognize our own wackiness, and then laugh uproariously, and then to reflect on it. I'm glad we're here on our little blue marble in space.

SIDEBAR: KINDNESS ECONOMY

Kindness is one of the few things you can give away that actually enriches you--and as you spend kindness, the amount of kindness in the world actually increases. It's not like spending money with its scarcity--if I have more someone else has less. And you count kindness to any living thing or to our planet itself as kindness. I invite you to join me in promoting the giving of kindness. Here's one way to work it.

1. Consciously plan to do one nice thing for someone, do it, and say to yourself, “This kindness is my gift to [recipient’s name here].” The target of the kindness is not the recipient--the recipient is your loved one for whom you normally buy a commercial gift.

2. Then, write down what you did and send it to the recipient you chose. His or her heart will be warmed with the thought that kindness is increasing and that you have good values!

3. Your kindness doesn’t need to be a deprivation or a sacrifice. It doesn’t have to entail great planning or expense. And it doesn’t have to cost anything at all.

Your kindness won’t clutter up or pollute our Earth. I guarantee that it will be just exactly the right style, size and color. It will be a gift of your heart that warms the hearts of others. If you plan to give a gift for the holidays this year, make it a gift from the kindness economy.

SIDEBAR: TOURIST DESTINATION LANDFILL

Yes, you can arrange tours of your local landfill for your family, usually by contacting the solid waste authority in your area or the owner of the landfill if it is private. One year I toured the Franklin County Landfill--the largest artificial structure in the state of Ohio. It is acres and acres of garbage...and not garbagy garbage like banana peels and apple cores and chicken bones. Most of the garbage is stuff, just stuff, or stuff that stuff was sold in, stuff that might have been gifts. And much of it is in perfectly good condition. I saw whole buildings dumped into the landfill, not even chunked up much. I saw a huge amount of recyclables. That's what I saw. Ask what I smelled! Ask about the flock of sea gulls that have adapted to living at the landfill because of the good eats. Next, ask what I didn't see--the thousands or millions of cubic yards of buried garbage.

The landfill was fascinating. Turns out, it's not the giant compost pile we are led to believe, in which garbage will gradually biodegrade into mulch. It's more like a series of gigantic Ziploc bags--pockets of garbage hermetically sealed in plastic. The whole landfill is lined with nonporous clay and other materials that ensure that no leakage occurs. In a poem, I refer to the landfill as a huge pile of MREs (the military's "meals-ready-to-eat" bags of food) for future generations. (Future generations refers to your own children and grandchildren--yes, those kids right there.)

OK, so I ranted. But you'll be glad you went if you go.

Sample Chapters from Joy's Novel

Here are two chapters from my strange novel called Long Arm of Not the Law. The novel ranges across time and space and has many strands--maybe too many. I'm not editing yet, though. I'm just trying to get material out of my head and on to the screen. In the book, these two chapters will be separated from each other. You meet the chapter's main personality in the first one and then later revisit her. Remember that this book is set up as a series of vignettes more than as a traditional narrative. Enjoy.


CONTRABAND
          All was dark but for a single candle flame. The light mainly served to emphasize the darkness. Sounds gave shape to it, set it in motion.
          A rustling, a muffled cry: “Ouch!”
          A rustling, a whisper: “Hush up.”
          The sounds, the words, and now your ears can see the shapes in the dark, though the dark has not lifted. And the skin can see also, see shapes by subtle changes in pressure and the waft of the faintest breath. The dark has people in it.
          A whisper: “Mama, how long we been here?”
          A whisper: “Jonah, count the marks.”
          And Jonah feels with his fingers the marks he has made each time the upstairs woman brought food. Two marks. His stomach tells him that it is almost time for the third.
          A whisper: “I count two, Mama. And we ought to get victuals soon now. That‘s three.”
          The space smelled of sweat, earth, fresh-dug potatoes, human waste. The woman who brought food also replaced the slops bucket.
          A whisper: “Can’t be much longer before we leave, Jonah.”
          A whisper: “The lord knows, Mama.”

