Spoils by Brian Van Reet

Spoils  takes readers into the Iraq war, stripping away the facade of accepted views of the enemy and the justification of war to reveal the complicated reality.

Debut author Brian Van Reet knows his subject. He left university to enlist in the U. S. Army after the September 11 attacks, serving as a tank crewman in Iraq and earning a Bronze Star for valor. After his discharge, Van Reet returned to his studies and to writing.

From the viewpoint of  the American characters, we learn of the hardships and boredom of war, the crazy randomness of violence, and the gap between the reason and the reality of war.

The Iraqi characters shed light on the history of the conflict and the changing nature of jihad under extremists and after America invaded Iraq.

"I always had an idea of what the Americans would be like. But they are different than I thought. They're just people."

"There comes a time for each of us when we realize the truth about the enemy. Which is that he is not an idea, or some faceless demon. He is a man. And every man is much like ourselves."

Cassandra Wigheard is a nineteen-year-old American soldier serving as a tank gunner. She is aware of the gap between the political hype about Operation Iraqi Freedom and the reality that the army's purpose is to kill and destroy. She joined the army to be different, to "escape a hard life for one she hoped would be harder." She is appalled by the rape of another female soldier, and at her fellow soldier's callousness.

Abu Al-Hool is a dedicated mujaheddin who sees radicalized jihadists taking over. He left his privileged life to join something bigger, to shape the world. Now, with the murder of women and children and the rise of Osama, he questions his place in the jihad. Dr. Walid, a leader whose motto was "Jihad and the rifle alone," is taking over power.

Sargent Sleed joined the army to find a 'higher purpose,' but instead makes bad decisions, causing the deaths of Iraqi civilians, which he covers up.

Cassandra is captured by the group led by Dr. Walid and Abu Al-Hool, leading Al-Hool to make a fatal choice.

There is no sensationalizing of war, no graphic details of violence. My reaction was more intellectual than visceral. But that makes me happy--I can't read graphic violence.

The publisher writes,"Depicting a war spinning rapidly out of control, destined to become a modern classic, Spoils is an unsparing and morally complex novel that chronicles the achingly human cost of combat."

That about sums it up for me.

I received a free ebook from the publisher through NetGalley in exchange for a fair and unbiased review.

Spoils
Brian Van Reet
Little, Brown & Co.
Publication April 18, 2017
$26 hard cover
ISBN: 9780316316163

Easter Greetings

 Wishing all my readers a Happy Easter!

We lived with a house trained rabbit for six years in the 1970s. Nasturtium had real personality, but she never hid any eggs for us. She did chew up the furniture and electric cords.

Early in my quiltmaking days I designed Easter Sunrise--best seen from far, far away.

The weather has been so warm in Michigan--80 degrees yesterday--that we put the screens back into the windows.

The tree we planted when we moved in is flowering, along with daffodils and hyacinth.

Our son will be here for dinner. He shared a photo on Facebook of Godzilla and Peeps bunnies on a cake. SO-- I made him one! He just drove in!

I hope no dinosaurs attack your day.

Junior Jitters and Heartbreak

Eleventh Grade, the Junior Jitters year.

Life after high school was unimaginable. I worried about finding a job, paying income taxes, getting married, having children, and washing and ironing and paying the bills. I wanted something more. I wanted to dream.

Me in 1968

I knew my grades wouldn't get me into college. "I don’t know anything except avoiding homework, loving people, chasing boys, and wants and hopes and dreams and music and writing and reading and beauty and needing friendship," I wrote.

When Nancy Ensminger and I were nine years old we had discussed what we wanted to be when we grew up. I wanted to be a writer because I believed writers had the power to change people's lives. At sixteen I hoped to "learn to write" and publish. I wondered if I could "take up writing in college." It seems "impossible & improbable & obscure & obscene, but in dreams I see it as reality." My second hope was to "be a friend to mankind" and "a help to people."

I wrote in my journal,

"Could N. Gochenour be transformed into a poet or short story writer?  This mass of misspelled words and incorrect grammar be shuffled around to form a tangible and solid author-type person?
Do I dare to satisfy my childhood dream?  Do I dare to step out?  Do I dare try my hand at being somebody?  Can I succeed?"

