"Madeline"

 

As a child I loved the story of Madeline. I read it over and over even into adulthood. Mostly because I was rarely taken seriously. I think this story helped me and countless other children and helped adults view kids as viable humans and here is why. 

The children's book "Madeline" by Ludwig Bemelmans has had a profound impact on how people view children. First published in 1939, "Madeline" tells the story of a young girl who lives in a boarding school in Paris. The book's vivid illustrations and charming storytelling have captivated readers for generations and have helped change the way we think about children. 

Prior to the publication of "Madeline," children's literature often portrayed children as passive and obedient. Children were expected to be seen but not heard and were often depicted as passive recipients of adult guidance. "Madeline" challenged this view of children by presenting them as independent, curious, and capable individuals. 

Madeline, the book's central character, is a young girl who is not afraid to speak her mind and take risks. She ventures out on her own to explore the city of Paris, and she stands up to Miss Clavel, the headmistress of the boarding school, when she feels that her friends are in danger. Through Madeline's actions, the book portrays children as active participants in their own lives rather than passive recipients of adult guidance. 

"Madeline" also challenges traditional gender roles by presenting a strong, independent female character. Madeline is not defined by her relationships with others; instead, she is a fully realized individual with her own desires, interests, and goals. This portrayal of a strong female character challenged traditional gender roles and helped pave the way for more feminist literature in children's literature. 

Furthermore, "Madeline" also showed the importance of diversity and inclusion. Madeline's classmates come from different backgrounds and cultures, and the book celebrates the diversity of the boarding school community. This emphasis on diversity and inclusion helped challenge the narrow stereotypes and prejudices that were prevalent in children's literature at the time. 

In conclusion, "Madeline" by Ludwig Bemelmans helped change the way people view children by presenting them as independent, curious, and capable individuals. The book's emphasis on diversity and inclusion and its portrayal of a strong, independent female character challenged traditional stereotypes and prejudices and helped pave the way for more progressive children's literature. "Madeline" remains a beloved classic to this day, reminding us of the transformative power of literature to change our views about the world around us. 

Georgia

A Favorite Book

 

Classroom teachers in the New York City public schools were supervised by their administrators a few times a term. These observed lessons rarely fazed me since I felt very comfortable performing in front of Mrs, Sclar. I felt very secure as a teacher of delicious first grade children, I often used the book Caps For Sale as the focus of my lesson. The charming children’s book allowed my lesson to go in many directions. The author and illustrator was  Esphyr Slobodkina and the book was published in 1940. I always thought it was an old European folk tale. To my surprise, the Jewish author lived in Great Neck, Long Island. She was also a famous abstract artist who had published many other children’s books and exhibited her art in many important museums. If you have not read the book to your child, grandchild or neighbor’s child, I will summarize the contents.

A peddler walks around with varied colored and patterned  caps on his head. Unsuccessful to sell any caps, he walks to the countryside, sits down under a tree and falls asleep. When he wakes up,  he finds only one hat remains in place and all the others  are on the heads of the band of mischievous monkeys up in the tree. I will leave you to read the book to find the resolution to this dilemma.

As a classroom teacher, I used the story with my youngsters in a variety of lessons:

1. Colors and patterns
2. Cardinal and ordinal numbers
3. Role playing
4. Nonnumerical concepts
5. Conflict and resolution

Caps For Sale has become one of the most popular children’s picture books. It is considered a classic and has won the Lewis Carroll Shelf award. It has been translated into twelve languages. 

Ethyl Haber

An Essay on "Mike Mulligan and his Steam Shovel"

 

Mike Mulligan and his steam shovel was first published in 1939 and was read repeatedly by Bob Keeshan on the Captain Kangaroo show in the 1950’s and 1960’s to which I was a perennial devotee. In the plot, Mike and his steam shovel Marianne had worked together for many years and were now running into competition from the sleek modern gasoline, electric and diesel shovels. The character of Marianne was based on The Marion Steam Shovel Company which was being eclipsed by new modern shovels. Today these devices can be found in industrial graveyards around the country. Mike found a job for a town that was about to dig the foundation for its new City Hall. To secure the job Mike offered to complete the dig in one day or else the town’s Selectmen would not have to pay for the work completed. The Selectmen greedily accepted these terms, fully expecting to get their foundation dug out for free.