          Later, which is how they measured time, you could hear footsteps and the rusty cellar doors screeched open. Light flooded the dug out room, revealing at last to the eyes the room’s inhabitants. Four people rose to their feet, a teen-age girl, skinny as a seedling, trembling like a leaf; a man with an ageless face but grizzled hair whom the girl hid behind; a young man who had not yet grown into his height; and a woman, also ageless, who held a sleeping child in her arms. This was Mama. She stood in front of the others. She was their speaker. She had served in the house, in the main house, and knew how to talk to white people.
          Two white people came into the room instead of just the woman. A man carried an armload of clothes and a lantern. The woman carried a bucket of water in one hand and a bucket of what looked like stew in the other. No one spoke until the doors clanged closed.
          The white woman spoke to the black woman. “Tonight is your night. The arrangements are made.” She set the buckets on a stack of firewood. “Eat up. We’ll tell you what to do while you eat.” The white woman took some clothing off of the man’s pile. “Make sure each of you gets some warm clothing.”
          The four inhabitants of the cellar gathered around the buckets, taking turns dipping individual spoons into the stew and sharing a tin cup dipped over and over again into the water bucket. Behind them, their hosts began shifting a pile of potatoes. It was embarrassing to have these white people serving them food and emptying their slops and now laboring over the potatoes. Only Mama was brave enough to talk to them. She was spooning stew into the little one. They took turns running their fingers around the inside of the bucket, then licking off the stew they gathered in this way. Food was a hope in this underworld, this underworld of escape. They would eat every single drop.

          This word, escape, and the name of the place to which they fled, freedom, thrilled through them, tingled, generated just enough allure to overcome fear. Now they got down to work with the whites--another novelty--and got the potatoes moved, and at the bottom of the wall there were two boards wedged against the wall with rocks. The white man and Jonah pushed the rocks aside and let the boards fall. Now they could all see it--a tunnel.

          “It’s tight,” the white woman said. “But keep going. Keep going and you will be all right. You’ll come out in a corn field.”
          The escapees watched the woman’s face, drew her words deep inside.
          “You should see a string of white diapers hanging on the clothesline. If you don’t see the diapers, come back here.” She spoke directly to Mama. “You must see the diapers.”
          Mama nodded and said, “No diapers, come back here.”
          “Right. Walk as fast as you can to the clothesline and go into the barn.” She looked down at her hands. “That’s all I know. Just go into the barn.”
          Mama nodded again. “Go into the barn. Yes.”

          The white woman said, “Gather up a wrap and get going.” She helped Mama into a hooded cape. “Go with god. We will pray for your safe journey.”

          “Thank you, ma’am. You have been kind to us and you didn’t have to be.”

          “Yes, I did.”

          And thus did four people and one child escaping slavery move under the town of Maple Hills and into the night. Mrs. Buttersby’s husband had already replaced the boards. She stooped and started shifting the potatoes back to where they had been.