I was very internally focused in my scribbling.

"Have you ever stood quietly and felt your heart beating inside of you? Be very still and don’t move or breathe. If you listen, you’ll feel it there. So faintly..."

"Thin lined paper beckons me to write. It makes me want to mess up its unblemished surface. It makes me want to write nicely with round, even letters and long words. I find it hard to pass up thin-lined paper. I have this need to create and write. I love writing—writing anything, even if only the alphabet or a perfection of one work, with curly-cues in all the right places. And I want to write of how [the boys I liked] never come, but always just look at you with those heavy eyes, and it’s always [the unsuitable boys] who find you. And how you are flattered into it though you know such differences exist and they aren’t the ones, but the [boy you like] goes off with other girls."

1968. My 'at home' uniform: sweatshirt, jeans, and moccasins.

On October 1 I wrote, "What am I doing? Taking history, economics, chemistry, I'm in PAC, editor of "Our Paper" [a project of the senior high Sunday School class at St John's Episcopal Church]. I write poetry. I also participate in that All-American game--Boys."

Herald article on the Political Action Club

On October 2 Mr. Warner came into Mr. Perry's economics class and called out, "Debbie!" and I said, "No-Nancy." I wrote, "He informed me to take International Relations. With that, Perry, Burroughs & Arndt I'd be prepared for college. Before he left he gave my book a karate kick off the desk & exclaimed to Mr. P, "You've got some ugly girls, too, huh?" Mr. Perry shook his head as Mr. W left, and a girl asked, "Who WAS that man!"

Mr Warner in my International Relations classroom, 1969

At least one teacher was talking to me about college.

On October 3 I wrote that everyone was carrying transistor radios to hear the World Series with the Detroit Tigers vs. the Cardinals. On Oct 11 I wrote that the Tigers had won.

I went to the first football game wearing my navy coat, a skirt, and my hair pulled back under a black lambswool pill box hat I found at a garage sale. My hat was crazy and a hit. My teachers remarked on it, with my chemistry teacher Mr. Heald teasing and asking if it was bear fur.

I went campaigning door-to-door with the Political Action Club. I recall we were for Romney for governor.

I bought and read news magazines, then cut the ads out to adorn my bedroom walls and to use in collages to illustrate books I made of my poetry. I had several poems in The Herald--pretty awful, derivative stuff! Including this poem:

page from my poetry book

We are all one in our fight.
our strength is one strength in our strife;
our weaknesses merge into one weakness;
our ideas build like blocks
to form one universal conception.

But when strength is pitted against strength
in one being;
when ideas are kept apart;
building blocks are missing
and the conception falls
as we will fall
if we are not all one in our flight.

a collage I made for my poem Spring Fever

Herald Staff 1968-69. I am in the second row on the far left

wearing one of Mom's 1950s wool skirts which I shortened.

One of my first articles for the Herald

 I got my class ring in October. I wore it proudly.

Me with red hair

My hair had become dark golden brown and Mom suggested I lighten it as I was born blond. Instead, I became a redhead! It took three generations to accomplish it, with my mom and grandmother helping. My Grandmother and Mother also encouraged me to try contact lens and helped me earn the $200 to buy them. They were green, to enhance my hazel eyes.

On October 20 my family went to Tonawanda. I wrote,

"We went to visit the Kuhns last night; called Nancy Ensminger. Saw the Randall’s today. V. N.! [Very nice] Mike R. is tall--And very cute. Quiet. I got in my 2 cents of mouth flapping. Amused him, too. Very Outgoing: in other words, NOISY, when I could be. Nice time, had coffee & pet their dog, who’s getting bald, and their gray cat, who has a fluorescent orange ball. Razing between Uncle Ken & I. Says I’m a hippie ‘cause I got de long hair."

Mike R. and I had played make believe about space aliens as kids. He grew up to become an actor and television weather reporter.

