On the Long Run

I’ve been reading (among other things), Perry Moore’s 2007 novel Hero.  I’m sure I’ll eventually write a review of it, but for now I'm reading only a chapter or two at a time between other readings. I've become a three or four books at a time sort of guy. Daytime reading. Bedtime reading. Out-and-about reading. And—in Hero’s case—change-of-pace reading. Perhaps that's worthy of a blog discussion sometime, too, huh?

But this morning I came across this great little snippet on running in Hero that I have to share:

Running always gave me time to think. It wasn’t like practicing with a team, when I always worried if I was fitting in with everyone else. When I ran, I never thought about screwing someone else up or ruining the team’s chance to win. It was a solitary activity, and sometimes that felt nice. (Moore 140)

While I would argue there is a team aspect to competitive running—especially in cross country—it certainly is of a different nature than most other team sports. And I otherwise wholeheartedly embrace protagonist Thom Creed’s sentiment here.

I’ve never excelled at sports that involve nets, balls, pucks, goals, etc.  And I’ve always worried about batting or passing or pitching or catching (or, rather, failing to do these things) when teammates rely on me.

When running, though, I can let my mind go. Obviously, I need to watch for traffic and uneven surfaces and whatnot. Plus if I'm training for competition, there are workouts where a great deal of focus is needed. But if I'm just out on a nice long run (say an hour or more), my mind is able to sort things out. I'm not worried about how I look.  I'm not thinking about how I might embarrass myself by missing an important basket or letting a grounder roll between my legs. I'm not afraid of letting anybody down. And I am not focused on a goal.

I just am.

I'm up, I'm moving, I'm away from the television, computer, phone, anything that might stake a claim on my attention. I'm just running.

Throughout high school and college, I worked out several essays while pounding pavement, then plopped down at my computer after practice and pounded pages. And still today, I enjoy a good run (although they’re less frequent and of shorter duration than they once were). I can flesh out characters, develop scenes, polish dialogue, or  ponder books I’ve been reading.

And while I walk a lot with my son now, it's a different sort of experience. I certainly think about reading and writing and life in general while we walk, but for those most part, strolls are our time. I’m focused on my son, enjoying his company, taking in the river, admiring houses and flowers and trees.

 

Running is my time—time in which my mind takes me where I need to go. And sometimes that feels nice.

Moore, Perry. Hero. New York: Hyperion, 2007.

John Hughes and Dialogue

I’ve recently been doing a lot of dialogue work. In other words, I’ve not written much recently.  Because I, like many, find authentic, interesting dialogue difficult to write.

But good dialogue is essential to a good story.  Dialogue can advance plot, reveal character, or simply make a scene pop.

When I’m stuck, I try a number of things.

For one (by suggestion of a faculty member at Hamline), I look for words in the news, on a random page in the dictionary, on a bus or truck driving by on the street—interesting words, unique words, words I wouldn’t necessarily think of using in my story—then force myself to add them to a scene.  Play around. See what happens. 

I also turn to John Hughes—specifically his teen canon of the 1980’s—Sixteen Candles, Breakfast Club, Pretty in Pink, Ferris Bueller's Day Off, and Some Kind of Wonderful.

Hughes once said, “I always liked character stories best—put two or more people in a room and get them talking—that’s the whole reason I got into this in the first place.”

And his films are just that—interesting, authentic teens talking.  And often the pairings are unexpected—the hot girl and the geeky guy, the popular jock and the nerd, the dangerous guy and the quiet girl. Hughes forces these high school stereotypes into a room together and lets them loose, writing first, asking questions (and revising) later.

As a result, he's given us some of the most enjoyable teen films ever made.  Sure, the clothing, hairstyles, and music are dated, but the dialogue still feels fresh, original.

In addition to putting people in situations they wouldn't normally be in (with people they wouldn't normally be with) to get a conversation going, Hughes avoids slang and other language that falls flat. You won’t find a lot of gnarleys or awesomes or wickeds in his work.  There are some, sure. And certainly it’s sometimes appropriate to use slang to represent a particular time period or place or connect with a specific audience. Or just for fun. But Hughes doesn't overuse it—and neither should we. Mostly Hughes uses unique turns of phrase, making his stories memorable, highly quotable, and ultimately timeless. 

So I watch his films not to get specific ideas for dialogue but for inspiration on how to craft speech that is interesting and fresh—dialogue that will bring deeper understanding of  characters and their situations. In short, I want to write dialogue that will make a story pop.