LIBERATION SHE’LL BE
          Mama Libby looked around her home and lowered her chin in a satisfied nod. The floor was swept. The cooking things were washed and stowed on hand-hewn oak shelves, firelight throwing the pocked bottoms of cast iron skillets into high relief on the wall by the hearth. It was all clean, but the smell of bacon and toasted bread had not been scrubbed from the room along with the soot and particulates that were the flotsam and jetsam of her rural neighborhood. The families who lived in this row of a dozen frame-built houses were workers--farmhands, drivers, mill workers, cleaners, street sweepers. Her own elderly father was a blacksmith, with Jonah 'prenticing. How different it was now for the fruits of his labors--coins and bills and good will--to come home from work with him instead of being usurped by white people who claimed to own not just the fruits of his labors but him also. He had been a piece of equipment subject to depreciation and resale like any other.
          And the equipment was not invented yet to describe the equipment Mama had been in the white people’s wealth machine (vacuum cleaner, wash machine, sewing machine, dishwasher, Formula 409). And, oh yes, brood mare. Two of Mama’s children had been taken away, sold away from her for good cash money, one to South Carolina and the other in Mississippi, she thought, but she didn’t really know. She still carried the hope that someday maybe they could be together--someday right here in THIS world, right here in Battle Creek, Michigan, not on some shimmery-vague heavenly shore. She wanted to see them while they still had bodies to hug, hair to braid, hands to hold, laughter to share. She wanted to see their earthly selves and make sure they knew they were still a part of her. She sighed and took one more swipe at the dishpan with the hem of her apron.
          As it often did, the sight of her own clean kitchen called out memories of other kitchens, other rooms. She remembered the clay-lined fireplace of her quarters (not home) on the white people’s property, remembered making the rice allotment stretch by cooking in the hulls of the peas she had cleaned for her owner’s dinner and adding in new greens from dandelions her father picked on his way home from the forge.
         She remembered the vaulted plantation house kitchen with its immense brick fireplace, about as much floor space in the fireplace as in her slave quarters and the brick ovens and the water pumped right into the sink basin hewn from solid granite. She remembered rows of wooden buckets, rows of hams hanging from meat hooks, salt-skinned and solid, stacks of plates--everyday stoneware, company china, special event Limoge, and the worn wooden plates reserved for her and the other enslaveds.
          And frequently, she thought of that dug out room with the one candle, smelling of slops and stew, perspiration, potatoes, and earth. The room of the shapes in the dark, the squeaking cellar doors, the narrow tunnel. She thought of the woman who brought food, who thought about the cold wind, who opened herself to the dangerous labor of furthering freedom.
          Mama had renamed herself when she arrived in Battle Creek, into freedom. She introduced herself as Libby now and people thought it stood for Elizabeth, but really it stood for Liberation. And she gave her last name now as Shelby, which stood to her for “she’ll be.” Liberation she’ll be.” It brought a giggle into her throat to say it, a gorgeous feeling of sheer life, full life. Libby Shelby. She had always been called Maddy before freedom, a corruption of the word maid, not the name Madelaine.
          Libby was working now as a teacher. She had taught herself to read by scheduling the cleaning of the nursery during the tutor’s visit. When the room cleared out, Libby would reverently touch the cloth reader, trace the half-erased letters on the slate. Learning to read was Libby’s first radical act, the first heavy door she dragged open for herself. She couldn’t get enough and started to sneak books and newspapers out from the main house--which would have demoted her to field work if she were caught--or to the auction block. Reading was how Libby learned about freedom--not the elusive, reached-only-by-death freedom of the songs and scriptures she knew, but real freedom in a a real place in real time. She started to dream, to have words for her dreams, to have words for her anger and her pain. By the light from a tallow candle, she taught her father to read, and her daughter--the only one of her children left to her--and to Jonah, who became part of their family. Now she was teaching her daughter’s child in the frame schoolhouse in town with the pot-bellied stove that gulped coal and the chalkboard of slate that stretched the whole length of the room.
          They were four generations in that dugout basement room, four generations united in the goal to be free. They were all Shelbys now, Pa, Mara, Jonah, and baby Truth, named after Battle Creek’s famous resident Sojourner Truth.
          Libby had backtracked as best she could to trace the path her family had taken to freedom. Every year on the anniversary of her escape, she trekked south a bit, through Michigan and into Ohio, to find the places and people who had helped her family escape. She had made it as far south as Lancaster, Ohio, but there the trail went cold. No one could tell her about that woman in the earthen basement or the clothesline of bleached diapers glowing in the night, or the horse and wagon that had waited in the barn that carried them onward to where they could be free. And she was scared to go closer to the Ohio river. The South had long arms for escapees. She would not go to the river.