Tu B’Shevat and the Magic of Trees

When I was very young, one of my favorite television programs was The Magic Garden, a delightful, low-budget, subtly psychedelic, locally aired show that featured adorably pig-tailed songstresses, Carol and Paula, singing, dancing, and playing make-believe in the titular Magic Garden. The garden offered a treasure chest of dress-up clothes (The Story Box), giggling flowers who told corny jokes (the Chuckle Patch), and, at its center, the Magic Tree. Each episode, the tree would suddenly play a mystical windchime-y tune, and a gift bag would slowly descend from its branches.

And let me tell you, it was thrilling.

What was in the bag was almost irrelevant, although it could be anything from a babushka to a sock puppet to a glockenspiel—some kind of prop to add to the imaginative play in the garden. But really, it was more the idea that trees provide and delight and surprise. That trees were, are, in fact, magical.

I’d already realized this of course, as an avid young climber of trees—starting with the small pink-petaled magnolia in front of my house, then gradually moving to the larger, branchy crabapple tree, and finally reaching mid-height (as far as I was allowed) into the giant oak that bordered my grandparent’s yard, from which one of its branches still dangled a charming old tire swing. I’d linger in my perch, surveying the land, the fragrant spring breeze grazing my cheek. That no enchanted gift bags appeared bearing roller skates or maracas seemed beside the point. I had all the magic I needed, sheltered within the majestic leaves.

Crabapple tree and Me

The festival of Tu B’Shevat specifically honors fruit trees, and the crown jewel in my grandmother’s garden was an actual Royal Anne cherry tree, whose misshapen, red-yellow fruits looked nothing like the perfect crimson orbs from the grocery store, yet were infinitely sweeter. Its huge bounty left plenty for Grandma’s homemade cherry borscht, a rare and treasured family delicacy. Until I was an adult, I had no idea the original was made with beets.

I imagined and created whole worlds in those trees—alone and with my friends—nascent seeds much like the ones nestled into the earth long ago that gave rise to those gentle giants, stretching, growing, blossoming into stories I’d later write.

Magic.

In every possible way, trees sustain us. Nourish us. Shelter us. Literally, breathe life into us.

UNTIL THE BLUEBERRIES GROW, by Jennifer Wolf Kam, illus. by Sally Walker, Published by PJ Library

It’s been a long and devastating few months by anyone’s measure, yet Tu B’Shevat is about renewal. Beginnings. Possibility. Hope. And fruitfulness. Even when it feels as though none of that exists.

How do we move forward when the world feels as though it’s on its head? How do we breathe deeply when we’re in a continuous state of bearing witness? Like trees, we start as tiny seeds of life, and grow and change, passing through the seasons. As we evolve, we offer life the fruits of our efforts. Perhaps, too, we search for new seeds—of inspiration, to heal, or again, to start fresh, planting dreams and possibilities.

Unlike trees, we have the ability and opportunity to engage with the world in an active way—to dig our hands into the proverbial and literal earth and build, create, and nurture. To alter our landscape through bold ideas, empathy, and compassion.

So here’s to the New Year of the trees, and Chag sameach. Plant a tree if you can—or just enjoy one nearby and take a moment to exhale. After all, there is much work ahead.

If you’re lucky enough to find it, enjoy some cherry borscht on me.

And may all your efforts bear fruit.

Cue windchimes

For all things Tu B’Shevat, visit PJ Library’s hub.

All You Need Is Love, Light, and Latkes

I was never a theater kid (my mother will claim I saved my theatrics for her), but in the 4th grade, I found myself cast in the Hebrew school Chanukah play, in my small suburban Long Island synagogue. I wasn’t the star—some other child donned a fake beard and played the important role of Matityahu, father of Judah the Maccabee, hero of our Chanukah story. Another classmate, whose name is lost to time, portrayed the daring and brave Judah.

I wasn’t shy and in fact, relished the spotlight. As luck would have it we were arranged in size order, and owing to my medium height, I happily landed at the end of the front row in full sight. Dressed in a floor-length floral bathrobe, my hair in long braids interwoven with ribbon, I played the part of an incensed Judean townsperson who could shake my fist with the best of them.

Our exasperated, but idealistic junior choir director, a woman with flyaway gray curls, appealed to our 1960s-era flower child parents with a Chanukah score based on Beatles music. The opening number was a take on Yellow Submarine. It went like this:

In the town of Modiin,

lived a special group of Hasidim.

All the Jews were asked to bow,

but Matityahu said, Jews don’t kowtow!                               

We all live in the town of Modiin,

the town of Modiin,

the town of Modiin…”

Alas, no photos exist from our Chanukah extravaganza, but here’s me at the same age.

This is 100% true.

Chanukah, also known as the Jewish festival of lights, commemorates the miraculous victory of an outnumbered, outflanked band of Jewish warriors against the powerful forces of King Antiochus. Encouraged and empowered by Matityahu of Modiin, the Jews, led by Matityahu’s son, Judah Maccabee, rose up against their oppressive Seleucid rulers. In 164 B.C.E., the Jewish people returned to Jerusalem, cleaned and rededicated their holy Temple, eventually lighting a makeshift menorah as the original had been stolen.

