The Mysterious Book That Nobody Can Read Or Decipher
Hope to find one of these soon! 🙂
Say out loud, “Pippilotta Delicatessa Windowshade Mackrelmint Ephraim’s Daughter Longstocking.” That’s the full name of Astrid Lindgren’s classic character. Or, “Villa Villakulla”—the house where she lives. Isn’t it fun? I’m reading Pippi to my mother this month.
Why a children’s book? Mom was an elementary librarian. She so instilled a love of reading and of books in me that I thought no moments were sweeter than helping her complete the library inventory process each summer. I got to do the fiction shelves, working my way through each drawer of the card catalog (remember those?).
The best part of inventory? Once we finished discovering what was missing, I had private access to every book in that elementary school library. All the gems I’d found while checking each shelf? All the popular titles I hadn’t managed to grab hold of yet? I could haul them home for the summer!
Yep, Mom…
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‘Twahs da night befah Chriztmaz, an all true da Hub,
Not a creecha wahs stehhin, nawt even atta pub;
Da stahkings wahs hung by da chimney wid cay-ah,
In hopez dat St. Nicholas soon wood be deyah;
Da khedz wahs nestled all snug in deyah bedz;
While pictchahs of shugah-plumz danced in deyah headz;
And Mah in hah ‘kahchief, and me in dungarees,
Had just settled dhawnz afta vizitin Dunkies,
When out in da gahden deyah roze such a frickin’ clattah,
Dat I sprung from the hoppah to zees what da hell wahs da mattah.
Called to the missus, but she just said, “Whateva!”
Toah open da shuttahs and wuz like, “No-suh – Santa in Dawchestah!”
Da moon on da breast of da new-fahllen snow,
Gave a lustre like jimmies on a hoodsie to evry ting blow,
Alls I knows what I seen, on Dot Ave it was cleeyah,
A frickin’ minna-chah slay and eight tiny rein-dee-ah,
Widda liddle old drivah so lively and quick,
Bizzah, but I nose foah sho-ah, dis must be St. Nick.
Moah pissa den eagles, like a Nor’eastah dey came,
Den he whistled, and showted, and cahlled’em by name:
“Now, Dashah! now, Dancah! now Prancah and Vixen! (Dis guy has a wicked Bah-stun accent lemme tell ya!)
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donnah and Blixen!
To da top ahda Monstah! to da top of da wahl!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
Like da leavz dat befoh a wicked hurricane flyze,
Dey banged a u-ey and mounted upta da skiez;
Upta da triple-deckah by da Gas Tank dey flew
Whiddah slay full ah doys, and St. Nicholahs too—
And den, dis wee-id noize, I heahz on my roof
Da prancing and pahwing of each liddle hoof.
As I drahs in my head, and wahs turning the cawna,
Downna chimney St. Nicholahs takes a digga onna conna (itz Christmas an-all, ya know what I mean?)
He wahs dressed all in fahr, from hess head to hess footz,
Ahnd hiz scahlly wahs all tah-nished wid ah-shes and soot;
Ah wicked bundle-a doyz he hahz flung on hiz bahck,
And he lookz like a peddlah just opening his pahk.
His eyez—how day dwinkled! his dimples, like ta-maydas!
His cheekz wahs like roses, his noze like a b’dayda!
His funny liddle moudt ed the wee-idest liddle scah,
An hiz beahd wahs as white as a bowl of clam chowdah;
Da ztump offa pipe he held tight in his deeth,
And da smoke, it fishbowled hiz head like a wreath;
He ed a big head and a little rownd belly
Dat chook when he lahffed, like a bagga gahbidge filled wid jelly, (ya know what I mean?)
He-wahs chubby and plump, ahwright jolly old elf,
And I lahffs when I seez him, indspite of myzelf;
Ahwink of hiz eye and a twist of his head
Like he’z saying, “Yah-huh,” – I haz nutting ta dread;
He speakz not a werrd, but goes straight to his wahk,
An fillz all da stahkings; den turnz widda a jehk,
Den stickin his fingah in-cidah hiz noze,
An noddin hiz-ed, up da chimney he roze;
Ee-jumpz in hiz slay, to hiz crew gave a whiztle,
An away day all fliez like a frickin’ bahlistic missile.
But I heahz him exclaim, ahz he drivez outta zight—
“Merry Christmas to Mumbles, and to all a wicked good night!”
Dedicated to Our Beloved Mumbles Befah He Leavez Office
ADAPTED FROM CLEMENT CLAHKE MOAH’S POEM
I came across a great blog the other day that asked, “Why Reading Sucks .”