Nancy Ensminger and me, age 16, October 1968

"Oct. 21 Wore my contacts 5 ½ hrs. today. Yesterday I saw Nancy E. We talked, had our pics taken in a booth (25 cents) at Niesner’s, ate spaghetti, talked, said 'hi' to Bruce [Nancy's brother], and talked. Today we went to the store & I gypped Mom outta $1.99 for a shirt, $1.00 for pantyhose, and $1.00 for 4 scarves. We went to see a certain Louise Cole & mom got her wig fixed & we had pheasant & rabbit (and woodcock) sumpthin' or other that wasn’t half bad at all. I hardly—didn’t even—recognize my “old friend” --ha, ha-- Allan (Al.)  Dark hair and cute. He smiled when I got my mouth moving (same as with Mike) and got, in the end, so we could talk & joke & without bein’ scared of scaring one another or something & all. Showed me his pigeons & rabbits & chickens." [Louise Cole had been our hairdresser when we lived in Tonawanda. Her son was Allan.]

Nancy Ensminger, 1968

Nancy 1968

"Oct 24 We went to the Waterson’s [Doris Waterson was Mom's best friend from high school].  Eric [her youngest son] is lovable. Tom [her older son] there—shot a pheasant. Eric wanted to know what I was giving him this time!  I said, “A kiss!” No! But wait—this time you’re supposed to give ME a present! (Mr. Waterson said to say I wanted “Bunnie”) No—I couldn’t have him! I could have the black-nosed bunny—No. A Tiger?  No—send me your picture. (Eric had his school picture taken that day.)

"Yesterday Debbie [Becker] thought I had a beautiful voice when I played my guitar. Went to Guenther’s. I hardly recognized Stevie—er, Steve! Yipes! I didn’t let him be shy. I teased him. He needed a specific screw for his gun. Linda, Elaine, me, Deb & Steve all piled into the car & took off to about 50 billion stores looking for it. That’s about the extent of it. Tomorrow we’ll return, and then Monday—back to the rat race."

I was still doing art

My art reflecting the social times and psychedelic style

my poster, a typical 60s motif

My junior year classes included Chemistry with Mr. Heald, Herald Staff with Mr. Rosen, Economics with Mr. Perry, International Relations with Mr. Warner, Speech, American Lit, and US History.

I read the 1958 poem Univac to Univac by Louis B. Salomon in Speech class. Hear it here. It is about computers wondering if humans might take over the world. I also read my poem about the Christmas tree under the pen name Stephanie Valentine.

My Chemistry class was in the early afternoon. Mr. Heald would kick the metal trash can to get our attention when we drifted off. Sometimes my hand would keep writing as I nodded off and I woke up with my page all scribbled over. (In college I avoided early afternoon classes because I was still falling asleep at 2 pm!) I did not do well, but learned something because I wrote,

if only out of all this confusion

things could fall into an order--

any kind of order--

so i could observe the situation

and make decisions

but, no, it is as unstable

as an ozone atom.

I wrote that my Economics teacher "Mr. Perry spent the hour pointing out all the reasons why we should commit suicide or something because of the world (U.S.) situation." And I also wrote that I was tired of memorizing tariffs and laws and 'every darn thing.' I passed the class because I grasped the theory, but was inept at the application. My conversation starter became, "And what do you think of the national debt?" 50 years later it is still a relevant question!

I was in Girl's Choir for the second year. I had been in choir with many of these girls for two years now and had many friends. I have the best memories of these girls. We learned the Hallelujah Chorus that year and I would sing it walking through the hallways at school. (I still sing when walking, in the car, feeding the doggies, often making up songs. Still weird after all these years!) I also made new friends, Alta and Carol, who were a year older. 

We participated in the All-City Secondary Vocal Festival on Friday, April 25, 1969, at the Kimball High School Gymnasium. The Combined High School Girls’ Choirs performed:

     Gloria (from “Twelfth Mass”) —Mozart

     Go Not Far From Me, O God—Zingarelli

     Say It With Music—Berlin

     The Wizard of Oz Selections—Arlen

Girl's Choir 1968-69. I am in the third row, fifth from the right end.

