Sunlight streamed through the stormy clouds and a rainbow seemed to end over the field beside me. For a moment I remembered the childhood saying that treasure could be found at the end of the rainbow. I laughed, but glanced over the field anyway. There I saw tender green leaves in tidy rows, yet untouched by the weeds. Suddenly I saw millions of red gems sparkling with dewdrops, at the verge of bursting, and sitting proudly on a bed of straw. The first fruits of the season, the sign of summer and the beginning of the fresh fruit feasts were before my eyes. It was strawberry season. I pedaled my bicycle further and came to a hand-drawn sign “Pickers Wanted.” I looked at the sign in awe—could I be paid to travel the sweet-smelling rows and to eat all the sun-warmed berries I wanted? That weekend, at the tender age of thirteen, I started my first summer job. I pulled myself from bed before the sun rose and was pedaling along long deserted country roads by six AM. I arrived just before seven and was given crates and tags. I followed the field boss to a flooded row and I set to work. I was happy and the days began to fly by. I pedaled my bicycle further and came to a hand-drawn sign “Pickers Wanted” Each morning the cold, wet leaves would soak me and I would take off my shoes, to work barefoot in thick mud. I shivered for the first couple of hours, before the harsh sun began to shine relentlessly overhead. Soon I would long for the cool morning to return. I learned to fear the field bosses, who were employed to pick on the pickers. The berries I picked were either too green or I was leaving too many green berries on the plants. My crates were either too skimpy or too full. I couldn’t argue, though, or I would lose my job and, unless my crates pleased them, my card would not be punched. Every worker longed for lunch break. We would all stand, stretch and head hungrily to our coolers in a shady orchard. There was always a long line for a repugnant outhouse from which gasping people would flee. You had to bring your own toilet paper and your own wash water. Lunch finished much too soon and, like prisoners, we returned to the endless rows. The afternoons were scorching hot and a cloud over the sun was something to savor. I had never realized the diversity of field workers. As I worked I heard the chatter of the Portuguese, Chinese, Jamaicans and Mexicans. There was a man there who had impoverished Vietnamese workers working for him. All their picking money went to him and he gave each one a fraction back. The most amazing group of all, however, were the German Mennonites. Entire families came out each day, dressed in dresses and clothes that hid all of their bodies. They didn’t seem to mind that these clothes would be filthy within minutes. The children, as young as three, would pick for about an hour before tiring, and they would go and play on sandy roads. They were oblivious to cars and, forgotten by their parents, they were soon covered head to toe in dust. The Mennonites were a group to marvel at. They could pick double the speed of everyone else, taking frequent breaks. I tried never to share my row with them, because they always passed me and took the best berries. On Sundays the fields became strangely quiet, because no Mennonite would work on the Sabbath. The days became weeks. Each day I bent my aching back over those abundant berries and picked with red-stained, dirt-caked hands. I earned a quarter for every quart I filled and I could fill close to two hundred quarts in a ten-hour day. Having no other experience, I thought it was great money. I felt so proud to stand in the long line of tired workers who all slaved together and receive crisp bills for my work. Every night I would ride the long, lonely farm roads home, often having to scrape the mud from my bike tires with a stick so they could turn. My summer job ended with the harvest. I was upset and relieved at the same time. I would earn no more money and eat no more berries. On the other hand, I could sleep in and live in the comforts of home. The experience taught me to appreciate farmers, to value many novelties I took for granted and to see strawberries in an entirely new light. I had been working on a strawberry farm for several weeks. The farm was heavily irrigated, resulting in ankle-deep mud along the rows. During the day, I would always walk past a young Mennonite girl, who played in the orchard while her parents picked. She was always in a dress, with two braids and enough clothes for the coldest winter day. She eyed me each time I passed, marveling that I could be immodest enough to wear a T-shirt, shorts and no shoes. Over time her staring grew more intense and it seemed like she wanted to speak with me. One day I ambled by in exhaustion, my back painfully hunched over, my hands stained red with black nails, my body covered in stains, sweat and dust, and my bare feet heavy with caked mud. The child looked up timidly and stated sincerely in broken English: “You look pretty.” Siobhan Ringrose, 13Waterford, Ontario, Canada Rivers Woodward, 12Stehekin, Washington
Honesty
