The Bitten Bullet and The Purple Dragon

If I happen to have any regular readers left out there and waiting for something new, don't get too excited; this is just an announcement.  As you know, I've been in law school for the past year and a half and hardly able simultaneously to keep up literary or "grammarly" commentary and my grades.  Obviously, I've sacrificed the blog.

Because I needed a project this winter break, and because I don't have the time or means to continue sending queries and making submissions (if, that is, they're not related to job applications), I bit the bullet and self-published.  As of today, I have made two sales.

Woo!

The book, originally intended for a Mormon audience, is plenty suitable for a "general" readership, though it's lack of horned or polygamous characters may stump the stereotypes.  Instead, it's about a kid preparing to serve his Mormon missionary service.  The church--both the institution and its people--put a tremendous amount of pressure on its youth to serve.  I did.  It was one of the best experiences of my life.  The pressure on Eugene is greater than anything I experienced, however, as his family has been stigmatized by some ugly family history, and he and his sister--the last remaining and cogent of the Cross family--are desperate to bring the name back into good repute.

Mormon missionary service, however, requires a towering degree of "worthiness," which Eugene is hardly able to claim.  He is a kleptomaniac, and despite his self-justifications (including the stealing exclusively of books), is racked with the guilt of it.  He convinces himself that he tells the truth to the religious leaders who interview him and vouch for his readiness, and he makes the trip to the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah.  Eugene, despite his stealing and despite what he is certain the membership of his local congregation surely will think of him, is a good kid.  He brings himself home and begins the devastatingly painful repentance process, which necessarily includes the returning of the thousands of books and other items that he's stolen over the years to their owners, including his friends and family.

The book is cheap: just $.99 at Barnes and Noble and $2.99 at Amazon, though only available in digital format.  (BN only provides for the Nook platform, from what I understand, while Amazon makes their ebooks available for Apple and other products.)  If you pick it up and read it, I'd love to hear you thoughts!

THE MAGICAL MONARCH OF MO

Last week, while away for our anniversary, my wife and I found treasures.  I won't tell the story of her finds, as I'm sure she'll be posting it up on her own blog, but here's mine:

I grew up with a book called The Magical Monarch of Mo, by L. Frank Baum--you know, the same guy who did The Wizard of Oz.  It's a collection of short stories that all occur in, and around, and to the inhabitants of the land of Mo.  Of the many stories and books my dad read my five siblings and me at bed times, this was the most common and our collective favorite by far, if I can speak for my brothers and sisters.  Such is the power of this book--over me, at least--that it even became the central metaphor, as well as lending one of its characters as title, to my most recently completed book (still waiting to hear back from an interested publisher).

Some years ago, my dad got a call from his oldest sister, who said, basically, "Johnny, you have my copy of The Magical Monarch of Mo, and I need it back."  Ridiculous.  Dad had had the book for well over a, uninterrupted quarter century.  Isn't there, like, a statute of limitations on book ownership?

I've been looking for this book--the same edition (any edition is rare enough as it is) --for fifteen years.  Every book store, library, estate and garage sale, and what-/whoever sells a book, I've checked for this edition.  Even Ebay, where I've actually found, but for hundreds of dollars.

Last week, Angie and I went up to Logan, Utah for a day away.  Among other places, we stopped by a used book store.  Out of habit, certainly not hope, I hiked across the quarter acre (seriously--and that just upstairs) of claustrophobic bookshelves to the children's section.  I won't get into the awe-inspiring blend of treasure and crap that crammed, floor to ceiling, this old store, or the fact that I went to the wrong children's section on first attempt, then wandered around poetry and philosophy for fifteen minutes or so.  Eventually I found the next children's section and there, right there with all the other Bs, all but invisible, was the book.  The same edition.  In slightly better condition than I remember my dad's (my aunt's...)!

I started to tremble.  I felt tears well up.  (Pathetic, I know, but I've been looking for this book for half of my life!)  I took it carefully from the shelf and carried it to my wife.  On the jittery walk back across the store, I fumbled open the cover and saw penciled there,"$50."

I'm unemployed!

It could have said $200 and I'd have bought it.  I showed Angie.  "You have to buy it," she said.

"I have to buy it," I replied.

We took it to the counter.  The lady opened the cover.  She said, "It's thirty dollars.  You're aware of that?"