Nearly two years after his death, and decades since he made his most influential films, Hughes is still an inspiration for his unique and honest portrayals of youth. And he built his best stories on characters and their words. 

Favorite quotes:

 “You killed the car.”

“You’re not dying—you just can’t think of anything better to do.”

"Only the meek get pinched. The bold survive."

“A: You can never go too far. B: If I'm gonna get busted, it is not gonna be by a guy like that.”

"We're all pretty bizarre. Some of us are just better at hiding it, that's all."

"Andie, hon. Listen, it's after 7:00. Don't waste good lip gloss."

“His name is Blane? Oh! That's a major appliance, that's not a name!”

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself! It’s bad for your complexion!”

 “I’d rather have you not see me and like me than see me and hate me. ‘Cause I can’t afford to have you hate me, Keith!!!”

“You break his heart, I break your face.”

Book Review: The Things a Brother Knows

In Dana Reinhardt’s The Things a Brother Knows, Boaz returns to his family’s home outside of Boston after three years in the military, including a long tour in Iraq. The community regards him a hero. But his younger brother Levi, now 17, doesn’t know what to think or feel about him. Levi has never felt close to his brother, and Boaz’s decision to join the Marines when he graduated from high school further separates them. Most of Levi’s family is opposed to the war. Levi isn't all that interested in the politics of it; he’s just mad at his brother for leaving. For ditching out on Christina, his girlfriend. For torturing their poor mother. For delaying—perhaps forfeiting—the promising future he had (and all of the hopes and dreams his parents had for him to go to a great college and have a long and prosperous career). And for bringing three years of worry to their home.

So when Boaz gets back, Levi expects—or at least hopes—things will be better.  Hopes to have his brother back. Hopes life will return to normal for the family, like it was before Boaz left. And I think maybe he hopes to feel connected to his brother (even if he doesn’t know it right away).

The Things a Brother Knows by Dana Reinhardt
Wendy Lamb Books, 2010

But Boaz has changed.  Other than to emerge for meals, he spends all hours sequestered in his room. He won’t ride in any kind of car, truck, or bus—he even walked home from the airport. And Levi can hear him screaming softly (yes, softly) from his room in the middle of the night. But when Boaz’s computer breaks down and he borrows Levi’s laptop, Levi is able to snoop through his brother's internet doings and learn Boaz has been frequenting military message boards and blogs, watching videos, and downloading maps.

So when Boaz announces to the family that he plans to hike the Appalachian Trail—alone—Levi knows it’s a lie. The maps Boaz downloaded were not of the Appalachian Trail. So he’s even more mad at Boaz. For lying. For delaying the return to normalcy. For putting his family through hell again.

For leaving part of himself in Iraq.

After Boaz departs, Levi tracks him down using the little evidence he left behind. At first Levi tries to get him to come home, to give up whatever crazy mission he’s on and get started on his recovery. But Boaz won't budge, and the best Levi can do is join him on the hike (which Boaz reluctantly agrees to). Along the way, Levi begins to realize that maybe this long walk is just the opportunity he’s been waiting for—a chance to get to know his brother.

The Things a Brother Knows is pitch-perfectly narrated by Levi. It's often funny. Always interesting. Brutally honest. It's a fascinating examination of the effects of war on the family members of those serving on active duty. Levi is angry at his brother for the way he's been acting—and for leaving in the first place—but he's plagued by guilt for having those feelings.

And what's most remarkable about this novel, I think, is the hashing out of the relationship between the estranged brothers. I’m convinced that the handling of emotional relationships between male characters is integral to how boys—especially reluctant male readers—receive literature (and whether or not they will be lifelong readers). So convinced, in fact, that I wrote a critical thesis on the subject, focusing on the role of emotional conversations between boys. You see, if a novel is completely devoid of emotionality, it will not resonate with any reader. That’s not to say it wouldn’t be a pleasant read, but it certainly wouldn’t leave a lasting impression, wouldn’t make you want to go out and read another book. Or another. Or another after that. But if a story is overtly emotional (or inappropriately emotional), readers—especially male readers—will likely dismiss it as unrealistic and shy away from the book altogether. But Reinhardt, in this novel, provides the perfect example of how to handle such crucial conversations.