It was a freezing cold winter day in China. My family and I were visiting my beloved paternal grandmother who lives in ZhengZhou, a city in China. And this time we were celebrating the Chinese New Year with her. It was said that eating oranges during the special occasion is meant for good luck. Being superstitious, my father and I went to the market to buy a few before the big day. The market in China is different. It’s usually a street with small booths. These booths sell fresh vegetables, fruits and even meat. People who have farms in the countryside always come to the market to sell their goods. When my father and I arrived, the market was crowded with people, and of course, oranges. We looked around in the crowd of people and stopped at the sight of a small booth. This small booth was quite different; it was just a big piece of cloth on the ground with a few fresh-looking oranges. But I wondered why there were no customers. Unable to stop my curiosity, I persuaded my father to take a look at the oranges. We walked toward the booth and saw a young girl sitting on a stool, reading next to the booth. Her mind seemed to have whirled into the story, because she didn’t even notice us when we walked toward her. My father cleared his throat and asked, “How much are the oranges?” My father cleared his throat and asked, “How much are the oranges?” The girl heard him and jumped up as though her stool had just been electrified. “Oh . . . ah . . . what?” the girl stammered. “How much are the oranges?” my father repeated patiently. “Oh . . . three for one yuan,” the girl answered politely. “They are not totally ripe . . . a bit sour,” she added, when my father was examining the oranges carefully. After a while he looked up and said, “I don’t mind if they are sour . . . I’ll buy twenty of them.” Both the girl and I looked at him with surprise; I never thought my father could be so generous. Then the girl put the oranges in a bag and gave them to him. My father carelessly stuffed some money into her hand and we walked out of the busy street. “Why did you buy so many oranges from her?” I asked my father as we walked toward the bus stop. “Well, she was so truthful and even told me that her own oranges are sour; besides, she really enjoys studying. And look at her book, it’s so old; maybe she can use the money she earned to buy some books!” I nodded my head vigorously after hearing my father’s words. Just then, I felt somebody tugging my arm; I turned and recognized the person as the girl whom we bought the oranges from. “Ran . . . ran all the . . . way here, never . . . thought you walked so fast . . . here’s . . . your change . . .” she panted, and stuffed the money in my hand. “Got to go and . . . look after my booth, bye!” Before I could mutter a thanks, she had already turned a corner and was out of sight. I stared at the coins in my hand; although it was only a few coins, the girl and her act of honesty will be etched in my memory forever . . . Zhang He, 11Singapore Natalie Chin, 9Bellevue, Washington
Gray Fingers of Rain
At first misty then drizzling now coming down hard like long, thin fingers reaching down to earth gray against the green of the pine trees combining with the fog that has rolled in from the sea. Many people prefer tropical islands or dusty deserts— but I like the wet and the fog and the mist and the gray skies of home because . . . to me, nothing is better than wet and mist and fog and gray fingers of rain against green trees. Natalie Lam, 12Bothell, Washington
My Friend the Bull
Our power was gone again. The house was at least sixty years old, I say sesenta, but we moved in a few weeks ago. The rain was slamming into the earth like a fist. Trees outside bent their heads in awe of the storm. I thought, this was the kind of weather when my abuela, or grandmother, once sang songs and drank hot black coffee. But in the family room my parents and two older brothers sat around the newspaper like mosquitoes to a light with no words shared between them. I stepped out into the rain. The water met my skin in a burst of coldness, past the jacket and pants to the tender skin. Rain always makes me feel alive and I hear my heartbeat through the pattern of drops. But then I go back inside to the air-conditioning and rock ‘n’ roll music, and I am not so sure. My father calls himself a man of the times. He works in a city job and must watch the politics and the local events on the television or read of them in the papers. My abuela said that it is a changing world, but we must not forget those before us who were born and lived their lives in Cuba. Also she said that of the many things that will make me a man, one is conscience. One day I broke a mug while washing and, remembering this thing, I went to tell my father, but instead of thanking me for my words as I had hoped, he paddled me. Telling does not matter much anymore. Now my brothers always uncover what I have done wrong and tell for me. “Recuerdas, remember what I have taught you, my nieto. Adios” My brothers, they are the strong and handsome names of Juan and Padre, just as my father is Miguel. But me, the last child, I am only little Gabriel. But I remember my abuela always calling me her little nieto, which is grandson, but from the ways she spoke it with her heart in her lips and eyes I always imagined myself as loved one. Whenever I was with my abuela I was the loved one but now I am only Gabriel. I look back and see the yellow evening when she died. I sat on a chair beside her cheek but my parents and the doctor stood frowning far away at the foot. In the window above her head the sun settled like an old bird into its nest with a halo of red clouds, the sign of clear skies tomorrow. I heard her say in a voice as thin as a fallen leaf, “El sol sets on me today, my little nieto. But en la matiana, you will rise and see him, my darling. Many more of him you will see. Recuerdas, remember what I have taught you, my nieto. Adios.” “Adios, mi abuela,” I whispered. Her lids fell lightly across her cheeks and I knew the end. I sat for many hours memorizing each wrinkle of her face until my father called for me, “Gabriel!” Then I kissed her cheek and left her forever. * * * I went in for la comida, but I thought it did not deserve the Spanish name because it was pizza. The taste of grease rose in my throat with the taste of bile and I thought of my abuela’s fish and yellow rice. We are in her house which was given to us when she died, a few miles from Miami. My parents much prefer city life, but this house was all paid off and