Once night Dad drove Alta and me home from a football game. The radio was on and Alta and I sang along to Hey, Jude.

Alta introduced me to a boy who liked me. He took me to his church youth group, which was fun, but the church was very conservative. I remember seeing piles of books about the threat of Communism. The church was against dancing, smoking, drinking, etc. He stood me up one night when we were to go Christmas caroling so to cheer me up Alta took me to a party she was going to. Later one of the boys at the party told Alta he'd like to date me. She didn't think we were each other's type.

My friends Dorothy and Kathy bought me a Christmas present from Jacobson's, a tiger stripe fur hat from Jacobson's! I was very moved. The hat was weird enough to be just my style!

In January I was getting to know the boy from the Christmas party. He was a year older and not typically 'my type.' He was complicated with a difficult home life. And he wasn't interested any more in poetry or books than the other boys who wanted to date me. He got along with my folks and was at my house frequently. I really liked him. I fell into the trap many young girls fall into, thinking that we can solve a boy's problems. He warned that he knew he would "blow our relationship."

We went to the French Club Dance, meeting up with my friends and their beaus. Mom took my photo. It became a family legend! Mr. Warner, my International Relations teacher, made fun of it saying, “St. Nancy of Gochenspeil—This is your airline stewardess.” He kept it to share with his other classes.

Me before the 1969 French Club Dance.
That eagle is still in the family. It is not attached to my head.

Before the prom my relationship with my boyfriend had mutually ended. It broke my heart, yet I was determined to remain a friend because I knew my mom was a good support to him. Later I realized our break up was wise and right. But at the time I wrote a lot of bad poetry over it and it took many months to move beyond the pain.

May 9, 1968, a week before the anniversary of Joe Boten's death, I was feeling very low. I wrote that Mom gave me a Librium and drove me to school. It shocks me now to know Mom was on Librium and even more shocked that had given it to me. Because her psoriasis was believed to be made worse by stress, perhaps her doctor believed the Librium was good for her. There was a lot of bad medication going on back then, and Mom was desperate enough to try anything. Her neck, hands, and major joints were deformed by psoriatic arthritis. Winter found her crippled and bedridden. Neighbors came over during the day to help her out of bed.

Every week, I would put olive oil or a tar ointment in her hair at night. She wrapped her head and let the ointment loosen the psoriasis plaque overnight. A stint in the hospital involved a treatment where tar ointment was applied on her entire body, then she wrapped up in Saran wrap and let it soak overnight. Another treatment involved UV light therapy, but it was stopped when she developed pre-cancerous lesions. She was on and off Cortisone, which made her swell up and thinned her skin.

Mom relied on me to help her in the kitchen. I mashed potatoes and opened jars or cans because her hands were so crippled. I went shopping with her to help carry the bags. I did the Pepsi runs to keep her supplied so she didn't have to get up. Mom thought I would make a good physical therapist since I already was a home care health aide in training.

Also on May 9 I obtained an application for my family to host a foreign exchange student the next school year. A family friend was involved with Youth for Understanding and we had hosted an exchange student for a weekend.

Dad wrote in his memoirs, "We got to know one of Joyce's parent's neighbors in Berkeley, whose name was Anita. She was involved with a student exchange program called Youth for Understanding. She asked us to take a temporary exchange student. Joyce, Nancy, Tom and I talked it over and we decided we would like to get involved with the program."

I wonder if Mom thought it would get my mind off 'boy trouble' to have a sister.

Here I am with the exchange student we hosted for a week.

I already had a prom dress and, boyfriend or not, Mom was determined I would still go to the prom. I personally didn't care.

A neighbor boy had returned from Vietnam and his mom and my mom arranged for him to take me to the prom. Again, we joined up with my friends and their beaus for dinner. My date was nice, but we had nothing in common. He was very old fashioned and didn't believe in women going to college. I had to see my old beau with his new girl. I got to wear the dress but I did not truly enjoy myself.