An example: With one sentence, Reinhardt has Levi (likely unbeknownst to him) set the stage for an important talk with his brother: “One of the things about walking I always appreciated is the way you don’t have to look someone in the eye.”  By hiking together, Levi and Boaz are moving, being active. The physicality of it tempers the emotional acuteness that might keep either or both from talking. They loosen up, let their guards down. There’s something about activity that makes many young men feel okay to talk—on the basketball court, during a run, while wrestling or fighting.  Plus, as Levi notes, they don’t have to look at each other. You know that saying, “the eyes are the window to the soul?” Well, if you don’t feel like you’re peering into someone’s soul (or worse—someone’s peering into yours), you might be willing to say some personal things without feeling too vulnerable (or feeling you seem to vulnerable).

The novel sneaks up on you. Levi’s narration is quick, funny, and spirited, and the characters (especially Levi’s friends Pearl and Zim and his grandfather Dov) are quirky and amusing. But all of that serves as a balance to the levity of the situation with Boaz. And when the brothers finally reach the end of their hike—their destination—you feel like you’ve gone the distance with them.

Highly recommended for ages 14-17. 

Gene Yang at Hamline!

Just learned some great news! Gene Yang, author of the 2007 Michael L. Printz Award-winning American Born Chinese, is joining the faculty in the MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults program at Hamline University. He was met with great enthusiasm (including from yours truly) when he spoke at the January residency in St. Paul.  For any of you aspiring graphic novelists out there (especially those who write for younger readers), this should serve as another nudge to check out Hamline! Peruse the website to learn more (and see what other amazing faculty are involved).

New Book Review: Oil Spill! Disaster in the Gulf of Mexico

Oil Spill! Disaster in the Gulf of Mexico is a new non-fiction book by Elaine Landau that chronicles the Deepwater Horizon explosion and oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico last year. It’s broken into several sections that cover the explosion, stoppage of the leak, the devastating affects on sea life and local economies, and suggestions for what concerned readers can do.

Landau does an excellent job of illustrating that there were no quick, neat, or easy solutions. Stopping the leak and conducting the clean up have been “messy” jobs. And without being preachy, she suggests concrete things readers can do to prevent such disasters in the future (like writing a congressperson about exploring and investing in cleaner energy, or—closer to home—reducing the amount of energy you use to decrease our dependence on fossil fuels).

Oil Spill! Disaster in the Gulf of Mexico

by Elaine Landau

Millbrook Press, 2011

I like the multi-pronged approach of the book, viewing the story from several perspectives to get a sense of the breadth of the disaster and what it took (and continues to take) to counteract the devastation. But it makes everything feel a bit distant. I wish there was a unifying thread in Oil Spill, tying together the separate sections of the book. As it stands, it’s like a collection of interesting topical essays about the disaster.

But Oil Spill is very readable. I appreciate the list of other disastrous spills at the end of the book that contextualizes how serious the Gulf spill is. And the glossary of terms is helpful for young (and older!) readers.  I’m struck by the violence of much of the terminology used by people addressing this disaster: top kill, junk shot, dead well, etc. It’s appropriate, I guess, since it’s almost like we’re at war with the disaster. Battling. Fighting. Defending sea life (and a way of life) on the Gulf Coast.

And the book is timely. Not only because the Gulf region is still feeling the affects of the spill (and will for quite some time). But because we’re constantly reminded of the volatility of our energy sources. Wars and political upheaval in the Middle East (Egypt, Libya, Iraq, Afghanistan, etc.) affect the price of oil. An earthquake and tsunami in Japan have caused crises at nuclear facilities. These are things that all of us need to think about—even kids. Maybe specially kids. Someday today’s children will take the reins on energy use and policy. And Landau manages to present a compelling read that asks them important questions without being pessimistic or (as I said before) preachy.  It’s not an angry book. But it also doesn’t gloss over the tough stuff. Oil Spill challenges its readers to think about the real world consequences of meeting contemporary energy needs.

Dialectical Completism: a review of Okay for Now by Gary Schmidt

I collect things. Especially books. And films. And I’m a completist; I like to have entire sets of my favorite things.  Since my sophomore year of college, I’ve been assembling the American Film Institute’s 100 Years...100 Movies list (the original one from 1997—not the 2007 update).  I have ninety-seven so far; I’m just waiting for re-releases of the last three. I collect other films, too, like ones by my favorite directors—Hitchcock, Wes Anderson, the Coen Brothers, and Scorsese—or favorite TV shows, like The Simpsons.  I also collect favorite books and sets of favorite book series.