with much furniture, and they came for the cheapness. But they tore down all her paintings and memories and put up wallpaper with seashells. Think of it, I tell myself, trading a lifetime for seashells! “So,” my father told us, “the bull will be delivered tomorrow.” A sign was up for a bull for sale and my brother Juan saw it. “I want to be a matador,” he told my father. Juan has the temperament of a fighter. He is mean and cunning and has no mercy, and he played the games of fighting when a child. “Very well,” said my father, “but besides strength you must get education too.” Now the bull is coming. Probably Juan will try to ride its horns into me. * * * The bull was young and medium-size. His nostrils flared and he pranced near the walls of our pen. His name was Diablo, which is devil; however, as soon as I saw his hide I called him Rojo. His skin was red as blood or pepper. I liked to think of him as my own age and circumstance, only another prisoner in this great big world. That morning Juan stepped into the pen with his bullfighting cap and a red cloth and all his proud anger. Maybe it is angry pride; I do not know which. “Bull!” he shouted in an ugly voice. “Come and fight!” The bull in response charged across the dirt to him and he stepped aside just in time from the pointed horns. Then he ran and vaulted the fence. Now he is inside telling tales of how he conquered the mighty bull, on his first attempt. Only I saw him. Then I opened the gate and approached the bull. A sugar cube rested on my open hand, which showed my good intention. The bull, or Rojo as I thought in my private mind, pawed the ground anxiously. I thought, you are just scared and lonely like a lost kitten. Soon his curiosity overcame fear. Rojo approached me and consumed the sugar into his great mouth. I reached out one hand to pat his great horn. He was not afraid and he leapt away and did a bull dance all around the pen. The dirt was packed by his prancing hooves. When he returned he begged for more and I fed
Message of the Conch Shell
Salt sea spray brushed against my cheek as I paced placidly along my beach. Well, not my beach, technically, but that’s what I fondly call it. My adoptive mother, Elnore, says every time it’s a nice day out, “It’s a day for your beach, Shayla, go and capture it.” So that’s where I am now, on a beach where your thoughts break loose from a cage called your mind, and take off into the sky. While my thoughts are off scanning the horizons, my green eyes stay close to the beach, seeking out shells. I always look for additions to my shell collection, which are easy to find, for I practically live on the beach. My eyes spot a dark gray shell poking out of the soft sand. I trot over and squat down by it, taking a piece of my short, curly brown hair and tucking it behind my ear. I carefully pick up the shell and turn it over. Sure enough, the rainbow colors of an abalone shell shimmer back at me. I smile and place the shell in the pocket of my battered old shorts, then skip off along the shoreline. After a few minutes of poking along the beach, I find the driftwood bench that I crafted myself. I plop down on it and think about my life, what I always do on this unique bench. I was adopted, or rather I was found. See, Elnore found me on the beach, which is, of course, very odd. Elnore told the police about me, and the police did their job and investigated to see if anyone had a missing child. No one claimed me, so Elnore took me under her wing. I have lived with her ever since, twelve years. I love Elnore’s cozy old beach house, and I love Elnore, but I would like to know about my past. After a few minutes of poking along the beach, I find the driftwood bench that I crafted myself A ship bell rings faintly. I look out on the ocean. Old Mr. Flint waves at me from his equally old fishing schooner. I wave back. Mr. Flint points to the cove that he usually docks in. I nod and he turns back to his wheel. Lifting myself off the bench, I make my way down to Fisher’s Cove. I usually help Mr. Flint unload his catch in exchange for stories of what he saw in the ocean that day, and a buck or two. “Aye, little Shayla!” Mr. Flint greets me with a toothy smile. “Hey!” I grin back. “Any fish stories today?” “Jest unusual happenings. I swear I saw a whale jest off the mainland. Gray-colored one it was.” My eyes open wide with surprise. “But it’s not time for whales to migrate by here yet!” I exclaim. “Yeah, I know. That’s what’s so strange about that whale. Help me with this net, wouldja?” I bend down and help him with a net full of fish. I still am very curious. “Was there anything strange about the whale, besides the obvious?” I enquire eagerly. Old Mr. Flint wrinkles up his nose, thinking hard. “Eyah . . . it were tossin’ around a trinket thing, mayhap a shell. I don’ think that that’s what’s causin’ um to act this way though.” He pulls out another net, and I help him with it. “Nothing else?” I ask hopefully. “Nothin’ ‘cept the sunrise,” was the disappointing answer. I stay through the usual sunrise bit, I finish, he thanks me, and hands me the regular paycheck (a dollar-fifty). Finally I trudge home, with darkness setting over the ocean. “I suppose you will be enlightening the beach with your presence today, right?” I smile at Elnore’s obvious question, and reply enthusiastically over the tink, tink of spoons against breakfast oatmeal bowls. “Of course! Going to the beach is one of the many privileges of this off-school vacation! How could you ever doubt I would spend a day without my beach?” “Oh, just a wild guess.” Elnore picks up my satchel, and tosses it at me. “Go find some seashells!” “Aye, aye captain!” I rush happily out the door. It is foggy when I get to my beach, and the waves crash steadily against the jagged rocks. I shrug my shoulders and continue on my way. A few sand dollars are all I can see in the sand, broken ones at that. I suddenly decide to walk on the western part of my beach, a part that I don’t acknowledge much. The wind starts to whip around violently, and strands of hair keep blowing in my face. Frustrated, I search my satchel for a rubber band, and come out with a piece of string. I turn in the direction of the ocean and tie my hair up. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something move out on the ocean. I know it isn’t the waves; the thing I see is an object. Something plops down in the sand right next to me and I jump. I come to my senses and look down. A large shell sits comfortably in the sand, as if it had been there a million years. I stoop and take a closer look. The shell is a conch shell, and definitely excels in looks. It is glossy, and the surface is a mixture of cream and white colors. It is delicately rounded and has a curlicue on the top of it. Excited, I pick up the pretty shell and put it in my satchel. I walk home quickly, eager to show Elnore my lucky find. How little I knew then. * * * “Elnore, Elnore! Look, look! Look what I found!” I burst through the door, wet from the now falling rain. Elnore glances up from her sketch pad, and puts on her wire-rimmed glasses. “What do you have there?” I hold up the conch shell. Elnore’s eyes are like tennis balls. “Wow. That is
In the Land of the Basketball Hoops
She slung her leg over the side of the hammock and sighed. It was the sigh alone that told the story of her boredom, the story of being dragged out to visit an aunt and uncle she barely knew; then of finding that her relatives and their neighbors were about the dullest people who ever walked the face of the earth. Then just as she sighed again, the actress in her searching for the best pitch to portray most complete and utter boredom, the screen door opened and quietly closed and her aunt stepped out and squinted in the sunshine. “Carmon, honey. I’m afraid this must be rather dull for a city girl like you,” she tittered. “Why don’t you take a little stroll. I’m going to be off to the Ladies Society.” Her aunt stood awhile, expectantly waiting for her niece to jump up and scamper down the road calling, “Have a nice day, Auntie!” like the niece she had always imagined. Carmon only raised one eyebrow and twisted a short black curl around her finger. Reluctantly Aunt Angela walked down the manicured sidewalk toward the dark red minivan in the garage. A minute later she was backing out of the graveled driveway. Carmon watched and wondered, momentarily, why people drove in parkways and parked in driveways, but she soon dismissed the thought, telling herself that it was much too hot to think. Her eyes followed the minivan in a lazy sort of way, the way you might imagine a large beetle who, having just eaten his fill, lay watching a slow, fat fly. Carmon got up and pulled her soccer shorts from her sweaty skin, then gave up because they replastered each time. A gnat flew into her hair, and she flicked it away. “I guess anything would be better than this, even a walk,” she said to the mosquito on her arm before squashing it. Carmon grabbed her faded New York Mets cap and put it on, then began to walk toward Maple Street, which was three houses down from Aunt Angela and Uncle Fredrick’s house. At each house there was a girl with blond hair, shooting hoops and hoops and hoops and hoops . . . On the corner of Maple Street and Eve Street there stood a large house. Carmon stopped to pull out her water bottle from a Barbie fanny pack that her little sister Melissa had insisted she bring and wear to remember her. Carmon took a long drink, then replaced it and looked up at the house. It looked like an imitation of the houses she’d seen along Brattle Street in one of her many visits to Cambridge, mixed with an imitation of a villa in Switzerland that she had stayed at for a year. Carmon shook her head and smiled. The imitation was certainly bad. Thunk, thunk, thunk—her head turned automatically toward the sound. In the driveway there stood a medium-height girl with medium-length blond hair. She was shooting baskets at a hoop almost rhythmically. Carmon gazed at her for a moment, then noticed the lack of emotion on her suntanned face. She showed no sign of having any fun, yet every time she shot the ball it landed neatly in the basket. Carmon shook her head, then walked on. As she came to the driveway of the next house she heard dribbling again, and again. Carmon turned her head to see a young girl shooting baskets. She seemed totally unaware that right next door, a girl was also playing. Their houses were just far enough apart that neither of them could see each other. Carmon wanted to run up to the girl and tell her that right next door a girl was shooting baskets too, and that they could play one-on-one, but the girl’s dad was on the lawn blowing leaves in a circle with a leaf blower. Every few minutes he would stop and watch his daughter’s endless, perfect shots, then give her a thumbs-up. She would smile, toss her blond hair, then continue to shoot and dribble, perfect synchronized dribbling. Carmon walked on and on, and at each house there was a girl with blond hair, shooting hoops and hoops and hoops and hoops . . . Carmon began to be mesmerized by the endless perfection. She looked around her and realized she had no idea where she was. Her head seemed to be throbbing in perfect, synchronized beats, almost the same as the thunk, thunk, thunk coming from the driveway ahead. She couldn’t seem to remember where she’d turned or how long she had been walking. She looked around and realized you couldn’t give directions around here. You couldn’t say “turn left at the house with the leaf blower” because every house had one, prominently filling the natural silence. You couldn’t