I opened my mouth, and Angie stepped on my foot.  I guess I could have misread the label--faded, bad handwriting.  (And I haven't gone back to look.)  "Would you take ten for it?" she asked.

"Fifteen?" she replied.

"Deal!"

I've had the book for a week now.  Tomorrow it goes in a specially packaged, well-insured, pre-paid USPS box for Scio, Ohio, where my parents live.

Very exciting.

Wednesday's for Kids III -- UNCLE REMUS (a day early)

My dad was a funny dad, whose preferred method for inducing laughter, save tickle-torture, was voice imitations of Sesame Street and Disney characters.  I remember dinner table performances from The Count, Cookie Monster, and Brer Rabbit.  At bedtime he’d come to tuck in my younger brothers and announcing his arrival, booming, “Why it’s you, Ebenezer, the richest man in the cemetery,” after Jim Cummings’ turn as The Ghost of Christmas Future, in Mickey’s Christmas Carroll.  Tickle torture always followed.  (Mr. Cummings, I just learned, heralds from Youngstown, Ohio, not all too far from my parents.)

Among all voice imitations and nightly story time, the movie recommendations, and all the other general Dad-ness, two collections have settled more deeply and heavily than the rest: Baum’s The Magical Monarch of Mo (for another time) and today’s focus, the tales of one Uncle Remus, made temporarily famous by Disney’s self-banned feature, Song of the South. 

Yes: self-banned.

This surprised me.  I knew it wasn't available, but banned by Disney?

Mr. Fox and Mr. Rabbit, by A.B. Frost

Uncle Remus is the narrator of folktales recorded by former reporter Joel Chandler Harris.  The stories were an integral part of Harris’ childhood, and he sought only “to write out and put in print the stories I heard all my life” (Harris, Joel Chandler, The Favorite Uncle Remus, from "To the Reader," Houghton Mifflin Company, 1975, New York, New York).  The stories are those of the anthropomorphized Brer Rabbit, Brer Bear, Brer Fox, and so on, brought to life by the collective Georgia plantation storyteller’s avatar, Uncle Remus, who, according to Disney, was a slave version Santa Claus, bushy beard and all.

The written stories don’t have near the spurious reputation of the movie, and the illustrations are fantastic.  (Go ahead and google A.B. Frost.  Great stuff all around, not just for Harris.)  In them, my dad found perhaps the greatest realization for his spectacularly kid-friendly gift for voices and dialect.  Here is one of my favorites (also, perhaps, the most recognizable):

“DIDN’T the fox never catch the rabbit, Uncle Remus?” asked the little boy the next evening.

“He come mighty nigh it, honey, sho’s you born—Brer Fox did. One day atter Brer Rabbit fool ’im wid dat calamus root, Brer Fox went ter wuk en got ’im some tar, en mix it wid some turkentime, en fix up a contrapshun w’at he call a Tar-Baby, en he tuck dish yer Tar-Baby en he sot ’er in de big road, en den he lay off in de bushes fer to see what de news wuz gwine ter be. En he didn’t hatter wait long, nudder, kaze bimeby here come Brer Rabbit pacin’ down de road—lippity-clippity, clippity -lippity—dez ez sassy ez a jay-bird. Brer Fox, he lay low. Brer Rabbit come prancin’ ’long twel he spy de Tar-Baby, en den he fotch up on his behime legs like he wuz ’stonished. De Tar Baby, she sot dar, she did, en Brer Fox, he lay low.

“‘Mawnin’!’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee—‘nice wedder dis mawnin’,’ sezee.

“Tar-Baby ain’t sayin’ nuthin’, en Brer Fox he lay low.

“‘How duz yo’ sym’tums seem ter segashuate?’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee.

“Brer Fox, he wink his eye slow, en lay low, en de Tar-Baby, she ain’t sayin’ nuthin’.

“‘How you come on, den? Is you deaf?’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. ‘Kaze if you is, I kin holler louder,’ sezee.

“Tar-Baby stay still, en Brer Fox, he lay low.

“‘You er stuck up, dat’s w’at you is,’ says Brer Rabbit, sezee, ‘en I’m gwine ter kyore you, dat’s w’at I’m a gwine ter do,’ sezee.

“Brer Fox, he sorter chuckle in his stummick, he did, but Tar-Baby ain’t sayin’ nothin’.