And so it goes that only a small cruse of oil was found to light the menorah—enough for only one night. A miracle celebrated each year on Chanukah is that this small amount of oil lasted for an astonishing eight nights. At its core, however, Chanukah is a miraculous story of strength, determination, and perseverance. The Jewish people, just like the light in that ancient menorah, persisted.

Back in 1980s Long Island, more songs followed in our little Chanukah spectacular, Judaized versions of All You Need is LoveSgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (which referenced the band of Maccabees), Get Back (Judah was a man, they said he was a hammer…), and a full-throated play on All Together Now, during which the Jews cleaned the reclaimed Temple in Jerusalem. I wish I remembered more songs and lyrics because they were brilliant.

What I do remember is that after the show, my grandmother, an imposing figure—5’8” in flats and a single raised eyebrow that might’ve sent old Antiochus into the hills—gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“That was lovely.” She held up a plump manicured finger. “And important.”

I was certain I’d been one heck of an ancient Judean, but important? Anyway, I’d already turned my thoughts to the following night, when I’d light the menorah with my family, feast on latkes and chocolate gelt, and hopefully get some of the presents I’d been not so subtly angling for over the past month.

I found out much later that Grandma said something else too.

Until the Blueberries Grow, by Jennifer Wolf Kam, Illustrated by Sally Walker

My grandmother, whose family fled the pogroms of Eastern Europe, and whose in-laws (my grandfather’s family) lost entire branches of their family in the Shoah, said this to my mother: “The true miracle is that 40 years after the Holocaust, that stage is filled with beautiful, healthy children singing openly and proudly about being Jewish.”

A miracle indeed. And now it’s been 78 years.

We are here again. Surging antisemitism. Fear. Disbelief. War. Just when we think we’ve forgotten the words, they return to us, clear and vivid—inherited memory. But we also remember, just like the Jews in ancient Modiin, we don’t bow—not to idols, not to fear, not to terror. And we continuously search for the light.

My memory is hazy and maybe I’m making it up, but I believe we ended with a junior choir Hebrew school rendition of Here Comes the Sun. Whatever Chanukah lyrics we belted out to that famous Beatles tune are also lost to time and memory—but the message remains clear and resonates now as much as it ever has.

Light over darkness.

While scrolling through Instagram, as one does, I stumbled upon a well-known quote by Rabbi Yitzchak “Irving” Greenberg. He says, “The proper response, as Chanukah teaches, is not to curse the darkness but to light a candle.”

Viewed through the increasingly foggy lens of the past, with some added clarity that comes with adulthood, I think our little retro pop-culture Hebrew school production was a light—a beacon to our parents, our grandparents, and especially to our children. A reminder that in and after the darkest of times, there can and will, against the greatest of odds, be light.

This week, as Jews around the world light the menorah with friends and family, the candles burning brightly into the night, and lift our voices to sing openly and proudly as Jews, Chanukah remains a forever testament to that miraculous truth.

All Together Now

Grandpa, Grandma, and Me

Holding Out for a Gimel

I was recently invited to a Temple Tots Chanukah Author Visit for my picture book, UNTIL THE BLUEBERRIES GROW. There was, of course, the requisite apple juice in tiny cups, bits of challah, and prayers, as well as an acoustic guitar singalong on the carpet. The song? A jaunty little tune, with a refrain that went something like, “Keep spinning until you land a gimel.”

Keep spinning until you land a gimel.

I turned this around in my head. Yes. Yes. It was simple yet brilliant advice.

Especially as it pertains to writing.

Let me explain.

The song celebrates the popular Chanukah game of Dreidel, which involves a spinning top (the dreidel/sevivon), bearing four Hebrew letters: Nun, Gimel, Hay, and Shin, which reference the miracle of Chanukah, Nes gadol haya sham—A great miracle happened there (in Israel the shin becomes a peh, for po, which means here. A great miracle happened here.)

A pot of tokens or better still—chocolate Chanukah gelt (coins) sits in the middle of the players. The rules are simple. Spin the dreidel and…

Nun: You lose

Hay: You take Half of the pot

Ben and Zayde sit beside the light of the glowing candles. (Illustration by Sally Walker)

Shin: You put a piece back into the pot

Gimel: Winner takes ALL.

A gimel is a win.

So…Keep spinning until you land a gimel?

It means keep trying, or in the words of a famous Disney clownfish, just keep swimming. Until you reach your goal.

There exists the now ubiquitous advice—Life is a marathon, not a sprint. Meaning, as Dr. Angela Duckworth describes in her TedTalk on grit, that life is about stamina and persistence.

This is most certainly the case with writing.

Writers don’t have the thundering crowds along the racecourse to shout words of encouragement and offer colorful hydrating drinks. We usually have a few cheerleaders–our family, our friends, our treasured critique partners–and bottomless pots of coffee. Sometimes, however, there are less cheers, or they grow faint, or are drowned out by assertive cries of self-doubt.