say “turn right at the house with the fake jockey statue” because every house had one. And you couldn’t say “make a U-turn at the house with the minivan” because every driveway seemed to contain one. You certainly couldn’t say “cross the street at the house with the basketball hoop.” Even in her present state of mind Carmon knew that. Carmon turned yet another corner with the desperate hope of ending up on her aunt and uncle’s street, though the street sign clearly read Twilight Park. In front of her, about five houses down, stood a Man, a Lady and a perfect little Boy. They were calling her name and beckoning to her. They seemed to know her, though she was certain she’d never seen them in her life. She seemed drawn toward them, closer, closer, her head throbbing with the repeated cries of “Carmon, Carmon, Carmon . . .” She walked on, the monotonous, coordinated sound of the voices merging with the ever louder thump of basketballs. The people stood in front of her smiling. The man held a basketball which he placed in her outstretched hands. She walked forward, catching a glimpse of
Summer Days Beside Cannon Rock
The ocean, rocks, and cool sea breeze are what awaited me every July at our old summer house in Maine. The living room, dining room and two bedrooms upstairs had the most beautiful view in the whole house. It was of the glistening teal ocean and huge rocks on which one could climb. They were all along the seaside, like a barrier separating the water and land. These midnight, cloudy-day rocks were simply called “the rocks,” and one in particular was shaped like a cannon pointing out to sea; we called it Cannon Rock. It was the largest, and if one were to climb to the top of it, the whole world would seem like it was before her eyes. As I walked down our worn-off, soft, charcoal-color porch stairs, I passed beach flowers that looked like mini-hibiscuses. I was heading toward the rocks. Waves crashed up against the rocks that sounded like a hard crack of a whip. I climbed on all fours and watched out for the razor-sharp barnacles. They were stuck on like a baby calf clinging to its mother in its early stages. Above me the sun was blazing, and I heard the screeching of seagulls soaring through the clear blue sky. I breathed in the salty sea air, which reminded me of Cape Cod salt-and-vinegar chips, my favorite. Around and inside the rocks were tidepools and areas to search for the little treasures the ocean brings. The foamy water from the open gap in a rock shampooed my cool bare feet. As I kept exploring the watery world, sudden shimmers caught my eye. Sea glass was sparkling on small moist stones and rocks. The pieces were frosty colors of midnight-sky blue, emerald green, and baby-boy blue. I used to drop them in a jar, making a collection to admire. I searched around more, observing different motionless creatures. I gently picked up a starfish and felt its hard top, like rough sandpaper. It looked like pores on a grapefruit. I scooped up several multicolored periwinkles, and saw a crab scuttle across and hide under a big rock. He was the color of the setting sun. Next, I saw stringy strands of slimy cucumber-colored seaweed. I also glimpsed some other seaweed that looked like the packaging bubble wrap that covers fragile things. I gently picked up a starfish and felt its hard top, like rough sandpaper When I was finished examining the various animals, I headed up to the sizzling hot rocks, baked by the afternoon sun. I sat down and peered out onto the horizon; here I could see Stratton Island and Bluff Island. These islands looked like small blots propped up by the water against the sky. Sailboats floated along the skyline, even though it didn’t look like they were moving at all. I think of the times I spent on the rocks and in Maine. Once we had a family cookout, several times we packed picnics to eat, and one evening we roasted marshmallows against a fire. My dreams at night here were about my different adventures I had, and new things I learned. I think of how I wished to be a marine biologist, because of my love I had for the ocean and the wonders inside of it. I was never afraid to touch some “gooey-gross” seaweed like others would say. I could only admire it, and other things. I remembered a night when I heard two seals barking outside of my bedroom window. They were moving black figures, swimming the dark sea. That was my last night there; it was like they were saying good-bye. In the movie Peter Pan the mermaid lagoon and the islands reminded me of Maine. So many things did. For example, when I ate plain Pringles chips or Rice Krispies treats. Whenever I held a large seashell up to my ear, the rushing of the waves reminded me of the water slapping against the rocks. Even when I smelled a bit of salty sea air, it just tingled me inside and the memories went through my head. I had grown attached to our house and rocks on the sea, just like baby calves come to bond with their mother. The time I spent there gave me a chance to view the whole world, just as I could do at the top of Cannon Rock. Memories could be cherished forever from the events that don’t always last. Katey Storey, 13 Chestnut Hill, Massachusetts Hannah Richman, 13Kittanning, Pennsylvania
Promises to the Dead