Ready for the prom, 1968

I was determined not to fall into the depression I had suffered the previous year. My mantra became Resurgam-- I shall rise again. I believe I heard the term from Jane Eyre for it is on the tombstone of Jane's Lowood friend Helen.

I collected sayings to support me.

Jeremiah 8:4
“You shall say to them, thus says the Lord;
When men fall, do they not rise again?
If one turns away, does he not return?”

"No one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.” Luke 9:62

This may have been the summer when I met a church challenge to attend every Sunday all summer long. I won a copper metal bookmark.

I was awfully tired of growing up. I wrote a short poem,

When do the lessons end?
Is there so much to learn
to comprehend
that the lessons must go on forever,
no holiday, no end?

Summer came. I took Student Drivers Ed in summer school. Learning that alcohol kills brain cells I vowed to not drink. I figured I needed all the brain cells I had! And I did not drink until I was in my late twenties and my husband and I ordered a glass of wine at dinner.

In July I turned seventeen. I wrote that I had been naive and now I was 'corrupted' and looked with old eyes. ("The delicate core of my mind/is made of hopes and dreams/corrupted and destroyed/by harsh reality," I wrote in one poem).

I was truly concerned with the future, thinking more seriously about college, but I had no clue about how to get into college. My folks assumed I'd get married and that my brother would go to college. I was never pushed to improve my grades or rewarded for doing well. Although my orphaned grandfather Ramer had put himself through Susquehanna College and seminary and Columbia teacher's college in the 1920s, and supported my interests, he never said anything about my going to college either. And I still had never talked about it with my folks.

I had changed a lot during the year. I knew I was going to survive seventeen, and not only would I grow up--I finally wanted to.

On July 20, 1969, America landed men on the moon. Alta asked me to write a poem about it.

On the Virgin Soil, Touched

black, endless
rhinestone-set velvet
split
by a small silver needle
traveling by stitches
through space.

finite, three lives
existing
to carry out an excursion
in the name of mankind.

in-the-image-of-God
one foot
touched
the sterile
virgin
soil,
that now knows man.

millions afar--
eyes turned upward--
mouths
no words to form
speech taken away
by wonder
by fear
by sense of man's potential power
standing
in awe
of one foot
and the moon
the friction, touch
coming between.

Around fifteen years ago I made my quilt When Dreams Came True to celebrate the Apollo 11 mission. I used copyright free NASA photographs, fusible applique, commercial fabrics, and machine thread work and machine quilting.

When Dreams Came True by Nancy A. Bekofske

detail from When Dreams Came True by Nancy A. Bekofske

detail from When Dreams Came True by Nancy A. Bekofske

detail of When Dreams Came True by Nancy A. Bekofske

detail from When Dreams Came True by Nancy A. Bekofske

Mini Reviews: Family Problems

Bridget Jones's Baby by Helen Fielding

I enjoyed Bridget Jones's Diary and the movie based on the novel. It is loosely based on Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. Very loosely! Bridget was fresh and fun. I read the second book in the series but missed the third installment.

When I won a copy of Bridget Jones's Baby from Read it Forward I anticipated revisiting Bridget. I'd been reading many heavy and dark books. I needed a bit of fun fluff.

I found book four to be formulaic. Bridget, Mark, and Daniel, even Jones's parents, were exactly who we've always known them to be. The stories seemed, well, thin.

But I recall my Jane Austen professor teaching about the satisfaction readers get from the known, the expected anticipation fulfilled, and the wish-fulfillment ending. This book offers readers all that. Like an old-fashioned sitcom, the characters don't change and we love it. Their stupid reactions are true to what we have always known about them, and we feel self-satisfied that we knew all along how it would be. And we do get the ending we always wanted.

Which all adds up to exactly the kind of read I needed: a few hours with old friends, nothing taxing, a few laughs shared, and when I turned out the light there were no troubling thoughts to keep me awake. Sweet dreams--Thanks, Bridget. You did it again.

I received a free book from Read it Forward.

Everything I Never Told You by Celeste Ng is an absorbing read opening with the lines "Lydia is dead. But they don't know it yet."