            Mike and Marianne started at sunup working feverishly all day long and finished at sunset fulfilling their commitment to complete the job in one day.  In their haste to complete the job Mike forgot to leave an exit ramp to remove the steam-shovel from the bottom! Everyone was stumped to think of a solution to this dilemma until a child sheepishly suggests that Maryanne be converted to a steam boiler for the heating system of the new town hall with Mike as the caretaker! This solution was happily accepted by Mike, Marianne and the Selectmen!

            I loved the story, and my parents purchased the book and read it to me nightly as a bedtime story. The combined messages of the necessity for hard work to attain success, being entrepreneurial, and most importantly planning ahead so as not to end up with your steam shovel at the base of a pit with no exit plan seemed prudent. Finally, being adaptive to changing circumstances was a great lesson to learn early in life.

Jim

Feb 2023

Tabby Boy - Chapter Five

 

Gone But Not Forgotten

If you ever saw Fiddler on the Roof, you know what a Pogrom is. I saw it on TV a long time ago when I lived indoors with old lady Sarah. Well, it’s a Russian massacre. They wreaked havoc on a Jewish village. Well, I’m not sure whatmy religion is. Old lady Ethyl always said, “Tabby Boy, you have a Shayna  Punim.” Translated from Yiddish to pretty face, so maybe that makes me Jewish and vulnerable to a POGROM in Queens.  You see, early in the February, like in the Jewish Russian village, I too was attacked and so was my Styrofoam house mutilated. It was gnawed at, and the interior straw tossed about. I was attacked by an animal far larger than me, possible the raccoon seen roaming in our neighborhood. I was severely wounded. I call it “animal’s inhumanity to animal.”  I tried resting in my house. When I saw Ethyl and my food, I came out sniffed the food. I was too sick and wounded to eat. I limped away. I left my safe haven now that the scent of my violator made it toxic territory. 

I left my warm cozy house, my three front steps warmed by the sunshine. I left the images in the glass front door of Ethyl and Ben. I would no longer find my terracotta dish with dried food and white polka dotted glass bowl of refreshing water waiting for breakfast and dinner. I will no longer have the occasional treats, homemade. chicken or salmon. I would not see the backyard Garden of Eden this Spring. Days and days, weeks and weeks filled me with contentment in the knowledge I belonged to someone and could trust the gentle loving and caring relationship. I had the comfort of knowing I could rest pensively thinking about the next chapter I would write in this book.

A cat’s behavior doesn’t always make sense to humans. Why leave?? Why not at least come back when you heal? Why not die where you love and were loved? I am too tired and weak to move now that the heavy rain is falling on me. Please don’t throw away my dish and bowl. Who knows?

 

Meow, meow, meow, meow!!!

Ethyl Haber

Love Poem to my Cat

 

Write a love poem to a cat

Oh, feline of grace and charm,

With fur as soft as a summer's calm,

Your eyes, like emeralds bright,

Glimmer in the morning light.

Your purring brings me peace,

And with you, all worries cease.

Your playful antics bring me joy,

And your love, I'll never destroy.

I bask in your affectionate purrs,

And with you, I feel no fears.

Your gentle touch, your warm embrace,

Fill me with a love I cannot replace.

You are more than just a pet,

You are a blessing, I'll not forget.

I am grateful for every day,

That I get to spend with you this way,

So, here's to you, my furry friend,

My love for you will never end.

I am yours, till the end of time,

My dear cat, you are simply divine.

Georgia

On Being Born

 

I gasped, suffocating from internal bile, coughing it up and then finally screaming. It was not a scream of horror but rather one of unrestrained joy, as life overcame death struggling under the worst scenario imaginable, clinging, scraping, and struggling for life, tethered to my mother as she moaned with the last breath of her life pursing her lips and imperceptibly telling me that she loved me, but that she would not be around to care for me and love me as I deserved. She poured a lifetime of love, comforting advice, inspiration and guidance telepathically into those few impassioned words, as the last breath of life drained from her body and she was gone.