Promises to the Dead by Mary Downing Hahn; Clarion Books: New York, 2000; $15 Promises to the dead is a very interesting book. On the surface it seems simple, but scratch beneath the surface and you will find a unique story that obviously took some work. In Promises to the Dead, a young boy named Jesse happens upon a pregnant slave woman and her son. As the woman goes into labor, she sends Jesse to fetch an abolitionist midwife who lives nearby. As her condition quickly deteriorates after delivering a dead child, she makes Jesse promise to bring her little boy, Perry, to her dead master’s sister in Baltimore. Then she dies, leaving Jesse stuck with his promise, since you can’t break promises made to the dead. For the rest of the book, Jesse and Perry have to evade a slave-catcher, as well as Perry’s master’s widow. Because Perry was his master’s illegitimate son, his mistress would like to get rid of him as fast as possible. Finally the two boys manage to find freedom, despite the hardships along the way. I thought the plot was unique, because it dealt with normal people having to help runaway slaves. The only people that one usually hears about are the names that are now famous, like Harriet Tubman. Mary Downing Hahn shows the reality of the normal abolitionist. That was my favorite part of the plot. I really enjoyed how many ideas she was able to rope into one plot and be able to make it work. However, I didn’t think the plot was very plausible. It seems like there are many things that are hard for Jesse and Perry, and yet somehow there are many things that miraculously happen so that they are able to keep going. I would have enjoyed the book a lot more if Mary Downing Hahn had kept things agreeing with what she had said earlier in the story (i.e., what would happen if Perry’s owner got him back). I also thought the book was a little too easy to read, so I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone aged twelve and above, or with an above average reading level. However, all in all, the originality of the plot made it a light read that made up for unlikable details in the plot. There are many things in this book that are phenomenally well done. Not only does the plot have certain intricacies that keep the pages turning, but also the characters are extremely well drawn. Mary Downing Hahn knows how to make the reader like the good characters and hate the bad. She has successfully mastered the art of character creation, which I, as a writer, often struggle with. Making characters with multi-dimensional personalities of their own is a hard task. I commend her for making it seem easy. I also appreciated the honesty in this book. It is very hard to write a book on slavery and abolition (trust me, I’ve tried) and make it seem real. Mary Downing Hahn showed that it was the common people and not just those known as conductors on the Underground Railroad that made the real difference in eliminating slavery. I think that it produces good lessons to all of us out there today: keeping promises is important, and no matter what you do, it’s important not to give up along the way, because you are somehow making a difference. Jesse remembered that when he was taking Perry to safety, and he fought to keep going. I try to remember that whenever things seem pointless, that no matter what, I need to keep going until I succeed. Reed Gochberg, 13St. Paul, Minnesota
Skate Disaster
I woke up as a small gap of light beamed into my eyes from a hole in the curtain. I opened my bedroom window to see what kind of a day it was. The sun was radiating on my face, but the only thing I could feel was the heat. There was not even the slightest breeze in the air; it gave me a strange feeling. My house is near the ocean, so I was accustomed to early morning breezes. But today the air was as still as a stagnant pond. I continued to look out my bedroom window, and I was pleased to see that there was not a cloud in the sky. I knew that it would be a perfect day for skateboarding. Even though the day was nice and sunny, something tugged at my mind, but I could not put my finger on it. I had an uneasy feeling that seemed to consume my thoughts. As I continued to stare out onto the empty street, I noticed something very strange. Usually on a Saturday morning, all the dogs on the street are barking, wandering around, or even terrorizing a few cats. Today, not a bark could be heard, or a single dog could be seen. I could not imagine where all the dogs could be hiding. It was almost like something was going to happen, but I could not figure out what. Despite my uneasy feelings, I was determined to have a good day. As I continued to stare out onto the empty street, I noticed something very strange I jumped into my favorite pair of cargo pants, threw on my blue Tech Deck shirt, and slipped into a comfortable pair of black Emericas. I tossed the cat over my shoulder, and we both bounced down the stairs to get a bite to eat. As I was shoving a bacon-and-cheese breakfast sandwich into my mouth, I flipped on my favorite television show, “Junkyard Wars.” I was just getting settled into my chair when a news flash rudely interrupted my program. A reporter appeared and announced that several small earthquakes had rattled a town, just twenty-seven miles away. He said that these quakes measured 4.1 on the Richter scale, and that not much damage was done to the local structures. I watched the news report and thought about the last time a quake had hit our little town of Aptos. We hadn’t had one since 1989. But that quake shook the area tremendously and caused a ton of damage. It was measured at 7.1 on the Richter scale. I was only a few months old, so this quake did not even faze me. But believe me, I heard all about it from my parents. They won’t ever forget the rocking, rolling, and rumbling of that quake. The blaring ring of the telephone interrupted my thoughts. I jumped up from the couch and grabbed my cordless phone. “Hello,” I blurted into the receiver. “Hey, Alex, what’s happening?” said my best friend Tim. “I am not up to much, except for watching a dumb news report about an earthquake. Do you want to go to the skate park today?” I said with enthusiasm. “Sure, I’ll drop by at around ten,” Tim confirmed his plans. “I will see you then, dude,” I answered and quickly hung up the phone. Tim showed up a few minutes early. I knew he was ready to get going because