I do not know why, but this question haunted me for days, “Why does reading suck” for so many of my students. And in all honesty, when asked they will tell you, why they hate to read. HATE TO READ… I cannot even get my mind around the idea, I don’t even like the taste of the words in my mouth when I say them. To say that one hates to read for me makes as little sense as one saying that they hate to breathe, yet there you have it, so many young people these days will tell you if asked, that they do not like to read. Some may be a bit less cautious in the word choice and tell you they hate to read. And as this one very honest blogger posted (and I later read as she had published it in School Library Journal) some students will even be so brave as to tell you, if you are honest with them, that they believe that reading sucks. What Pernille Ripp, a fifth grade teacher in Wisconsin points out in her article is that some students have miserable reading experiences. Some cannot sit still. Some find reading boring. Some resent the books that they are required to read for school. All very valid points.
In a recent speech by Neil Gaimon, Gaimon says that he believes that our very future depends upon children’s reading and daydreaming. In his lecture he explains why he believes that it is all citizens obligation to use their imagination and not only that but it is their obligation to provide for others to use theirs. A pretty daunting charge in a time when there is little or no time for children to play let alone read or be read to. Technology which was supposed to free up time has stolen time away from us with a screen never far from reach. I’m reminded of friends to whom each year I give the gift of books to their child. Recently, they told me that their daughter was just now able to read the picture books I’d given to her over the past 4 years. They’d not had any idea that I’d given these picture books to them to read to their daughter. And so it goes.
Gaimon points out that in NYC he once attended a lecture where the topic was the creation of future private prisons. To plan for future growth and estimate the number of prisoners there were going to be, there was a simple algorithm used based on what percentage of 10 and 11-year-olds couldn’t read. As Gaimon states, “The simplest way to make sure that we raise literate children is to teach them to read, and to show them that reading is a pleasurable activity. And that means, at its simplest, finding books that they enjoy, giving them access to those books, and letting them read them.”
And there are so many good books out there, in print and now as ebooks, that it makes me wonder how with such a wealth of great fiction out there, can there be any way that anyone can assert that reading sucks, but unfortunately for so many young people it does today. That’s not to say that I believe that there is any such thing as a bad book for children either. It just has to be the right fit for the right child. And, as Gaimon points out, “It’s tosh. It’s snobbery and it’s foolishness. There are no bad authors for children, that children like and want to read and seek out, because every child is different. They can find the stories they need to, and they bring themselves to stories. A hackneyed, worn-out idea isn’t hackneyed and worn out to them. This is the first time the child has encountered it. Do not discourage children from reading because you feel they are reading the wrong thing. Fiction you do not like is a route to other books you may prefer. And not everyone has the same taste as you.
Well-meaning adults can easily destroy a child’s love of reading: stop them reading what they enjoy, or give them worthy-but-dull books that you like, the 21st-century equivalents of Victorian “improving” literature. You’ll wind up with a generation convinced that reading is uncool and worse, unpleasant.”
Neil Gaimon points out another way to destroy a child’s love of reading. That is of course to never give them books to read. I recall one time being in a home graced by several young children and there was not one book to be found in the entire house. Just three concrete books on the fire place mantle. It was over a decade ago, but the image of that home devoid of books shall remain with me forever.
And now as we find ourselves in a time when all libraries are going digital and all books are being thrown out, given to places such as “Got Books” or “Better World Books” – places now that will not even pick up weeded and discarded books from libraries as they are not profitable any longer. When books sell for one cent, one cent on Amazon, we do not need to wonder why some young people out there believe that reading sucks. What can you buy for a penny today? Is there anything other than a book online that you can purchase for one penny? What does that say for how we value our books?
Books today are seemingly unwanted. UNWANTED. A terribly sad word in the human language. In the story of The Velveteen Rabbit by Mergery Williams the velveteen rabbit wants to become real. He wants to be loved by the child in the story.
“Real isn’t how you are made,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.’
‘Does it hurt?’ asked the Rabbit.
‘Sometimes,’ said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. ‘When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.’
‘Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,’ he asked, ‘or bit by bit?’
‘It doesn’t happen all at once,’ said the Skin Horse. ‘You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”
This is how I wished everyone felt about reading. Do you have one favorite book or story from your childhood that you loved. That was so real to you that it perhaps became a part of the fabric of your life? A book that you loved so much that when you grew up you had to share it with your child. This is how a love of reading is passed on I believe. This is why we created the Velveteen Rabbit Underground to share the books we loved as children with the world. To take on Neil Gaimon’s charge and fulfill our obligation to provide for others to use their imaginations, as we so enjoy using ours.
Albert Einstein was asked once how we could make our children intelligent. His reply was both simple and wise. “If you want your children to be intelligent,” he said, “read them fairy tales. If you want them to be more intelligent, read them more fairy tales.” Gaimon says, Einstein “Understood the value of reading, and of imagining. I hope we can give our children a world in which they will read, and be read to, and imagine, and understand.” We at The Velveteen Rabbit Underground do also.