Centering on a Chinese American family living in a small Ohio college town in the 1970s, Ng strips away the facade and reveals that we may keep our fears and painful past to ourselves, but they play out in our acts and desires, hurting not only ourselves but our children.

Well deserved New York Times Notable Book and bestseller. Highly recommended.

The Little Paris Book Shop by Nina George was my book club pick of the month. Being a best seller, and liked by some of by Goodreads friends, I had hopes of a fun, but light, read. I did not enjoy it. I read 190 pages then skipped to the end.

Twenty years ago, bookseller Perdu was jilted by his married lover, and he's been a heartbroken, bitter man ever since--until he meets a woman who stirs the feelings that have been long dead. Instead of pursuing a relationship, he finally reads the goodbye letter from his past lover. He goes on a quest down the river to discover more.

The translation is at times quirky. I didn't buy Perdu's twenty-year grief over a woman who was never going to be all his anyway. And the ending is a little, well, uncomfortable.

Discover Pennsylvania Patchwork Pillowcases

Ann Hermes' personal collection formed the basis of her book Pennsylvania Patchwork Pillowcases.

Anne presents a history of the patchwork pillowcases with an interesting history of German immigrants in Pennsylvania.

Germans immigrated to Southeast Pennsylvania in record numbers in the 19th c. My own German ancestors first settled in Berks County and Lancaster County. Bucks, Leigh, Lebanon, and York counties also drew German populations.

The immigrants represented Mennonite, Schwenkfelder, Brethren, Lutheran and Reformed religious groups, commonly refered to as Pennsylvania Dutch. The Amish Germans did not have a tradition of pillow covers, nor did the English Quakers.

Ann's vast wealth of knowledge and research into the pillowcases makes fascinating reading. The pillowcases were sized to fit the traditional German bed and are constructed like a traditional patchwork quilt but with a fabric back and enclosed on one end. Other versions include the pillow sham and the cover which was placed on top of the pillow to keep them clean.

The fabrics indicate they were popularly made between 1820 and 1920.

Many include embellishments with lace, fringe, openwork, or cross stitch. Embroidered motifs, initials, and names also appear.

Pennsylvania Patchwork Pillows

Photographs show the construction of the pillowcases including details of edgings and closures employed. 

Chapters include Collecting Antique Textiles, Early 19th Century Pillowcases, Pillowcases by Design 1850-1900, Applique Pillowcases, Special Cases, and Other Small Treasures and are illustrated with 250 color photographs. Small treasures includes storage bags, square pillow covers, bags, doll quilts, and pot-holders.

The variety of antique fabrics, block patterns, and settings found in these small treasures are lovely to peruse. The historical fabrics can be seen in detail with dyes, prints, quilt patterns, and provenance described. Some pillowcases were kept with the original quilt they were made to accompany. 

Along with items from Ann's own collection are included examples found in museums, private collections, and historical society collections.

Like all Schiffer publications, the book is beautifully presented, with high quality color pages. 

Ann Hermes is a collector of antique quilts and a long-time student of quilt history. Originally from Northbrook, Illinois, Ann’s move to the Philadelphia area twenty-five years ago to pursue a career as a research scientist in the chemical industry landed her in a place rich in history and quilting traditions. She is a member of the American Quilt Study Group and an active participant in local textile history events. Inspired by her collection, Ann designs and makes miniature quilts, dozens of which have appeared in national quilting magazines. Ann lives in Ambler, Pennsylvania, with her husband, two sons, and two black cats.

I received a free book from the publisher in exchange for a fair and unbiased review.

Pennsylvania Patchwork Pillowcases

Anne R. Hermes

Schiffer Publications

$29.99 hard cover

ISBN: 978-0-7643-4610-1

Poetry for Kids: Carl Sandburg

The beauty of poetic language and imagery can spur the imagination of young children. It is the mystery of poetry that it can inspire and elicit emotion independent of intellectual 'understanding'. We don't have to know how a poems works, or its every reference, to be moved. A poem is not a riddle to solve. A poem 'is'.

The MoonDance Press Poetry for Kids series provides a wonderful resource for introducing children to the magic of  America's great poets.

