17 December 2012
04 December 2012
Christmas memories
My earliest solid memory of Christmas was when I was six. My sister, the mean one, (ok - I was the youngest; all my siblings were mean) took me in to the neighbours back shed and showed me where my parents were hiding our presents.
'See? There is no Father Christmas you dummie.'
I cried. I cried loudly. It was little consolation that my sister was severely punished when I ran bawling back to mum and dobbed on her. In my mind she was tied to a stake and burned to a crisp but I don't think that really happened. I never saw any scars anyway, either mental or physical. Basically my mean sister got away with destroying my childhood with one swift, well-aimed blow to my psyche and Christmas was never the same again.
Finding out that Santa wasn't real was a terrible jolt to my six year old mind. It ranked alongside discovering there were no tiny people singing and playing weeny instruments inside the radio. That Grandpop's blood sausage didn't taste like chocolate. (Yep - mean sister again.) That falling stars weren't actually whole falling stars but just the cosmos' way of burning off its rubbish. That when my elderly neighbour shouted 'Look behind you, Zorro!' while watching the television, he couldn't actually hear her. It also took rather too long to discover that paying my brother to polish his shoes was not a privilige and that it was actually unreasonable to have to pay him twice if the shine wasn't quite up to scratch. I grew up in a time when belief in things like these was entirely plausible - we had no Google to check our facts. All my facts came via my untrustworthy siblings and don't even get me started on the lifetime of falsehoods my brother told me. He's still doing it, but just for the record, I know now that the reason you know it's me calling, bro, is not because you work for ASIO...
It's almost a relief to know there are still a few remnant populations tucked away in the suburbs whose parents are still inculcating lies like Santa and Falling Stars into their children's heads. I do have some small concerns for those kids whose parents have purchased Elf On A Shelf and stuck that little tattletale in their children's bedrooms to report back to Santa on wether they've been naughty or nice. I'm inclined to think those kids might need some expert help later on. I want to give my grandchildren Christmas stocking and tell them Santa brought these but my daughter is more inclined to tell them these things are likely manufactured by underpaid Chinese labour and contributing to global warming. I don't think she's actually told them this yet but the chances are high that she will.
All I really have left to show for Christmas is my Cake. Yes, Cake with a capital C. The fruit is soaked for a full year in fabulous brandy. Then in September gigantic duck eggs are sought and a dozen cracked open and beaten with kilos of brown sugar and rich yellow butter. There are almost 3 kilo of various dried fruit in the bowl and I have to use my hands to mix it all. After it's baked the Cake is covered in homemade marzipan and then with another layer of Christmas icing - also home made. I love my Cake. I unwrap it on Christmas day and wrap a ribbon round it then place it high on the Christmas Cake Plate in the centre of the table. We eat it with hard sauce.
But not me, not this year. This year I will just take great lungsful of the fruity aroma as others dig in because this Christmas I'm going to Avoid Those Calories.
Christmas just isn't going to be the same. But I hope Santa comes...
Have a wonderful holiday everyone. Our office is closed from December 17th till January 7th. That's plenty of time to write a blockbuster for us, right?
'See? There is no Father Christmas you dummie.'
I cried. I cried loudly. It was little consolation that my sister was severely punished when I ran bawling back to mum and dobbed on her. In my mind she was tied to a stake and burned to a crisp but I don't think that really happened. I never saw any scars anyway, either mental or physical. Basically my mean sister got away with destroying my childhood with one swift, well-aimed blow to my psyche and Christmas was never the same again.
Finding out that Santa wasn't real was a terrible jolt to my six year old mind. It ranked alongside discovering there were no tiny people singing and playing weeny instruments inside the radio. That Grandpop's blood sausage didn't taste like chocolate. (Yep - mean sister again.) That falling stars weren't actually whole falling stars but just the cosmos' way of burning off its rubbish. That when my elderly neighbour shouted 'Look behind you, Zorro!' while watching the television, he couldn't actually hear her. It also took rather too long to discover that paying my brother to polish his shoes was not a privilige and that it was actually unreasonable to have to pay him twice if the shine wasn't quite up to scratch. I grew up in a time when belief in things like these was entirely plausible - we had no Google to check our facts. All my facts came via my untrustworthy siblings and don't even get me started on the lifetime of falsehoods my brother told me. He's still doing it, but just for the record, I know now that the reason you know it's me calling, bro, is not because you work for ASIO...
It's almost a relief to know there are still a few remnant populations tucked away in the suburbs whose parents are still inculcating lies like Santa and Falling Stars into their children's heads. I do have some small concerns for those kids whose parents have purchased Elf On A Shelf and stuck that little tattletale in their children's bedrooms to report back to Santa on wether they've been naughty or nice. I'm inclined to think those kids might need some expert help later on. I want to give my grandchildren Christmas stocking and tell them Santa brought these but my daughter is more inclined to tell them these things are likely manufactured by underpaid Chinese labour and contributing to global warming. I don't think she's actually told them this yet but the chances are high that she will.
