Last Saturday, as I wandered through J.C. Penney, I spied the real Santa Claus. Well, he looked like a human-sized version of the old elf. He had white hair, a lovely white beard, and a round belly. After all, no one has ever seen a skinny Santa.
I was not the only person who spotted the gentleman. A little girl, about 6 years old, and her mother approached him.
“My daughter said that the Santa in the mall is cheesy. And his beard is fake. She wants to know if you are the real Santa Claus."
The man smiled down at the girl. “I am,” he answered, “but I have a lot of helpers. Have you been good this year?”
The girl solemnly nodded her head.
“That’s good. You have a merry Christmas.”
I am sure he smiled again. Maybe he winked and nodded. And away he went, strolling through the store, St. Nick in blue jeans and a navy jacket. The girl and her mother melted into the crowd of shoppers.
And I stood in the sweater section, grinning and thinking, “Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus!*”
[*Francis P. Church, New York Sun, Sept. 21, 1897.]
Bishop McNamara is a Catholic, college-prep high school in Kankakee, IL. The library blog introduces new books, book reviews, book trailers, fun and interesting articles, original writing, and school and community news.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Clause
Eight-year-old Virginia O'Hanlon wrote a letter to the editor of New York's "Sun," and the quick response was printed as an unsigned editorial Sept. 21, 1897. The work of veteran newsman Francis Pharcellus Church has since become history's most reprinted newspaper editorial, appearing in part or whole in dozens of languages in books, movies, and other editorials, and on posters and stamps.
"DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old.
"Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.
"Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.'
"Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?
"VIRGINIA O'HANLON.
"115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET."
VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except [what] they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.
Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.
Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.
You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.
No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.
[from http://www.newseum.org/yesvirginia/]
"DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old.
"Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.
"Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.'
"Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?
"VIRGINIA O'HANLON.
"115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET."
VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except [what] they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.
Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.
Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.
You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.
No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.
[from http://www.newseum.org/yesvirginia/]
Monday, December 19, 2011
Trailers and Quotes
“Say that I starved, that I was lost and weary,
that I was burned and blinded by the desert sun,
footsore, thirsty, sick with strange diseases,
lonely and wet and cold, but that I kept my dream!” Everett Ruess
Book Trailer : The Underdogs / Mike Lupica
Book Trailer : Scorpio races / Maggie Stiefvater
Fun Fact Friday discussion of Hunted / Adam Slater
Book discussion – The back door of midnight / Elizabeth Chandler
Excerpt from "The Lost Songs"
Lutie Painter had never skipped school before. . . On the phone, Saravette's voice had been thready and weak, as if she were ill. But one sentence had been strong and sharp. "You have to know," said Saravette suddenly.. .
The bus approached a swell of tall office buildings, and most of the remaining passengers got off. The strangers had been a comfort. Now Lutie's courage collapsed. So did the city.
And then she saw Saravette leaning against a telephone pole.
Lutie signaled for a stop. The brakes on the bus squealed. Lutie tottered down the long empty aisle. The driver raised his eyebrows and nodded toward the neighborhood. "You know what you're doing?"
Lutie had no idea what she was doing.
"This is not a good place," said the driver, which was certainly true.
Lutie pointed at Saravette. "She's waiting for me."
The driver took in the sight of Saravette. Thirty years old, looked eighty. Sunken cheeks from lost teeth. Tattoos and piercings no longer brave and sassy, but pitiful. Wearing two sweaters on an already hot morning. Both dirty.
My mother, thought Lutie.
Impossible. The wreck on the sidewalk could not be related to her.
Carefully, as if the steps were made of glass, Lutie got off the bus. Every other time, the instant his passenger's foot hit the pavement, the driver's foot hit the accelerator. This time he waited and kept the door open. Lutie loved him for that. She forced herself to walk over to Saravette, who gave her a light smelly hug. Lutie cringed.
Once upon a time, Saravette had led Lutie's life. How did you get here from there? Lutie wanted to scream at her. Why didn't you just go home again? What keeps you in this horrible place?
Saravette lit a cigarette. The smoke in her lungs seemed to calm her. The next sentence was rational. "You still going to Miss Veola's church?"
"Yes," said Lutie.
"She still comes to find me sometimes," said Saravette. "I'm one of her lost ones," said Saravette proudly. "I surely am. Miss Veola's still preaching at me. There's a lot to preach about too. By now," said Saravette, laughing, "I've broken all the commandments."
She's using the Ten Commandments as a metaphor, Lutie told herself. Saravette's probably forgotten what the Ten Commandments even are.