            My mother was an unfortunate victim of this hellish earthquake with a huge block of cement crushing her and cheating her of motherhood, the result of a corrupt government looking the other way as construction companies bribed officials of that government cynically producing substandard buildings in this Syrian-Turkish border town, along a fault line.

I seemed to lie there in the blackness and smoke and dust entombed with the lifeless body of my mother unable to nurture or care for me. After a very long time there was a blinding light and movement. I could hear voices and I cried out in frustration and fear of not being discovered.

“The mother is dead, but the child lives!” explained the dirty grey bearded face furrowed with many lines.

“Carefully, carefully cut the cord and tie it before she is poisoned!” said a much younger, 

black bearded face.

I was carefully pulled from the rubble and wrapped in a blanket. I sit before you today twenty years later in this comfortable home of my adapted parents, clean, well dressed, healthy and educated, and very grateful that my mother’s wishes for me came true.

                                                                                                                        A Syrian Orphan

Jim / 2.2023

Remembering My Birth

 

The two month summer vacation in our cottage on the farm was almost over. My momma’s  large pickling jar sat on the warm porch. One last pickle remained in the warm brine. I looked at the floating pickle and thought back to momma’s pregnancy many years ago. That’s how I must have floated in the amniotic fluid in my mother’s belly. That fluid was my brine, my cushion. When Momma’s water broke, she knew her labor was beginning since I was her third pregnancy. “Hey momma, let’s get moving to Montefiore Hospital. PRONTO!!. It’s time to get the action going; I want out.  I’m feeling those persistent contractions. Poppa got momma, my sister Bea  and my brother Irving into his old car and we were off. Momma is moaning and groaning. She has begun trying some relaxing techniques, pant and blow, pant and blow.

She was readily settled into a room. Hey momma, start pushing to get me into the world of humans. I’m your third child, so it should be “a piece of cake.” Such carrying on; so much screaming!  Hold on momma, here comes my head, and now my body. Don’t worry momma, they know all about umbilical cords, placenta,  and such. Sure, they’ll let you hold me. I’m real cute! I’m so glad you will be breast feeding me. 

They want to know what name to write down. Ettle, that’s Yiddish for Ethel. Tell them Ethel. The person in charge of recording the name has been studying about Ethyl alcohol and spells my name ETHYL. I’ve been Ethyl with a ‘y’ ever since.

Ethyl Haber

Tabby Boy - Chapter Four

 

My Valentine

I wake up each night three times to go to the bathroom. At my age, this may not  be considered so unusual. This body need invariably spoils my sleep. But what a pleasant trip to the bathroom this evening. This time, with the outside temperature at 7 degrees, I was accompanied by the new love of my life (not my husband) Tabby Boy, my outdoor stray cat. Can you imagine, I was accompanied each time by my outdoor stray cat Tabby Boy? He proudly marched alongside me from my bedside to the shiny black and white tiled bathroom. Faithfully accompanying me three times. My soft, sweet, cuddly Valentine was there for me. 

You have to be wondering how this outdoor stray cat is indoors in my bedroom. Well, it’s a long story but I’ll tell you. Tabby Boy is writing this up as Chapter four in his book The Life and Opinions of Stray Cat Tabby Boy. You have a chance to preview a version of it here. This is his story.

It was early morning, already 7 degrees, very, very cold. The old man Ben opened the glass door to get the New York Times wrapped in blue plastic. I quickly slipped in to get out of the cold. MEOW? Where am I? MEOW? What did I do? I’ve never been here before!!! MEOW!! I raced up the blue carpeted staircase. MEOW? FRANTIC MEOW!!!! I raced on to a shiny, slippery black and white tiled floor. Where am I ?? MEOW! I raced to the left, tan carpet HELP!! I raced to the right, smooth wooden floor with large bed. MEOW!!! I want my soft green outdoor grass world. I want my crispy piles of decaying leaves.  I am so scared; I want to rest in the small space alongside a warm iron radiator (the vanity). I rested and dozed off there for a very long time until I saw the old lady Ethyl (with a “y”) getting up. I was calm and rested and trotted alongside her three times to the shiny, slippery black and white tiles.