The collections are less pristine than they once were, having been boxed and unpacked for several moves (including two semi-trans-United-Statesian trips). And a newly toddling child who clears any and all reachable shelves adds to the torn pages, creased covers, scratched discs, and smudged jackets in my library.  But I’ve learned to let go of keeping things crisp and new (except for signed copies—I at least keep those out of reach).  Because the condition of these items has become less important to me as I’ve gotten older. Maybe it’s just that I want the things that are important to me—items that are useful, enjoyable, and influential—to be readily available. In their entirety.  Regardless of their condition.

Or maybe it’s something else.

At any rate, I can relate to Doug Swieteck’s quest for complete-ness in Gary Schmidt’s wonderful new book Okay for Now (due out April 5). But more on that quest in a minute.

First it’s important to understand young Mr. Swieteck’s circumstances.  For those of you who read Schmidt’s 2008 Newberry honor book The Wednesday Wars, you might remember Doug, a friend of Holling Hoodhood.  This book picks up about where Wars left off, but follows Doug and his family (instead of Holling and his) to “stupid Marysville, New York” in the summer of 1968.

Doug hates his new life in this little town in upstate New York.  He wants to be back near the city, near Yankee Stadium, where he might have another chance encounter with his favorite player Joe Pepitone, who Doug is convinced is the greatest guy in the world.  Young Doug enumerates, in his amusing and endearing voice, all of the things he hates about Marysville (and life in general), including his house, which he calls “The Dump.” Plus his older brother is a jerk who picks on him and steals all his stuff (including his Joe Pepitone signed baseball cap, which is the only piece of clothing he’s ever owned that hasn’t belonged to another Swieteck before him). His oldest brother’s off fighting in Vietnam. His dad is so dissatisfied with his life that he has taken it upon himself to make everyone else in the family absolutely miserable. And the principal at his new school doesn’t think much of him. Nor do several of his teachers—especially Coach Reed.

Okay for Now by Gary D. Schmidt

Clarion Books, 2011

But thankfully there are some bright spots in Doug’s Marysville life. First is his mother.  She’s a bright spot everywhere. Especially her smile. Enough said.  Then there is his company-picnic-baseball-trivia-partner/horse-shoe-instructor, who turns out to be his dad’s boss (you’ll need to read the book to fully understand this one). And, of course, there is Lil (short for Lily, short for Lillian) Spicer, who is in the eighth grade with Doug. In their first meeting, she teaches him how to drink a really cold Coke (spoiler: it involves an impressive belch) and offers him a Saturday delivery job at her dad’s store. Lil quickly becomes his first and best friend in Marysville.

But most important is the public library—which is funny since Doug has never before set foot in any other library in his entire life.  Inside he’s drawn to an enormous book in a glass case, which is opened to a painting of an artic tern.  The book is John James Audubon’s Birds of America. And Mr. Powell, a librarian, finds Doug tracing his finger over the image, entranced by its beauty. He immediately recognizes his interest (although Doug won’t admit it—it’s just a bird, so what?), and over the course of the book  teaches Doug (who is unsurprisingly reluctant, at first) to draw. And to draw well. 

The book is a bit darker than The Wednesday Wars, dealing with weightier subject matter. But Schmidt does so delicately. The story is at turns sad, joyous, infuriating, hysterical, and touching. And it is always sincere. It earns its emotional punches. We can feel the shifts in tone and mood as we navigate through the pages. And he provides subtle markers that tell us where we are in the story. Like with the delivery route.  Doug takes groceries to the same set of people every week, and Schmidt gives us quirky details about these characters and their lives. And how they change throughout the book (especially in their attitudes towards Doug) not only suggests the passage of time but reflects Doug’s internal and external struggles and the evolution of his place in Marysville. Doug learns how to ride the ups and downs of life, whether it be troubles or triumphs with his brothers (both of them, since the eldest returns from war partway through the book), his father, his teachers, or Lil.