Sometimes—I’ll even say often, we don’t finish the first marathon. Even the second or third. We peter out halfway through because life takes over, we’re distracted by competing responsibilities or circumstances, or we’re just…tired. Occasionally, we go so slow any movement or progress is almost imperceptible. In darker moments, we throw up our hands, toss our sneakers into the our closet, and quit.

But the thing about writing, like everything in life really, is that the only way to NOT succeed is to stop trying.

To stop swimming.

Gimel

To stop spinning if you land on Nun.

Chanukah commemorates both the miraculous victory of a small band of Judean warriors (the Maccabees) over their powerful Seleucid oppressors, as well as the small cruse of oil that, against all odds burned brightly for eight nights.

Stamina. Perseverance. Grit.

There are no guarantees, of course, and there will always be people who find more success. Because Dreidel, like life, is a game of chance.

I’m no statistician, but I’ll bet that even if it takes dozens of games (and a few plates of latkes), eventually, if you keep playing, you’ll land on gimel.

So. Your turn. Take a spin. And Happy Channukah!

For more on Chanukah, visit PJ Library’s Hanukkah Hub

For Chanukah book recommendations click here.

Opening the Door for Elijah and More

Not long after my grandmother died, I was a flower girl at my grandfather’s wedding to his new wife, Rose. I wore a Winnie-the-Pooh dress and a small corsage of roses (intentional?) along with my new step-cousins (Rose’s granddaughters), who, at five and eight years old, bookended me by just over a year in either direction.

There was trepidation on both ends of the aisle.

So soon after Molly’s gone.

At the wedding, Rose sat me down on the ottoman next to her.

“I want you to call me Mama.” She took my hand into her own soft veiny one. “Mama Rose. Just like my girls.”

Mama Rose seemed nice, but I missed my grandmother, and my dad was still so sad.

Already, I had only vague memories of Grandma Molly. Nebulous images, blurring with each passing day.

Strawberry blond hair whipped into a soft beehive.

Velvet furniture covered in plastic.

A musical photo cube.

Warm hands, and wet kisses on my forehead.

Grandma Molly and me

What I did remember was my grandfather’s new apartment, a spare one-bedroom, the velvet furniture in storage, a refrigerator with a jar of pickles and a container of deli mustard, although the musical picture cube remained.

I’d wind it again and again, the tinkling tune moving in time to photos of my grandparents. I studied Grandma’s smile, trying to remember. But I was young and remembering was hard.

A few months later, we celebrated our first Pesach (Passover) together as a blended family. An odd blending really, because my father barely knew Rose’s children, and no one seemed overly excited about the recent nuptials, except for Grandpa and Mama Rose.

My father wore a stiff smile as we crammed into the modest, but tastefully decorated Forest Hills, Queens apartment. Grandma Molly was no longer there—and someone new and unfamiliar sat beside Grandpa, doling out his food, touching his arm, laughing gently at his jokes.

I joined the cousins and my little brother at the “kiddie table”, a small card table pushed up against the new Formica dining set. We each had a small plate of matzah, a dollop of charoset, and a single round nugget of gefilte fish, with a half-filled glass of grape juice.

“What’s that?” I pointed to an extra small cup of grape juice on the table.

“It’s for Elijah,” said the younger of my two new cousins.

“Elijah only drinks wine,” said the older cousin. “That’s juice. Probably in case one of you spill.”

“I won’t spill,” said the younger one. She turned to me. “Will you?”

“No.” But suddenly that was beside the point. “Who’s Elijah?” I asked.

“You don’t know?” said the younger cousin, wide-eyed.

“Shush,” the older one said to her sister. “Elijah comes to every house on Passover and drinks wine. You have to leave the door open for him or he can’t get in.”

“He’s a ghost,” said the younger cousin.

“If he’s a ghost,” I said, “why can’t he move through doors?” I’d watched enough Casper and Scooby-Doo to know something was off.

“He’s not a ghost,” said the older cousin. “He’s a…proppit.”

“A puppet?” I said.

“No. A proppit. A Jewish person from olden times. He brings good luck, but only if you give him wine.”

“What if you forget?” I said.

“Then he won’t come,” said the older girl. “And you have bad luck.”

My heart clunked inside my chest. This was terrible. I didn’t remember Elijah from last year’s seder. Did we forget the wine? Had he skipped us?

I had an idea.

“What does he look like?” I asked.

“You can’t see him.” The older cousin shrugged.

“What do you think he looks like?”

“I guess if you could see him, he’d look like…Judah the Maccabee. Do you know him?”

“Yes.” So Elijah probably had long dark hair, armor, a shield. Maybe wore sandals like my Uncle Irving. I could work with this.

I ran over to my mother. “Where’s Elijah’s cup?”

She smiled. “Where did you hear about Elijah?”

I pointed to my new older cousin.

“I see.” She motioned to a silver cup that sat apart from Rose’s China dishes. “I think it’s this one.”

I assessed the cup. “More wine,” I ordered.