All I really have left to show for Christmas is my Cake. Yes, Cake with a capital C. The fruit is soaked for a full year in fabulous brandy. Then in September gigantic duck eggs are sought and a dozen cracked open and beaten with kilos of brown sugar and rich yellow butter. There are almost 3 kilo of various dried fruit in the bowl and I have to use my hands to mix it all. After it's baked the Cake is covered in homemade marzipan and then with another layer of Christmas icing - also home made. I love my Cake. I unwrap it on Christmas day and wrap a ribbon round it then place it high on the Christmas Cake Plate in the centre of the table. We eat it with hard sauce.
But not me, not this year. This year I will just take great lungsful of the fruity aroma as others dig in because this Christmas I'm going to Avoid Those Calories.
Christmas just isn't going to be the same. But I hope Santa comes...
Have a wonderful holiday everyone. Our office is closed from December 17th till January 7th. That's plenty of time to write a blockbuster for us, right?
17 October 2012
Vale Max Fatchen
The old bus slowed to a complete stop this week as we heard the sad news of our dear friend and eminent children's author Max Fatchen's passing. We all have our favourite memories of Max and his gentle spirit will be missed.
Max, we hope you are paddling in the sun in a better place.
Max, we hope you are paddling in the sun in a better place.
 |
| Max by Tom Jellett in Australia at the Beach |
08 October 2012
Sorting my bookshelf
This is a very beautiful, special Spring. Maybe, as a friend commented this morning, it's because of all the rain we have had. Maybe it's just a gift from the universe but it is magical to see the blossom on all the trees, the flowers everywhere in gardens and on the verges and to feel the softness in the air after winter. It brings with it the urge to clean and sort and dump unwanted/uneeded stuff. I have no idea why but spring cleaning is a real phenomenon in my house. My own version of this has been to sort my bookshelves and as I have been doing this I have reflected on just how much work books really are in my life.
Owning books requires one to house them somewhere - obviously - and this requires furniture and the takeup of space. Since I have a small house, not wishing to burden the universe with my heating and cooling bills, my space is limited. The books take up rather a large proportion of it. Not only that but they get dusty. I have to clean the shelves and the books themselves and not being a perfect housekeeper this can be a big chore when I do finally get to it. Then once a year I need to cull. Take some off the shelves and donate them to the Lion's bookshop which is where a lot of them came from in the first place. This process is very time consuming. I am a reluctant culler of books, possibly because I have trouble identifying what I may never want to read again. After all,I got the books in the first place because I wanted to own them, right? It is easiest with what I would describe as fast fiction. Books that are just time fillers; the sort you leave behind in the holiday house or hotel because to take it further is a waste of your bag space. Patricia Cornwell, Maeve Binchy, Robert Ludlum; books of that ilk get culled mercilessly. But all the rest undergo a patient scrutiny that can make the job a very long one indeed and since I have a habit of using anything to hand as a bookmark I first have to flick the book open to see what might be hidden between the pages.
Recently I was helping Emily Rodda, aka Jenny Rowe prepare for the Blue Mountains book sale she and a friend organise each year. This involves wiping each book carefully with Mr Sheen (who'd have thought?) and following this with a flick of the pages. The most fascinating things flick out sometimes. Death notices, photographs, newspaper review cuttings. We looked at what people had culled from their collections - rather a lot of the aforementioned style of works made up the bulk - but there were also a great number of the coffee table style of book that appears to have gone out of fashion. The sort that have been 'hand made' by Chinese workers applying top and tail bands, ribbons, sticking down the hard covers. The kind that don't fit on any ordinary presses. I was soon lost in thought about the place all those books had once occupied in the lives of their owners. Some so well-worn they were barely holding together. Others looking as thought they had never been opened.
All this reflection leads me to the 21st century's recent offering to book lovers - the e-book. No shelving. No dusting Heartless culling at the flash of a finger because, probably, the hard drive is full, and anyone can write one which means - what? Definitely it has led to bookstores closing down so fast the books haven't had time to leave their cartons. Is literature is being debased by things like FSOG becoming a multi zillion best seller? Should we worry that now anyone can write a book without the aid of an editor or publisher? Does anyone care about standards in literature anymore or are we all keen to leave those rubbishy books behind in cyberspace, hidden forever from dust, needing no shelves, taking up no room in our homes or our hearts?
I return to my floor, my enormous pile of dusty books. I replace them, dusting as I go, one by one.
Turns out I haven't got any unwanted books this year.
I eye the bookcase. It's not so big really; a very good friend like this doesn't take up a lot of space my in life when I think about it. And besides, my grandchildren have so much fun pulling the books off the shelves.
I think I will try the kitchen cupboards next. I'm sure I'll find at least two veggie peelers I dont want.