Another point of navigation is the plates—individual paintings of birds—from the Audubon book.  Each chapter is centered on one of the plates, either on drawing it or collecting it (again more on the collection quest in a moment). Many chapters involve sequences in which Doug receives detailed instructions from Mr. Powell about perspective, movement, tension, etc.  In short, he learns how to bring life to static images (in the same way writers bring places and characters to life through the use of abstract, static symbols called letters). And Schmidt uses the descriptions of the paintings to create a deeper and more complete understanding of the relationships Doug has with the other characters. For example, Doug’s relationship to Coach Reed seems one-dimensional at first—the aggressive gym teacher and the somewhat mouthy new student. But Schmidt uses the painting of the fork-tailed petrels to illustrate one of the more complex relationship arcs in the story. When Doug and Coach Reed finally talk, really talk, it’s not the result of a direct engagement, smashing into each other as they have throughout the novel to that point. It’s more like they’re circling, circling, until finally the right situation emerges, the right words slip past their lips. They circle, circle until they meet like the petrels.

There are numerous subplots involving a play, a rash of robberies in Marysville, the hijinks (not of the amusing, whimsical variety) of his dad and his dad’s drinking buddy Ernie Eco, Doug’s oldest brother’s search for gainful employment, and—oh yeah—the Apollo 11 mission to the moon, but these are secondary to Doug’s primary quest. Yes, we’re finally going to talk about the quest.

When the arctic tern disappears one day and Mr. Powell moves on to teaching Doug about another painting from the Audubon book, Doug learns a terrible truth. The book is very rare, and very valuable. How is that terrible, you might ask? The book is so valuable that few people can afford a copy in its entirety.  So the town of Marysville (which is short on cash) has been cutting individual paintings/pages/plates out of the book and selling them one by one. 

This devastates Doug, and he makes it his mission to return as many of the paintings to the book as he can.

If he succeeds, the book won’t be pristine.  Not even close.  Much in the way my DVDs and books have been battered, crushed, dented, and otherwise damaged over the years. Much in the same way people aren't in "mint condition." Not as children. Not as adults. But the book will be whole.  We can be whole.

For Doug, each plate he collects is literally an important page from his life (underscored by the way Schmidt organizes each chapter). The reassembled book represents a pivotal year of Doug’s adolescence.  A whole book. And a whole person.

Which makes me think that while it’s true that I collect things that are important to me for the simple reason that I like them to be readily accessible for my personal use (in their entirety), I think there might be something more meaningful going on.  The items or libraries we build or collect (of books, films, music, antiques, works of art, toy cars, rubber bands, whatever) are tangible representations of us, our internal selves fit nicely into objects we can (often) hold in our hands. That’s not to say we’re simply a sum of our possessions—that’s not what I mean at all. Doug, for example, doesn’t have much (not even his signed baseball cap that his stupid brother stole and it ended up in the stupid gutter). But the things we value both reflect and shape who we become. As do our quests.  Viewing the films I’ve collected and watched again and again or (and especially) reading the books I’ve read and the notes I’ve made in them at different times in my life, you will begin to get a sense of me. Not an exact me. But a sense. And that me grows and changes as my library grows and changes (as the complete sets I collect grow and change), which will in turn influence what I read and view and collect in the future.  And while I certainly won’t keep everything I’ve read or seen (or even everything that’s important to me), I will always have the quest. And the quest to complete those sets is as important to me as actually having them. Each movie in the AFI 100 represents a story for me (in how I acquired it, where and when and with whom I first saw it, etc.). The list has been an important part of the last nine years of my life.

And Doug spends a year of his life with these plates, which (in the acts of both drawing and collecting them) influence his actions, relationships, and feelings. And he directly impacts the paintings by getting them back to where they belong. Completing the book. "Completing" himself. And in a nice surprise twist at the end (one spoiler I will not reveal in detail), Doug becomes intimately linked to this particular copy of Birds of America, which, after he grows up (and possibly moves away from Marysville), he might never even see again. But it will always be a part of him and he a part of it. As will the quest to reassemble it.

As for me, I think I’ve decided how to fill the AFI void when I get through the list: by collecting the complete works of Gary D. Schmidt.

Recommended for ages 11-15.

New Book Review: The Many Faces of George Washington

When you think of the face of George Washington, what comes to mind? The visage that graces the dollar bill, perhaps? Maybe his profile on the quarter? Or is it the majestic pose chiseled into the side of Mount Rushmore beside Presidents Jefferson, Roosevelt, and Lincoln? In her fascinating new book due out this month, The Many Faces of George Washington: Remaking a Presidential Icon, Carla Killough McClaffery explains that not one of the above-mentioned images—or any other image of Washington painted, carved, or sculpted during his lifetime—looks exactly like any of the others. And since there is no photographic evidence from this time period, we’re left to wonder, do we really know what the first president of the United Sates actually looked like?  Or has his image been so irrevocably obscured by history that the closest we’ll ever get to the real thing is little more than a caricature?