My mother raised an eyebrow but poured a few drops of Manischewitz.

“Good?”

I nodded.

“Do you want to open the door for him?”

“Yes, please.”

I pulled open the apartment door, then settled back into my folding chair.

“I opened the door for Elijah,” I announced to the cousins. “And I gave him more wine.”

Also? I was going to catch Elijah.

Well. Not actually, catch him, but…catch him in the act. As a little kid, I suspected I might see things grown-ups couldn’t. And if I saw Elijah, I’d make sure he stayed longer and drank extra wine.

He brings good luck.

I listened with half an ear as my grandfather read from the Maxwell House Haggadah, dipping my finger in grape juice with the pronouncement of each plague, nibbling matzah as the adults sang and prayed.

But I had my eye on the door.

Until the Blueberries Grow, illus. by Sally Walker

Every so often I checked Elijah’s cup.

Full.

Peeked out the apartment door.

Nothing.

Called down the hallway. “Eliiiiijaaaahhh.”

From across the hall, a dog barked.

Where was he?

“Does Elijah know Grandpa’s new address?” I whispered to my mother.

“I’m sure he does,” she said.

“Elijah has to go everywhere,” said the older cousin. “Even New Jersey.”

I needed to be patient. Except I wasn’t. Because the more time that went by without Elijah’s visit, the less likely we’d have good luck. And my family, my dad especially, needed good luck.

But the seder ended, dessert was served and Elijah’s cup was as full as ever.

“Maybe he doesn’t like the wine,” said the older cousin.

I slumped onto the couch, the rainbow cookie I’d snagged, no consolation.

My mother joined me. “How’s the cookie?”

“Elijah didn’t visit. He didn’t like the wine.”

“Who told you that?”

I pointed to the older cousin.

“He’s a proppit,” I said. “He goes everywhere but not here, and now we’ll have bad luck.”

“A proppit? Bad luck? Who told you—” Her eyes moved across the room to the older cousin, then back to me.

“First of all, it’s prophet. Someone who delivers an important message. And it’s not that Elijah brings good luck, it’s that Elijah’s visit means…” She held my hand. “Better times ahead. For all of us.”

“He wasn’t here,” I said. “I checked his cup. I even called out his name down the hallway.”

“He was here.”

“How do you know?”

She nodded across the room, towards my father. He sat with Grandpa and with Rose, talking, smiling, finally…laughing.

I ran over to my father and curled up beside him.

Perhaps Elijah had visited after all. Maybe he’d just had enough wine—maybe he’d already been to New Jersey.

But he’d slipped in, undetected as always, and offered us all a hint of a new beginning.

For more on Passover, visit PJ Library at Passover for Kids | PJ Library

Be sure to download your free Passover Text Set for Until the Blueberries Grow

Mama Rose, Grandpa and Me.

 

Once Upon a Mitzvah

The first time I heard the term mitzvah I wasn’t really listening. I was too worried about performing at the local Jewish nursing home with the 3rd grade Hebrew School Junior Congregation Choir. I wasn’t at all concerned about the actual performance—I was no singer, but I’d blend in nicely, and I relished being center stage. What worried me, in fact kept me up at night, was the “after performance” when we’d be asked to mingle with the elderly residents.

Other than my grandparents and a few great-aunts and uncles, I didn’t have much experience with old people. And the old people in my life were filled with zest and energy—eating at diners, cooking big family dinners, and gallivanting around Boca Raton and North Miami Beach—in all their polyester-clad glory.

At the nursing home there were actual old people, and I’m ashamed now to admit it, but they scared me. What would they look like? How would they sound? What would I talk to them about?

“Remember—you’re not just performing songs,” my teacher had said, as we piled off the school bus. “You’re performing a mitzvah.”

In Judaism, a mitzvah is literally a commandment, but in everyday use, often understood as ‘a good deed’. A mitzvah can be as big as organizing a coat drive for those in need or as small as mowing a neighbor’s lawn or baking cookies for an ill friend.

In my book, Until the Blueberries Grow, Ben offers his grandfather a cold drink of water on a hot day. (illus. by Sally Walker)

Singing for the aging residents was a mitzvah—an act filled with goodness and empathy. But I was still nervous.

After we sang our medley of Hebrew songs like Hevenu Sholom Aleichim and Ma’oz Tzur, and a few old-timey barbershop tunes, our choir teacher directed us to hand out almond cookies and talk with the residents.

My knees buckled.

I took my little basket of almond cookies (What if my old person couldn’t chew them?) and looked around the room of seniors for someone to talk to. My teacher must’ve seen me circling, staying just on the periphery of the sitting room, because after a few moments of wearing sneaker treads into the faded carpet, a pair of hands on my shoulders gently guided me to Sarah.

Sarah was my great-grandmother’s name, and this Sarah looked a lot like her, tiny and thin-boned, with flyaway white hair, shining olive skin, and warm, open eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. She motioned for me to sit, then asked in a surprisingly strong voice, “Do you play checkers?”