The latest book in the Poetry for Kids series is Carl Sandburg. Thirty-five age-appropriate poems for children age 8 to 13, selected by Kathryn Benzel, are accompanied by colorful original illustrations by Robert Crawford.

The Introduction is a brief biography of Carl Sandburg. He was born in 1878 to immigrant parents in Galesburg, Illinois. Typical of his generation and class, after he left school after 8th grade to work at menial jobs. He moved to Chicago before hopping a boxcar at age 19 to see America. 

Sandburg's poems are 'of the people,' from the prairie to the city factories, embracing his experience of American life from Reconstruction to the Depression, through two world wars to the invention of television and transcontinental flight. 

The poems are divided thematically: poems about people and poems about places.

Poems about people include interactions with the natural and human-made world. 

A boy studies nature in Young Bullfrogs, while I Am the People, the Mob extols workers and creators, the common people who make the world go.

Jazz Fantasia celebrates the free-form quintessential American music while Buffalo Bill recalls a boy's idolization of the Old West.

Poems about places begins with Sandburg's most famous poem, Fog, and includes Limited about the 'crack train' of the nation carrying passengers who don't look beyond their next stop. 

River Roads, Valley Song, and Between Two Hills--poems about the country--are balanced by Street Window, The Skyscraper Loves Night, and a selection from 'Smoke and Steel.'

The illustrations by Robert Crawford are beautiful: A man and his dog under the flowering fuchsia canopy of a crab-apple tree at dusk; a bright Jack-o-lantern at night; a girl on a pier under a purple sky reflected upon the lake.

Included are helps for parents or young readers: Explanations for Understanding offers definitions and historical information, and "What Carl Was Thinking" has a brief description of the poem's meaning or origin.

Poetry for Kids Emily Dickinson was published in October 2016.

These are wonderful books for the classroom, for family reading, or to gift to older children.

I received a free ebook from the publisher through Edelweiss in exchange for a fair and unbiased review.

Poetry for Kids Carl Sandburg
Kathryn Benzel
Moon Dance Press
$14.95 hardcover
Publication April 3, 2017
ISBN: 9781633221512, 1633221512

Building a New World Order: A $500 House in Detroit

I wanted to read Drew Philp's book A $500 House in Detroit  because he, like so many other young people, have returned to the city to make it home, to help establish a new city, a better city. Like the young man at my hair salon who bought a house in Brightmoor, who, starting from scratch, is making a new kind of house for a new generation.

Philp came from a rural area of Michigan, from generations of people who worked with their hands. He attended University of Michigan but was repulsed by the values and life style of wealth. He wanted something different, more authentic. Instead of taking a high salary job he wanted to find a life with meaning. He moved to Detroit and worked sanding floors, a 'token white' for an African American company, becoming their public face when selling in the suburbs.

When Philp bought his Poletown house at auction for $500 it was an empty shell--well, empty but for piles of human waste and the sawed off front end of a car.  Philp worked all day and restored his house all night. When he moved in he had no heat; it was a brutal winter without even hot water. It nearly broke his spirit and his health.

When we saw 'gentrification' in Philly, when people were moving in and restoring grand old homes, or factories being put to new use as housing, the city was not as far gone as Detroit. It seems like this is something new--Neighborhoods literally turned into 'urban prairie' with a few houses here and there, cut off from city services and protection. And kids like a twenty-three-year-old Philp deciding to move in and start from scratch.

And that 'scratch' includes community. Philp's heart-warming stories of acceptance and integration into the existing community is enviable. For few of us in the 'burbs know our neighbors anymore. The block parties of my youth and the mothers all looking out for the kids are things of the past.

Philp's book was eye opening on so many levels, including his history of Detroit's fall, the politics of corruption, the inequity that began long ago with 'urban renewal', and the value system of consumerism and business profit is well presented.

I communicated with Philp and he graciously answered some questions I posed.

Nancy: Few people have the will to live an authentic life based on values that are in tension with social expectations. I was wondering if you would talk about that.