I can assure you, this was a one-time indoor visit, a pleasant surprise in the middle of the  night . I think Tabby Boy considers me his Valentine too. 

Ethyl Haber

My Life Story - Page 1

 

I was born on a warm summer day in July, the youngest of three children. My mother was lying on a hospital bed, surrounded by my father and her closest friends. The room was filled with the sounds of beeping machines and hushed whispers, but through it all, my mother's voice stood out, clear and strong.

"It's a girl," the doctor announced, as he held me up for all to see.

"A girl?" my father repeated, a look of surprise on his face. "We were sure it was going to be a boy."

My mother chuckled, "Well, it looks like we were wrong."

As I was placed in her arms, my mother gazed down at me with a mix of love and awe. "Hello, little one," she whispered, stroking my cheek with a gentle finger. "Welcome to the world."

My father leaned in and kissed my mother on the forehead. "She's beautiful, just like her mother."

"We'll call her Amelia," my mother said, smiling. "Amelia Rose."

And with those words, I was given a name and a place in the world. I was the newest member of a family filled with love, laughter, and the occasional shouting match. And as I grew, I would come to learn that the world was a big and complicated place, but with the love of my family, I could face anything.

Georgia

"How Old...?"

 

Assignment: This week, try your hand at writing the first page of an autobiographical novel.  As you describe the circumstances of your narrator's birth, be sure to include some dialogue.

“How old were you when you were born?”

What a great conversation starter.

Bob, a close college pal used to ask that question of both friends and strangers.

What a simple question!

Think about it.

So many did.

It wasn’t a hard question, just a tricky one when you actually do take the time to really think about it, and I have often done just that. I knew when I was born that I would never be a math scholar. How did I know that? I can’t answer that.

Can anyone?

I was too busy being a super mature, premature writer.

Born in a small Long Island hamlet just a scant few miles east of the bustling metropolis of Manhattan came little Tommy M. From the dawn of his existence, little Tommy hated the term, Tommy. It would not be until his foray into finer education that the moniker, Morty would be bestowed upon this Long Island lad. He hated that at its onset, but later grew to accept this accolade borne upon him some 18 years after being born…

How old were you when you born?

The immediate reply that would often come to mind would be, zero. We start fresh with nothing more than a slate that is not so clean where the blood and umbilical and unmentionables are concerned.

Wow, now I feel woozy.

How old was I when I was born? At least nine months, I think. I’ve never heard anything otherwise. I guess falling into that safe nine-month zone category meant that I would never be remembered as anything more than a typical tot. Months would have confused me, anyway, some with thirty days and some with thirty-one. Don’t get me started on Leap Year. What is that about anyhow?

“How old were you when you were born?”

I still hear that question today as I had heard it so many yesterday’s ago, always delivered with Bob’s surreptitious smile.

“How old were you when you were born?”

What a great conversation starter!

 Tom

Feb 2023

My Favorite Literary Ghost Story

 

Yes, I have a favorite ghost story and it's "The Turn of the Screw" by Henry James. I love this story for its haunting atmosphere and the psychological suspense that keeps me on the edge. The story revolves around a young governess who is tasked with taking care of two young children in a secluded estate. But she soon begins to see ghostly apparitions that seem to be haunting the children. The governess is tormented by the ghosts and their cryptic messages, and she is determined to uncover the truth behind their haunting presence. 

What makes "The Turn of the Screw" so captivating is its ambiguity. The reader is never quite sure if the ghosts are real or if they are simply a manifestation of the governess's own fragile mind. The story's alliterative writing style adds to the eerie atmosphere and makes it even more haunting. For example, "The ghosts' ghostly glee giggled and gleamed in the governess's green eyes." 

I also admire the character development in this story, as the governess becomes more and more unstable as the story progresses. The slow build-up of tension and the eerie atmosphere make this story a true masterpiece of the ghost genre. 

Overall, "The Turn of the Screw" is one of my favorite ghost stories because of its haunting atmosphere, psychological suspense, and alliterative writing style. It is a timeless classic that will continue to terrify and captivate readers for generations to come. 

Georgia