As good fortune would have it, I did. We played two games, while Sarah nibbled on a cookie. I won both, although, in hindsight, I have a feeling the reason for that had little to do with my own skill (Oy, I’m so rusty! Such a smart one, you are!).

Eventually, we were ushered back onto the bus, with hot chocolate and leftover cookies, and despite the dropping December temperatures and gently falling snow, I was warmed from the inside out.

Which is what a mitzvah does. A good deed works both ways, a golden thread in the bond that connects us with one another, that enriches the lives of everyone involved.

And it’s this cycle of mitzvot (the plural of mitzvah), the good deeds that we do for others, that through it all, keeps the world churning out kindness and light.

For more on Mitzvot, visit PJ Library at What is a Mitzvah? | PJ Library

Be sure to download your free Kindness Text Set and free Grandparents Text Set for Until the Blueberries Grow!

Tu B’Shevat and the Magic of Trees

It’s Tu B’Shevat, the Jewish New Year of the trees, which understandably has me thinking about, well…trees.

When I was very young, one of my favorite television programs was The Magic Garden, a delightful, low-budget, subtly psychedelic, locally aired show that featured adorably pig-tailed songstresses, Carol and Paula, singing, dancing, and playing make-believe in the titular Magic Garden. The garden offered a treasure chest of dress-up clothes (The Story Box), giggling flowers who told corny dad jokes (the Chuckle Patch), and, at its center, the Magic Tree. Each episode, the tree would suddenly play a mystical windchime-y tune, and a gift bag would slowly descend from its branches.

And let me tell you, it was thrilling.

What was in the bag was almost irrelevant, although it could be anything from a babushka to a sock puppet to a glockenspiel—some kind of prop to add to the imaginative play in the garden. But really, it was more the idea that trees provide and delight and surprise. That trees were, are, in fact, magical.

I’d already realized this of course, as an avid young climber of trees—starting with the small pink-petaled magnolia in front of my house, then gradually moving to the larger, branchy crabapple tree, and finally reaching mid-height (as far as I was allowed to go) into the giant oak that bordered my grandparent’s yard, from which one of its branches still dangled a charming old tire swing. I’d linger in my perch, surveying the land, the fragrant spring breeze grazing my cheek. That no enchanted gift bags appeared bearing roller skates or maracas seemed beside the point. I had all the magic I needed, sheltered within the majestic leaves.

Crabapple tree and Me

The festival of Tu B’Shevat specifically honors fruit trees, and the crown jewel in my grandmother’s garden was an actual Royal Anne cherry tree, whose misshapen, red-yellow fruits looked nothing like the perfect crimson orbs from the grocery store, yet were infinitely sweeter. Its huge bounty left plenty for Grandma’s homemade cherry borscht, a rare and treasured family delicacy. Until I was an adult, I had no idea the original was made with beets.

I imagined and created whole worlds in those trees—alone and with my friends—nascent seeds much like the ones nestled into the earth long ago that gave rise to those gentle giants, stretching, growing, blossoming into stories I’d later write.

Magic.

In every possible way, trees sustain us. Nourish us. Shelter us. Literally, breathe life into us.

UNTIL THE BLUEBERRIES GROW, by Jennifer Wolf Kam, illus. by Sally Walker, Published by PJ Library

It’s been a long two years by anyone’s measure, and Tu B’Shevet is a celebration of renewal. Beginnings. Possibility. Hope. And fruitfulness.

So happy New Year to the trees, and Chag sameach!

Plant a tree if you can—or just enjoy one nearby. And, if you’re lucky enough to find it, enjoy some cherry borscht on me.

Cue windchimes

For all things Tu B’Shevat, visit PJ Library’s hub.

Want to learn more about why trees are magical? Stop by here.

Be sure to download your free Tu B’Shevat Text Set and Gardening Text Set for Until the Blueberries Grow!

All You Need is Love…Light and Latkes…

I was never a theater kid (although my mother might claim I saved a steady stream of theatrics for her), but in 4th grade I found myself cast in the Hebrew School Chanukah play, in my small, suburban Long Island synagogue. I wasn’t the star—some other kid donned a fake beard and played the important role of Matityahu, father of Judah the Maccabee, hero of our Chanukah story. Another classmate, whose name is lost to time, portrayed the daring and brave Judah. I wasn’t shy—and in fact, relished the spotlight. As luck would have it, we were arranged in size order, and owing to my medium height, I happily ended up on the end of the front row in full sight. Dressed in a floor-length floral bathrobe, my hair in long braids, interwoven with ribbon, I played the part of an incensed Judean townsperson, who could shake my fist with the best of them.

Our exasperated, but idealistic junior choir director, a woman with flyaway gray curls, whose name, alas, I’ve also forgotten, appealed to our 1960’s-era flower children parents with a Chanukah score based on Beatles music—the opening number a take on Yellow Submarine. It went something like this:

In the town of Modiin,

lived a special group of Hasidim.

All the Jews were asked to bow,

but Matityahu said, Jews don’t kowtow….                               

We all live in the town of Modiin,

the town of Modiin,

the town of Modiin…”

This is 100% true.