Philp: I think much of my generation wants to live authentically, and in fact, I think it's the defining trait of the millennials. What I don't think we understand yet is how to do so. I was lucky. I had a background where I learned how to build physical things from an early age, and stumbled upon a community that could help encourage and transform those skills. For me, living an authentic life meant building a house. For others it's likely different.

But the underlying principle is we're looking to build a better world, one free from all kinds of coercion, that recognizes the interconnection of all different kinds of people and issues. You can see inklings of experiments like this in movements such as Occupy Wall Street and the camps at Standing Rock--they've been maligned for not having a dedicated plan, but I think that isn't the point. The point is to build community, a real one, and a new world, a better one. The kids at Occupy were doing it right there in the park, in practice, rather than begging a wealthy, disconnected politician to do it for them. I'm trying to do the same with my house and community.

Nancy: You have the rare ability to see beyond the surface: you don't just see a product, you see how it was manufactured and the implications on human lives and the environment. Where did this awareness come from?

Philp: I think I was pushed by circumstances. I've watched my countrymen and women die in wars nearly my entire life, at least one of which was built on lies. I've seen, in Detroit and elsewhere, people starving and homeless in "the greatest country on earth." I've taught in prisons where there is little to no rehabilitation going on, and the privatization of incarceration, the making money from locking people in cages. I've seen eight, just eight now, men owning half as much wealth as 50 percent of the world...the list goes on.

I feel I've been lied to very deeply, by my government, by society, by culture, and I've seen it with my own eyes, and had to begin looking for my own answers. They've led me to a startling place. From the clothing on our bodies to the pipes running through our homes, much of our comfort has been built on the near slavery of workers in the global South and environmental degradation the world over.

Nancy: I appreciated the sense of community that you describe in Detroit. Few communities behave like family any more. Can this be patterned in other communities?

Philp: I would argue that community is always important, we can just temporarily mask that need with longing for perceived safety and consumer culture, for example. There's a lot of ennui happening in the supposedly wonderful suburbs and McMansions. People aren't as happy as they pretend to be. In Detroit we're not all that special in finding community--we've just faced the problems longer than anyone else, and by virtue of time, have had longer to find the answers.

As to participation in community, I think it's what my generation is looking for above all else. Fulfillment comes from authentic life, which comes through community. Many of us have grown up in faceless suburbs, divorced from any meaningful culture, sense of belonging, and are very, very lonely. People have been moving back to cities to find a sense not only of selves but their history and connection to others. If the US continues down this road of fascism and cruelty, we're going to see an explosion of it.

Nancy: Everyone is rooting for Detroit to be the come-back kid but I know too many neighborhoods do not enjoy benefits from the growth of trendy restaurants or boutiques. Do you think that Detroit's past is it's future, with areas attracting suburbanites for play vs. areas of neglect and poverty?

Philp: I think that is what the grassroots in Detroit is fighting against. As I mention in the book, the only real failure Detroit can undergo in moving forward is not trying anything new. We have an amazing opportunity to become, as strange as it sounds, the city of the future. The grassroots in Detroit is attempting to solve global problems on the local level-- i.e., climate change, which we won't be getting too much help from the current federal administration--and paradoxically, Detroit has solutions to offer. Hopefully we can stave off the big money and current thinking in our own city to give them as a gift to the rest of the world.

Philp is one of those rare people who rise above status quo conventions to see a higher moral order, another vision of a better city. It gives one hope that America's future will be influenced by ideals that will lead to a better America.

Read the article that became a sensation and led to this book:
https://www.buzzfeed.com/drewphilp/why-i-bought-a-house-in-detroit-for-500?utm_term=.ejR4n797J#.cewKzMQM0

"As we rebuild this ashen city, we're deciding on an epic scale what we value as Americans in the 21st century. The American Dream is alive in Detroit, even if it flickers." Drew Philp

I revived a free ebook from the publisher through NetGalley in exchange for a fair and unbiased review.

A $500 House in Detroit: Rebuilding an American Home and an Abandoned City
by Drew Philp
Scribner
Publication April 11, 2017
$26 hard cover
ISBN: 9781476797984