“‘I’m gwine ter larn you how ter talk ter ’spectubble folks ef hit’s de las’ ack,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee. ‘Ef you don’t take off dat hat en tell me howdy, I’m gwine ter bus’ you wide open,’ sezee.

“Tar-Baby stay still, en Brer Fox, he lay low.

“Brer Rabbit keep on axin’ ’im, en de Tar-Baby, she keep on sayin’ nothin’, twel present’y Brer Rabbit draw back wid his fis’, he did, en blip he tuck ’er side er de head. Right dar’s whar he broke his merlasses jug. His fis’ stuck, en he can’t pull loose. De tar hilt ’im. But Tar-Baby, she stay still, en Brer Fox, he lay low.

“‘Ef you don’t lemme loose, I’ll knock you agin,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, en wid dat he fotch ’er a wipe wid de udder han’, en dat stuck. Tar-Baby, she ain’y sayin’ nuthin’, en Brer Fox, he lay low.

“‘Tu’n me loose, fo’ I kick de natal stuffin’ outen you,’ sez Brer Rabbit, sezee, but de Tar-Baby, she ain’t sayin’ nuthin’. She des hilt on, en de Brer Rabbit lose de use er his feet in de same way. Brer Fox, he lay low. Den Brer Rabbit squall out dat ef de Tar-Baby don’t tu’n ’im loose he butt ’er cranksided. En den he butted, en his head got stuck. Den Brer Fox, he sa’ntered fort’, lookin’ dez ez innercent ez wunner yo’ mammy’s mockin’-birds.

“‘Howdy, Brer Rabbit,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee. ‘You look sorter stuck up dis mawnin’,’ sezee, en den he rolled on de groun’, en laft en laft twel he couldn’t laff no mo’. ‘I speck you’ll take dinner wid me dis time, Brer Rabbit. I done laid in some calamus root, en I ain’t gwineter take no skuse,’ sez Brer Fox, sezee.”

Here Uncle Remus paused, and drew a two-pound yam out of the ashes.

“Did the fox eat the rabbit?” asked the little boy to whom the story had been told.

“Dat’s all de fur de tale goes,” replied the old man. “He mout, an den agin he moutent. Some say Judge B’ar come ’long en loosed ’im—some say he didn’t. I hear Miss Sally callin’. You better run ’long.”

There’s a fantastic website, http://www.uncleremus.com/, which offers 34 additional stories for free, as well as clips from Song of the South, and audio clips of readings. 

While there are many children’s books, even by the aforementioned L. Frank Baum, that are unfortunately heavy in racism and other unfair and cruel stereotyping, I don’t see it in the Uncle Remus stories.  They are respectful of their sources, recounted lovingly by the demur Harris, particularly in his uniform goal of reporting via faithful retelling; and as folktale, it reflects most accurately what life was at the time, evincing if anything racism of community and culture, not embodying racism in its essence. 

So here’s my problem.  I want to get my hands on a copy of Song of the South.  I remember clips from the movie fondly.  I love the music.  Splash Mountain is among my three favorite rides at Disneyland.  Is the movie really so bad that it got itself banned for racism?

Well, maybe.  Disney pulled it from the shelves themselves, because their publicists believed it idealized the slave situation in Georgia, where the stories take place, and didn't want to incur their employers a lawsuit.  Supposedly (I have never seen the whole thing, but I can see this claim as a strong possibility) the movie does nothing to damn slavery and its immorality, and shows good ol' Uncle Remus as fat, jolly, and perfectly content with his lot.  I agree that this isn't good.  It's bad.  Whether it merits the movie's ban is another story entirely, and perhaps beyond the scope of Wednesday's for Kids, but I'm going to touch on it just for a moment in order to expose a possible hypocrisy.  

Is the portrayal of Uncle Remus any more racist than that of Dumbo's ravens, Aladdin's Jafar, Pinocchio's Stromboli, or Peter Pan's Indians (these among many others), or is it just closer to home?  Do the movies themselves demonstrate racism on the part of the movie makers, or does the lack of ban on the others reflect racism yet in our culture?  Or both?

I don't know.  Regardless, you can't watch the whole movie, because it's just not available, but you can read all the stories.  The stories are brilliant, beautiful, and fun, and I highly recommend them to you and the kids you know.

***

If you're interested in further discussion, check out James Smith's review, HERE, of The Woggle-Bug Book, by L. Frank Baum, at his blog, Motion for a Five Minute Unmoderated Caucus.