For those who aren’t familiar with Chanukah or who need a refresher, the Jewish festival of lights commemorates the miraculous victory of an outnumbered, outflanked band of Jewish warriors against the powerful forces of King Antiochus. Encouraged and empowered by Matityahu of Modiin, the Jews, led by Matityahu’s son, Judah Maccabee, rose up against their oppressive Seleucid rulers. In 164 B.C.E., the Jewish people returned to Jerusalem, cleaned and rededicated their holy Temple, eventually lighting a makeshift menorah as the original had been stolen.

Alas, no photos exist of the play, but here’s me at around the same age

And so it goes that only a small cruse of oil was found to light the menorah—enough for only one night. The miracle celebrated each year on Chanukah is that this small amount of oil lasted for an astonishing eight nights. Chanukah, at its core, is a story of strength, determination, and perseverance. The Jewish people, just like the light in that ancient menorah, persisted.

Back in 1980s Long Island, more songs followed in our little Chanukah show, Judaized versions of All You Need is Love, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (which most definitely referenced the band of Maccabees), Get Back (Judah was a man, they said he was a hammer…) All Together Now (in which the Jews worked to clean the reclaimed Temple in Jerusalem). I wish I remembered more songs and lyrics because honestly, they were oddly brilliant.

What I do remember is, after the play, my grandmother, an imposing figure—5’8” in flats and a single raised eyebrow that might’ve sent old Antiochus into the hills, came over and gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze.

“That was lovely.” She held up a long, plump, manicured finger. “And important.”

I was certain I’d been one heck of an ancient Judean, but important? Anyway, I’d already turned my thoughts to the following night, when I’d light the menorah with my family, feast on latkes and chocolate gelt (coins), and hopefully get some of the presents I’d been not so subtly hinting at for the past month.

But I found out much later that Grandma said something else too.

My grandmother, whose family fled the pogroms of Eastern Europe, and whose in-laws (my grandfather’s family) lost a large portion of their family in the Shoah, told my mother that, “The true miracle is that 40 years after the Holocaust, that stage is filled with beautiful, healthy children openly and proudly singing songs about being Jewish.”

A miracle indeed.

My memory is hazy and maybe I’m making it up, but I feel like we ended with a junior choir Hebrew School rendition of Here Comes the Sun. Whatever Chanukah lyrics we belted out to that famous Beatles tune are also lost to time and memory—but the message remains clear and resonates—particularly given the challenges we’ve all faced, as a global community, in the past two and a half years.

While scrolling through Instagram, as one does, I stumbled upon a well-known quote by Rabbi Yitzchak “Irving” Greenberg. He says, “The proper response, as Chanukah teaches, is not to curse the darkness but to light a candle.”

Viewed through the increasingly foggy lens of the past, with some added clarity that comes with adulthood, I think, in a way, our little retro pop-culture Hebrew School production was a light—a beacon to our parents, our grandparents and especially our children. A reminder that in and after the darkest of times, there can and will, against the greatest of odds, be light.

This week, as Jews around the world light the Menorah with friends and family, the candles burning brightly into the night, Chanukah remains a forever testament to that miraculous truth.

All Together Now

My grandparents, Sally and George Schneider, with yours truly

 

Be sure to download your free Chanukah Text Set for Until the Blueberries Grow!

WRITE NOW…with Linden McNeilly

LindenAuthorPhoto

As readers, we know the bliss of getting lost in the world of story, the thrill of discovering new realms and visiting wondrous and distant places. As writers, we experience the joy of creating these worlds, designing their landscapes, constructing their features. This week, Linden McNeilly, author of the fascinating and innovative Map Art Lab: 52 Exciting Art Explorations in Mapmaking, Imagination, and Travel, discusses how creating maps can help us to build these worlds and ground us more firmly in our stories. I’m so pleased to welcome on WRITE NOW the wonderful and talented…Linden McNeilly.

Story Maps

Some of the most memorable maps from childhood are endpaper maps found on the inside covers of beloved books. Who doesn’t remember tracing Milo’s way from the tollbooth to Expectations, and shivering at the thought of the demons in the Mountains of Ignorance? And how about the Lord of the Rings map, showing Mordor protected on three sides by impossibly sharp mountains?

In my book Map Art Lab: 52 Exciting Art Explorations in Mapmaking, Imagination, and Travel (Quarto press, 2014) I show how these maps—and others associated with books—help tell the story.
As a writer, you can make your own story maps as a tool to layer your story with details like physical movement, weather, smells and sounds.

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Many writers make sketches of the locations in which their characters live. It helps to organize thinking as you describe your characters’ movements and their perspective. It can also keep you from changing details mid-story. I’m sure I’m not the only one who has written half a story in which the school is down the lane, only to find that by the end I’ve located the school on a hill, with the play yard overlooking the town square!