All I can say is YIPPEE!!! I’ve bought so many rare books over the years through my friends the book dealers (my drug of choice: books; my dealer of choice: book dealers!) that they actually sent me a free ticket to the event. Can’t wait!
Famous Last Words of My Favorite Authors.
“Guess I shouldn’t have left that first edition Mark Twain on the coffee table with a siberian husky puppy on the prowl,” and other random musings on famous authors famous last words.
My last post was about the most amazing treasure a bibliophile could ever stumble upon at a barn sale–a first edition of Mark Twain’s Roughing It. It was an immaculate copy, a true treasure, that my siberian husky puppy thought was a new leather toy for him. Of course, I wanted to scream, to yell, to tear my hair out and … well, I didn’t even raise my voice — c’mon, he’s a puppy and I am an idiot for leaving such a valuable book on a coffee table with a puppy (a big puppy) around. I don’t know how or why but I got to thinking of famous last words, “Could have, should have, would have… ” if I had a time machine of course, but to the best of my knowledge, no one does, and if you do, could you get me back to right before the dog ate my first editon Twain?
Anyway, thinking about famous last words by famous writers, and in particular what one of my favorite authors, Mervyn Peake, said as his last words to his daughter Clare. It was precisely this, “Robinson Crusoe.” How profound, really, his last words were “Robinson Crusoe”–I have often wondered about this, wondered what he might have been thinking to choose these as his last words to her. Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe, or its original title, “The Life and Strange Surprizing Adventures of Robinson Crusoe, Of York, Mariner: Who lived Eight and Twenty Years, all alone in an un-inhabited Island on the Coast of America, near the Mouth of the Great River of Oroonoque; Having been cast on Shore by Shipwreck, wherein all the Men perished but himself. With An Account how he was at last as strangely deliver’d by Pyrates” led a life much like Mervyn Peake himself had whilst on the Island of Sark with his family, or maybe it was just that he had recently illustrated an Oxford Edition of a work by Defoe. We shall never know.
Like we shall never know why my dog chose from the vast assortment of books on the coffee table, from works by Wharton, Jack London, Steinbeck, Saroyan, and others, why he chose to eat the first edition Twain. Alas, I like to think that I’m different like that, I will still enjoy my Twain first edition. It was never going to sit on an ivory shelf and lead an unexamined life. I frequently bring in my “firsts” and “rare” books to share with my students, who are always fascinated by them. That Twain book was never going to be housed in a glass brief case, as I recently saw a man had done with his first edition Ian Fleming that he paid over $30,000 for. That Twain book was and is going to be loved and treasured by me, only now its title more aptly suits its appearance, forgive the cliche, but I will not judge this book by its cover.
So as for famous last words by my favorite authors, who I believe would have been as nonplussed (or at least I can hope that they would be) by my dog’s actions, and my careless decision to leave a book on a coffee table (what was I thinking?!) here are a few to chomp down on:
Mervyn Peake to his daughter Clare: “Robinson Crusoe!”
JM Barrie: “I can’t sleep!”
George Bernard Shaw: “Dying is easy. Comedy is hard.”
Hunter S. Thompson: “Relax–this won’t hurt.”
Hans Christian Anderson: “Don’t ask me how I am, I want nothing more!”
W.C. Fields: “Goddamn the whole F@#*n world and everyone in it except you Carlotta!”
and finally…
Mark Twain: “Good bye. If we meet–”
1st Edition Mark Twain’s Roughing It, 1872
When you receive an S.O.S. call from a member of our treasure hunting team, The Velveteen Rabbit Underground, you go and I am so glad I did, because today we found ourselves at a barn and book sale that had been visited by the Antique’s Roadshow, who told the owner they should vault their belongings as their family had strong connections to American History and politics, why they chose to have a dollar a book yard sale I’ll never know. Booty today: Tramps Abroad, 1st ed by Mark Twain and Roughing it by Twain, and Edith Wharton, the Children, House of Mirth and Custom of the Country, all 1st editions, HG Wells first editions, Kipling first editions, and the Phantom of the Opera, Leroux, 1st edition, The Yearling, 1st edition, and Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes. Our third team mate is visiting Hawthorne’s place of writing in Salem today, boo… she missed a great day of treasure hunting.
Much like those in pursuit of Forrest Fenn’s buried treasure, my friends and I are on an eternal quest for the perfect book, the magical find, that elusive book which we have always wanted but could never find… or afford. Today, I found mine, pure gold, a treasure worth far more to me that Forrest’s buried chest of gold somewhere in the Rocky Mountains-a first edition of JD Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye… ahh bliss! Can anyone say bibliomaniac?
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........ The Velveteen Rabbit Underground....... Follow the mad-cap adventures of three bibliophile treasure hunters in search of the next great rare book find! 