he didn’t even notice my new PlayStation 2. Tim never passes up a chance to play a video game, but today his mind was on skating. Tim just got a Zero skateboard for his birthday, and he was dying to try it out. We were both out the door in a flash and started our one-mile trip to the park on our skateboards. A slight breeze kicked up and brushed against our faces as we rolled along the sidewalks. We noticed that there weren’t too many people outside, and the dogs weren’t chasing us as usual. When we got to the skate park entrance, we noticed a huge line of kids waiting to get inside. The line wrapped around the block, so we had to cut across the Kmart parking lot in order to get to the end of the line. “How long is it going to take us to get into this park?” I said to Tim with a frustrated look on my face. “We could be out here for hours, Alex,” complained Tim. After about an hour, Tim and I finally made our way through the entrance gate of the park. There were skaters everywhere, and we were having a hard time finding a spot to skate on the half pipe. Every time we come to this park, Tim and I always skate on the half pipe, but since there was not room to skate there, we proceeded to a small, enclosed area where we could grind. We could spend hours grinding on our skateboards, so I knew that we’d be in this area of the park for quite a while. Tim and I were having a blast, and we didn’t want the day to end. I knew that I had to be home for supper at six, so we only had an hour more of skating. We left the grinding room and ran over to the skating bowl, which is a large metal bowl that is enclosed by a cement wall. The skaters like to do tricks in the bowl—nose grinds, 360s, 180s, hard flips, and bumping. I looked at the clock. It was 5:05 PM. A strange feeling came over me, but I didn’t know why. I ignored the feeling and glided up the side of the bowl to show Tim how well I could do a hard flip. Just as I was ready to turn, I lost my balance and fell to the ground. I got up off the ground, stood on my board, but something strange was happening all
Promises to the Dead
Promises to the Dead by Mary Downing Hahn; Clarion Books: New York, 2000; $15 Promises to the dead is a very interesting book. On the surface it seems simple, but scratch beneath the surface and you will find a unique story that obviously took some work. In Promises to the Dead, a young boy named Jesse happens upon a pregnant slave woman and her son. As the woman goes into labor, she sends Jesse to fetch an abolitionist midwife who lives nearby. As her condition quickly deteriorates after delivering a dead child, she makes Jesse promise to bring her little boy, Perry, to her dead master’s sister in Baltimore. Then she dies, leaving Jesse stuck with his promise, since you can’t break promises made to the dead. For the rest of the book, Jesse and Perry have to evade a slave-catcher, as well as Perry’s master’s widow. Because Perry was his master’s illegitimate son, his mistress would like to get rid of him as fast as possible. Finally the two boys manage to find freedom, despite the hardships along the way. I thought the plot was unique, because it dealt with normal people having to help runaway slaves. The only people that one usually hears about are the names that are now famous, like Harriet Tubman. Mary Downing Hahn shows the reality of the normal abolitionist. That was my favorite part of the plot. I really enjoyed how many ideas she was able to rope into one plot and be able to make it work. However, I didn’t think the plot was very plausible. It seems like there are many things that are hard for Jesse and Perry, and yet somehow there are many things that miraculously happen so that they are able to keep going. I would have enjoyed the book a lot more if Mary Downing Hahn had kept things agreeing with what she had said earlier in the story (i.e., what would happen if Perry’s owner got him back). I also thought the book was a little too easy to read, so I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone aged twelve and above, or with an above average reading level. However, all in all, the originality of the plot made it a light read that made up for unlikable details in the plot. There are many things in this book that are phenomenally well done. Not only does the plot have certain intricacies that keep the pages turning, but also the characters are extremely well drawn. Mary Downing Hahn knows how to make the reader like the good characters and hate the bad. She has successfully mastered the art of character creation, which I, as a writer, often struggle with. Making characters with multi-dimensional personalities of their own is a hard task. I commend her for making it seem easy. I also appreciated the honesty in this book. It is very hard to write a book on slavery and abolition (trust me, I’ve tried) and make it seem real. Mary Downing Hahn showed that it was the common people and not just those known as conductors on the Underground Railroad that made the real difference in eliminating slavery. I think that it produces good lessons to all of us out there today: keeping promises is important, and no matter what you do, it’s important not to give up along the way, because you are somehow making a difference. Jesse remembered that when he was taking Perry to safety, and he fought to keep going. I try to remember that whenever things seem pointless, that no matter what, I need to keep going until I succeed. Reed Gochberg, 13St. Paul, Minnesota
Grandma