For my current work in progress, I often imagined how the character would get from place to place. I made lots of sketched maps. But they often seem flat and lacking, and it was hard to imagine relief in the landscape, especially in this story, which is located in a valley and includes nearby mountains. So I started by looking online for aerial photos that resonated with me. My search terms were “aerial valley village.” It turned out this photo of a village was a great starting point. It has a cluster of houses, with a couple further away, and a creek running under the main road. It also reminded me to have wild areas at the fringes of the town: great places for a graveyard, dwellings for the outcasts, or places for characters to rendezvous or run away. Linden1

But I needed to include those mountains, so I searched a little more and found this photo:

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It looked less like a map than the first one, so I just used it to help imagine the mountains and the closed-in feeling of the valley.

To make the map, I traced the first photo, creating a bit more space around the houses and adding a few other buildings. Tracing is a great technique! You free yourself from criticism and just follow the lines. And you can be as creative as you like: adding natural features or places included in your story. Mine is a self-contained community, so they need food, school, medicine, trade, social areas, etc. I colored some of those in and made a key to remind myself. I added sensory details, just to get my mind working that way, to the key. I thought of sounds that would come from each place, and the smells that would correspond. As I write, I add to that key as I think of more elements I want to include. This is the first pass, done quickly. Linden3

I find that if I invest a little bit of time—a couple of hours—doing this by hand with some detail and color, my brain stores this picture and helps keep me clear about the setting all through the writing. I could have simply tacked up the photos and called it a day, but the hand/mind connection—and my ownership of the meaning behind the images—would have been lost.

This map will go over my desk, and I’ll take it down from time to time to add elements: weather, changes in the town (several structures burn down during the story) and perhaps alter a few things that don’t work right. But it helps keep me focused on the world I am creating, keeping it real.

Linden McNeilly has a Masters from VCFA. She was a public school teacher for more than 25 years and now writes full time. Her upcoming publications include a middle grade non-fiction book on kinetic energy (due in Spring, 2016, Rourke Educational Media), non-fictions titles on insects you can eat and use for medicine, and an historical novel set in 1968 about the anti-war movement (all due in Fall, 2016, Rourke Educational Media). Her book, Map Art Lab: 52 Exciting Art Explorations in Mapmaking, Imagination, and Travel (Quarto press, 2014) was written with her sister, Jill Berry. Linden lives in the Central Coast of California with her husband and daughter, with three adult sons nearby. Her website is www.lindenmcneilly.com. She also makes handmade leather and marbled paper journals and tiny, real leather book necklaces. Her Etsy shop is here.:

GIVEAWAY! Linden is offering a copy of her book, Map Art Lab: 52 Exciting Art Explorations in Mapmaking, Imagination, and Travel. Comment on the post for a chance to win!

WRITE NOW…with Hazel Mitchell and Liza Gardner Walsh

Hazel Mitchell and Toby

Hazel Mitchell and Toby

Liza Gardner Walsh

Liza Gardner Walsh

 What a treat today to host an author/illustrator team this week on WRITE NOW. Where Do Fairies Go When It Snows?, the delightful picture book by Liza Gardner Walsh, offers a charming and imaginative tale, illustrated with Hazel Mitchell’s gorgeous and whimsical drawings. How do an author and illustrator find one another? Here’s one story and it’s inspiring! It’s my pleasure to welcome to WRITE NOW, the very talented and lovely Hazel Mitchell and Liza Gardner Walsh.

Fairies? But, of course!

by Hazel Mitchell

Who wouldn’t want to spend time creating drawings of fairies? When I was offered the chance to illustrate Where Do Fairies Go When It Snows? by Liza Gardner Walsh, I jumped at the chance! Actually it was serendipity. Here is the story:

FairyHouse5Liza and I shared a table at a book festival in Camden, Maine a year or so a go. I happened to have a postcard on my table with an illustration of a fairy flying over a fairy city accompanied by her bunny friend. It was just a sample I had played around with and decided to use as a giveaway. Liza (who has written several other non-fiction books for children on creating fairy houses and gardens), picked up the postcard. She told me she was writing a picture book about fairies and that she loved the style of my drawing. She kept my postcard.

I thought no more about it – then, fast forward and I received an email from the editor of Liza’s books at Down East Books, Maine, asking if I’d be interested in illustrating the fairy book! And the rest, (as they say), is history.

FairyHouse1So much of our industry comes down to who you meet, who happens to see your work or who you might sit next to at a book festival! The cover of Where Do Fairies Go When It Snows is pretty much exactly the same as the postcard image that Liza saw originally. The same fairy features throughout the book, with her bunny.

It’s so very nice when something that was just in your imagination gels with someone else’s imagination and a book is born. This is one of the things that makes working in children’s books such fun!

Winter fairy kit!

Does it get any more delicious than this?

GIVEAWAY! Hazel and Liza are giving away a signed copy of Where Do Fairies Go When It Snows? as well as this adorable Winter Fairy Kit. Comment on the post for a chance to win!