The early part of the book is filled with examples of mismatching Washington portraiture in beautiful, full color images. And again, no two are alike, including two that were painted on the same day—during the same sitting—by father and son. Even the iconic image of Washington on the dollar bill is suspect. Washington sat for painter Gilbert Stuart on an “off day” for the portrait. And the President had new dentures that made his lips bulge out. On top of that, the portrait on the bill is actually a mirror image of the original (a product of the engraving process).

Throughout the rest of the book, McClaffery follows the contemporary leadership at Mt. Vernon as it tries to figure out what George Washington really looked like and develops three life-sized recreations of the man (at ages 19, 45, and 57).  The leadership compiles portraits—none of which were painted before he was forty—and written descriptions of the president, and forms a team, which includes a sculptor and a forensic anthropologist.

The Many Faces of George Washington:
Remaking a Presidential Icon

by Carla Killough McClafferty

Carolrhoda Book, 2011

As the figures emerge, McClaffery paints her own portrait (with words) of Washington, describing his life during the three time periods featured in the recreations. And she helps the reader understand that both science (including technical measurements and research) and art (consideration of subtlety, emotion, and character) combine to create the realistic representation of President Washington (with accurate size and dimension and appropriate expression and poise).

One of the team’s biggest breaks was the work of Jean-Antoine Houdon, a French sculptor who was commissioned to make a life-sized statue of Washington late in the 18^th century. (Some wanted to make a larger than life sculpture of the man, but at over six-feet in height, Washington himself said life-sized would be big enough.)  Fortunately, Houdon insisted on doing the sculpture in person (not just from a portrait) so he traveled the Atlantic and lived at Mt. Vernon for several weeks, drawing Washington, getting to know him, taking precise measurements, and casting the President’s face! The original cast has been lost, but the life mask and bust that he made from it survive.

From the bust and the mask, McClaffery explains how researchers used sophisticated scanning technology to create detailed 3D imaging of Washington’s face. She discusses how his appearance changed as he aged (especially his mouth and jaw due to his severe tooth-loss) and how sculptors considered how bone and skin and muscle affect appearance and change over time.  She talks about Washington’s posture—a product of his grooming as a gentleman in upper class society—and his clothing, which was recreated for these figures according to styles he would have worn, right down to the type of fabrics used.

You can see how the President’s life story is so intimately tied to his appearance (and the recreation of it).

And as McClaffery recounts the pain-staking detail that went into the creation of each model of Washington at 19 (as a young surveyer), 45 (as a general in the revloution), and 57 (as the first President), her story of the man unfolds. I worried, at first, that it would be a dry recap of his life—like many other histories and biographies I’ve read of Washington. But her portrait really does put a heart to the face. She recounts his struggles, desires, profound sense of duty and obligation to his country, sophistication and class, and warmth and humor.

A particular scene that sticks out to me is one in which he addresses congress, officially giving up his role as commander-in-chief following the end of the war. He felt he was a poor public speaker so he wrote out his remarks, and his hand shook as he held the paper and made his speech.  Apparently there were few dry eyes in the chamber when he was finished.

The final chapter of the book underscores the interdisciplinary involvement in this project: anthropology, science, technology, art history, and textiles. Artists, scholars, tailors, taxidermists, and craftspeople, who demonstrate “the study of human history is not confined to research libraries or archaeological digs” (107). 

And James C. Reese, Mount Vernon president, says that people who visit the historic site don’t really know much about him. They might respect the President, but they feel no connection to him. Reese says that changes by the time they leave: “They really feel good about Washington, and that makes them feel good about America” (108).

Ultimately, McClafferty’s book makes us think about how our own physical characteristics, clothing expressions, posture, etc. affect what we think, how we act, who we are. And vice versa.

And by the end of the book, after we see all three of the Washington re-creations now on display at Mt. Vernon, we feel that a man whose image was once obscured by history has been made “flesh and bone” again through modern technology and old-fashioned story-telling. Washington is made accessible and relevant.

Excellent read!  Recommended for ages 9-12.