I saw a hot air balloon this morning And immediately thought of you Every time I am on the hill I yell “Hi Grandma!” As loud as I can I look at the ancient hilltop tree How its branch is pointing To all the land you loved I look at the vineyards And I remember How much you treasured them When I climb the hill I still remember Scattering your ashes How they blew on me in the wind And I didn’t brush them off I think of you quilting Even in intensive care When it was hard for you to breathe And when you wanted off life support But stayed alive until we were ready I remember playing cards Listening to classical music and Spending Christmas mornings with you Now I can listen to your voice On the life story tape And sleep under your quilt Whenever I want But that is still nothing Compared to your love for me Mark Roberts, 10Windsor, California
A Narrow Escape
“What a lovely place for a summer vacation,” sighed my twelve-year-old cousin Allison, as we stood on the bluffs of the Maine coast. I nodded as my eyes swept over the glass-like water in the bay with numerous islands scattered beyond it. My gaze rested on the lighthouse erected on the edge of a steep rocky cliff connected to the mainland. A clatter of stones above made us turn to see Allison’s sister, ten-year-old Jenny, skipping down the slope to meet us. “Good morning!” she cried. “I thought I would find you here. Whatcha want to do? We have the whole day free.” “What about rowing our boat out to the lighthouse?” I suggested. The idea was met with favor and we descended the rest of the way down to the beach. There a sleek red-and-white boat, the Bonnie Belle, lay pulled up on the beach. Allison and Jenny quickly clambered into the boat as I shoved it into the calm waters. Grabbing the oars, I set out at a leisurely pace toward the lighthouse. Allison manned the rudder and Jenny sat at the prow of the boat. The lighthouse was about two miles away and it was hardly a chore to row the boat. All the same I readily consented to Jenny’s request to row the boat “just a little distance” as she had said because, for her age, she was great at handling the oars. I leaned over the front of the boat, dangling my fingers in the water, not at all expecting the nightmarish experience that was to come. I leaned over the front of the boat, not at all expecting the nightmarish experience that was to come We were about one-fourth of a mile away from the lighthouse when, to my surprise, Allison began turning the boat back the way we had come. Jenny let out a wail of protest and I said sharply, “What do you think you are doing, Allison?” “I’m turning back, Rebekah!” she said, just as sharply as I did. Jenny, hoping to avoid a quarrel, said, “You’re not afraid of a little wind, are you?” for a gentle breeze had been blowing. “No,” answered Allison. Then pointing southeast she continued, “But are you afraid of that?” We looked and my heart almost stopped beating. An immense black cloud was forming out at sea and rapidly heading our way. I yelled at Jenny to get out of the way and, grabbing the oars, began rowing for shore at a pace which would have won any race I ever entered. “Why not head for the lighthouse and beach the boat? We would be safe there, wouldn’t we?” questioned Jenny. “No, Jen,” I answered. “There’s no place to beach the boat because the lighthouse is on a cliff. Remember?” Jenny didn’t bother talking anymore. Foamy whitecaps danced on the sea which had been so calm barely an hour before. “Better put your life vests on!” Allison advised. Without hesitating Jenny reached under her seat and pulled out three life vests. She buckled one on, then handed one to Allison who, putting the tiller between her knees, quickly did the same. Rowing feverishly, I couldn’t stop to put mine on. Jenny performed the task. I rowed for all I was worth, but with waves crashing against the boat it was no easy task. The storm hit with all its force. Buckets of rain poured on us from all directions. “Do you think we will tip over?” cried Allison’s voice above the wind. How I wanted to say no. Instead I told the truth. “We might, so prepare to swim for it.” Jenny didn’t say anything, but I knew she was scared. Suddenly she cried out, “Big wave off the port side!” Allison tried to turn us so we would hit the wave head on, but it was in vain. The wave smacked into us, tipping the Bonnie Belle over. I tumbled into the sea and thought we were goners as the icy waters of the Atlantic closed over my head. I came up choking and gasping for breath. To my surprise I wasn’t dead, nor were any of the others, for I could see them a little distance away. Swimming to Jenny’s side, I grasped her life vest and yelled into her ear, asking if she was OK. She nodded. Allison came struggling over. She, too, seemed all right. I calculated we were about a hundred yards from shore. I knew we had better reach land before we froze in the 54-degree water. “Is the boat lost?” asked Allison. “Yeah,” I answered. The Bonnie Belle was already far from us, heading toward the jagged rocks. I told Jenny to grab my shoulder straps and Allison to hold Jenny’s. In that way we were together. I used my arms and swam toward the beach. Allison kicked and we made good progress going with the current. I was sure that I had swallowed half the ocean, since every time a wave washed over my head I would swallow some of it. I was thoroughly exhausted. First rowing, and now swimming, my arms felt like they were going to fall off. We were about twenty-five yards from shore when my strength gave out and I could go no further. I begged my cousins to go on. They would not. “Listen to me!” I cried. “Go on! If one of us doesn’t make it there’s no need for all of us not to!” Through salt-filled eyes I saw them battling the waves. Dimly I remember being unmercifully washed back and forth by the surf. Once I felt the ground with my hands and I tried to hold on to it, but I was pulled away by the strong undertow. Totally giving myself up for lost, I vaguely realized someone was pulling on my shoulder strap. I felt the water trying to wrench me away, but my rescuer hauled me onto the beach. Dragging me to the side of