WRITE NOW…with Ann Jacobus

Marc Olivier Le Blanc photography

Marc Olivier Le Blanc photography

Ah, Paris! The City of Light, love, art and beauty. But Paris has its dark side, too, which serves as an integral part of the setting for Ann Jacobus’ powerful and gripping debut young adult novel, Romancing the Dark in the City of Light. This week, Ann discusses how we can use setting to shape and strengthen our stories, to reveal character and increase tension. All of this is expertly done in Ann’s novel where the setting serves not only as the backdrop to this thrilling and emotional story, but almost as a character itself. It’s my pleasure to host on WRITE NOW the talented and lovely and certainly full of light…Ann Jacobus.

Setting as a Workhorse (named Paris)

Setting sometimes gets short shrift. For realistic fiction, this is especially true. Just pick an actual place or two, and the better you know them, the more effectively you can use them. Right?

Right. But odds are high that you can make your setting work harder.Romancing_cover_final.inddOur macro setting(s) provide—in addition to the geographical location—the historical period, and the time of year and day, and the culture within which your story takes place.

Micro setting is where each scene takes place. A good macro can provide lots of good micros, which in turn add energy, texture and tension.

If you’re writing SF/fantasy, you will be building all this from scratch, and kudos to you.

My YA thriller Romancing the Dark in the City of Light is set in Paris, a city I love. My family and I lived there for many years and I wasn’t exactly the first one to realize it would be a cool setting for a novel.

I also knew my story was going to be contemporary, or “modern day,” so that took care of macro-time. My main character would be an American who is part of the expatriate culture—foreigners abroad. But how could I work against the cliché of an American in the same old, awesome, romantic Paris (yawn)?

Paris has a huge population of ex-pats. After we arrived, I noticed that a number of “trailing spouses,” meaning the husband or wife who doesn’t have the ex-pat job, were surprisingly not so happy to be there, or at least at first. Moving anywhere, adjusting to a new culture, and trying to operate there—especially if you lack language skills, not to mention friends and family in the area—can be emotionally as well as physically trying. This is true anywhere.

But when you’re in Paris, no one back home has much sympathy for you.

A couple of these poor sods found dealing with French bureaucracies and services, and the different cultural values so overwhelming they went back to the US or other home countries. Paris for them was a hostile punishment zone, not a prize.

Sacre Coeur

Sacre Coeur

This got me thinking.

I had an idea about a depressed, ultimately suicidal girl. How would this incomparably beautiful and culturally rich city look through the eyes of such a protagonist? Not so nice, right?

My MC is drawn to the underbelly of the city, and dark and creepy places (https://www.playbuzz.com/griffinteen10/the-dark-side-of-the-city-of-light-top-10-creepy-places-in-paris) are a reflection of her inner state. So now, timing is decided, too. Naturally the story should take place at the coldest, darkest part of the year. Cue overcast skies.

Gargoyle at the Notre Dame Cathedral overlooking the city of Paris, France

Gargoyle at the Notre Dame Cathedral overlooking the city of Paris, France

Summer notices the hookers, the homeless, lonely children, Romany beggars, and old chewing gum on the floor of the train. She visits a graveyard, the catacombs, the sewers, and in these places, she focuses on things that remind her of death.

Poet and writer Nam Le says, “The subjectivity through which we see things is THE most important part of the thing that’s being seen.”

Setting is an often-under-used tool of great power. It can be a subtle—or not so subtle—mirror, reflecting metaphors or objective correlatives that reveal so many things about our character(s). Of which we’re then relieved of the need to tell our readers. A rich setting provides fodder to work against expectations, to avoid clichés, and to provide energy-generating contrast.

How can you mine your setting to reveal more information about your characters and tension for your scenes?

  1. Macro: think like a low-budget movie producer. Or a high-budget scout. What locations (that you know or research) will give you the most interesting exterior shots? And the potential for interesting interiors? Your story takes place in a town in Tennessee. Instead of in Toone where you grew up, can you set it in Memphis on the banks of the Mississippi and use Graceland for something? You’ve been there, but go visit and take fresh notes.
  2. Micro: In fiction for younger readers we’re often obliged to use characters’ abodes and schools. Question this assumption. Where else in your macro setting could you place this scene? It may have to be at school. If so, stretch yourself out of the classroom or the cafeteria! And all family scenes do not have to be in the kitchen. What about the local farmer’s market, the little brother’s ballet studio, an e-cigarette shop? Better yet, get your character into an uncomfortable place like traffic court, or the gynecologist’s office with their sister, where they would otherwise not go.
  3. Details that reveal the POV character: Try brainstorming a long list of objects that are somehow like your character, (a vase with cracks, a car with horsepower, a stuffed turkey) and then find a way to have your character focus on one or two during a scene. I trust you to do this where it’s appropriate.

Good Luck!

GIVEAWAY! Ann is offering a copy of her novel, Romancing the Dark in the City of Light to readers from the U.S. and Canada. Comment on the post for a chance to win!

A Texas native who spent her childhood in Arkansas, Ann Jacobus is the author of YA thriller, Romancing the Dark in the City of Light (St. Martin’s Griffin, October 2015). She earned an MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults from Vermont College of Fine Arts, and lived overseas with her family for almost two decades. San Francisco is now home.