Owning books requires one to house them somewhere - obviously - and this requires furniture and the takeup of space. Since I have a small house, not wishing to burden the universe with my heating and cooling bills, my space is limited. The books take up rather a large proportion of it. Not only that but they get dusty. I have to clean the shelves and the books themselves and not being a perfect housekeeper this can be a big chore when I do finally get to it. Then once a year I need to cull. Take some off the shelves and donate them to the Lion's bookshop which is where a lot of them came from in the first place. This process is very time consuming. I am a reluctant culler of books, possibly because I have trouble identifying what I may never want to read again. After all,I got the books in the first place because I wanted to own them, right? It is easiest with what I would describe as fast fiction. Books that are just time fillers; the sort you leave behind in the holiday house or hotel because to take it further is a waste of your bag space. Patricia Cornwell, Maeve Binchy, Robert Ludlum; books of that ilk get culled mercilessly. But all the rest undergo a patient scrutiny that can make the job a very long one indeed and since I have a habit of using anything to hand as a bookmark I first have to flick the book open to see what might be hidden between the pages.
Recently I was helping Emily Rodda, aka Jenny Rowe prepare for the Blue Mountains book sale she and a friend organise each year. This involves wiping each book carefully with Mr Sheen (who'd have thought?) and following this with a flick of the pages. The most fascinating things flick out sometimes. Death notices, photographs, newspaper review cuttings. We looked at what people had culled from their collections - rather a lot of the aforementioned style of works made up the bulk - but there were also a great number of the coffee table style of book that appears to have gone out of fashion. The sort that have been 'hand made' by Chinese workers applying top and tail bands, ribbons, sticking down the hard covers. The kind that don't fit on any ordinary presses. I was soon lost in thought about the place all those books had once occupied in the lives of their owners. Some so well-worn they were barely holding together. Others looking as thought they had never been opened.
All this reflection leads me to the 21st century's recent offering to book lovers - the e-book. No shelving. No dusting Heartless culling at the flash of a finger because, probably, the hard drive is full, and anyone can write one which means - what? Definitely it has led to bookstores closing down so fast the books haven't had time to leave their cartons. Is literature is being debased by things like FSOG becoming a multi zillion best seller? Should we worry that now anyone can write a book without the aid of an editor or publisher? Does anyone care about standards in literature anymore or are we all keen to leave those rubbishy books behind in cyberspace, hidden forever from dust, needing no shelves, taking up no room in our homes or our hearts?
I return to my floor, my enormous pile of dusty books. I replace them, dusting as I go, one by one.
Turns out I haven't got any unwanted books this year.
I eye the bookcase. It's not so big really; a very good friend like this doesn't take up a lot of space my in life when I think about it. And besides, my grandchildren have so much fun pulling the books off the shelves.
I think I will try the kitchen cupboards next. I'm sure I'll find at least two veggie peelers I dont want.
04 October 2012
Spring books
The spring air has warmed up the vegie oil in the ol' bus and we are jugging along at our top speed (a leisurely stroll) as we head into the best book-buying time of year (yes, it's time to talk Christmas in the retail world). Let's have a peek, shall we?
Following the success of Clancy the Courageous Cow comes a new picture book by the talented Lachie Hume. It doesn't matter how many times you (have to) read it, 'haystation' is always funny.
Speaking of Christmas (sorry, I mentioned it again), if you have to make an early purchase to post to a small person overseas, The Gift by Penny Matthews (illustrated by Martin McKenna) would make a super neat package.
For the bigger young people, we have the incomparable, inimitable Be Home for Armageddon by Luke Edwards. Guaranteed wackiness.
And for the history buffs, the latest from the ever-mysterious LS Lawrence, Hammering Iron. In this novel set in ancient Greece, Paramon's destiny is to discover a secret that will change everything, a secret that men will not hesitate to kill for ...
And that's not all! Check back soon for more lovely, lovely picture books and summer reading!
24 July 2012
RIP Margaret Mahy
We are sad today to hear of the death of Margaret Mahy, superhero children's author and the first non-British author to be awarded the Carnegie Medal. Mahy was a New Zealander who worked as a children's librarian and wrote her early novels at night after her two daughters were in bed. The author of over 100 picture books and 40 novels, Mahy will be sadly missed.
 |
| The Moon & Farmer McPhee by Margaret Mahy, winner of theNew Zealand Post Children's Book of the Year award 2011 |
12 July 2012
July books
This month we're very excited to see our new favourite picture book (we have a new favourite every month!) out on shelves and already being mentioned (thanks, Readings). A brilliant new collaboration between sparkling new author Emma Allen and the incomparable Freya Blackwood, The Terrible Suitcase is the story of a little girl's first day of school and how she copes with the tremendous injustice of being given a terrible suitcase instead of the red rocket backpack she wanted for her new school bag.
Also out this month is a time travelling adventure from new-to-kids'-books author Craig Cormick. Time Vandals crosses time, continents and even into zombie-land as Time Rangers Mai and Jack attempt to put the space-time-continuum back to 'normal'. It's hard to know whether to be more worried about whether Ixi the garden gnome in disguise can be trusted or whether the rampaging gargoyle will finally catch up with them. The only way to find out is to read on!
Also out this month is a time travelling adventure from new-to-kids'-books author Craig Cormick. Time Vandals crosses time, continents and even into zombie-land as Time Rangers Mai and Jack attempt to put the space-time-continuum back to 'normal'. It's hard to know whether to be more worried about whether Ixi the garden gnome in disguise can be trusted or whether the rampaging gargoyle will finally catch up with them. The only way to find out is to read on!
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