Saravette put out her cigarette and immediately lit it again. For the first time, her eyes met Lutie's and stayed focused. "You have to know something," she said quietly. It was not the voice of a crazy person to a stranger. It was the voice of a mother to her daughter.
Panic filled Lutie Painter.
"I skipped school," Lutie said loudly. "What did you need to tell me? Why did you beg me to come?"
Saravette turned away. She still had a beautiful profile.
"Give me a minute," whispered Saravette. "Then I'll be ready." She signaled one of the scary guys at the counter. The man--who looked hardly older than Lutie--hooked his thumbs in his sweatpants and sauntered over, smirking.
She's going to buy drugs, thought Lutie. Right now. With me sitting here.
Saravette's breathing become shallow and quick. Her eyes lit up. The man-boy sat down at the table with them. One hundred percent of Saravette's attention was on him.
She's already forgotten what she said, thought Lutie. What's murder, after all? Just one in a list of ten. Whatever.
Lutie was afraid to get up from the table, afraid to walk out of the coffee shop, let alone walk back to the bus stop. She picked up the little piece of paper on which their tab was scribbled and went over to the woman at the register.
The woman took the money with a sort of fury and glared at Lutie. "How you getting home, girl?"
"Bus," whispered Lutie.
"I'm going with you."
The woman marched Lutie out of the coffee shop. Saravette did not call to her and Lutie did not say good-bye. They walked past people Lutie did not want to know better, crossed the main street in the middle of the block and stood under the little sign for the bus stop.
The bus appeared almost immediately, which was a good thing. Lutie's knees were shaking and her heart was falling out. Her mother might be a murderer.
"Thank you," whispered Lutie.
"Don't cry, honey," said the woman. "And don't come back."
[Excerpts from p. 3-10 of The Lost Songs / Caroline Cooney]
Friday, December 16, 2011
Notice to Students
All overdue fines must be paid before taking final exams.
All books currently checked out have been renewed with a due date of January 4, 2012.
All books currently checked out have been renewed with a due date of January 4, 2012.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Adventure calls!
Pelham Bay Park, New York
The Movie - coming soon!
Jim Davidson - Survival on Mt. Ranier
"Everett Ruess" by Dave Alvin [ballad; beautiful black and white photos]
"Time to Live" [filmed in the Utah desert where Ruess disdappeared. Beautiful!]
2004 Expedition footage
Monday, December 12, 2011
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Jitters and Butterflies
A little anxiety is good for you. It can help you focus and remember material for a test, provide extra energy for a performance. But too much anxiety can hinder performance.
Read "The Two Faces of Anxiety" in the December 5 issue of TIME Magazine.
Time Magazine teaser
Read "The Two Faces of Anxiety" in the December 5 issue of TIME Magazine.
Time Magazine teaser
The miracle of the King James Bible
The Bible of King James
". . . the King James Bible has sewn itself into the fabric of the language. . .
[Expressions such as]the apple of my eye; old as the hills; at death's door; at our wits' end; baptism of fire; bite the dust; the blind leading the blind; casting peals before swine. . . are the King James Bible speaking through us. . . ."
Read the entire article (and don't miss the gorgeous photos).
[December issue of National Geographic ; p. 43]
". . . the King James Bible has sewn itself into the fabric of the language. . .
[Expressions such as]the apple of my eye; old as the hills; at death's door; at our wits' end; baptism of fire; bite the dust; the blind leading the blind; casting peals before swine. . . are the King James Bible speaking through us. . . ."
Read the entire article (and don't miss the gorgeous photos).
[December issue of National Geographic ; p. 43]
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
National Book Awards - 2011
Fiction: Jesmyn Ward, Salvage the bones
A widower and his four children living in rural Mississippi face Hurricane Katrina.
Nonfiction: Stephen Greenblatt, The Swerve: How the World Became Modern
How the salvage and dissemination of Lucretius’ philosophical epic, “On the nature of things,” sparked the Renaissance.
Young People’s Literature : Thanhha Lai, Inside Out & Back Again
The story of a young Vietnamese refugee as she struggles to adjust to life in America.
Poetry: Nikky Finney, Head Off & Split
Poetry about the “emblematic figures and events in African American life. . . from Rosa Parks to Condoleezze Rice to a woman on a rooftop during Hurricane Katrina. . . . [Her poems] ask us to be mindful of what we fraction, fragment, cut off, dice, dishonor, or throw away. . .” (Amazon.com ; 11/17/11)
Lifetime Achievement Award:
Poet John Ashbery, 84, received the Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters.
Literarian Award for Outstanding Service to the American Literary Community:
Mitchell Kaplan, a bookstore owner in Florida and a driving force behind the East Coast's largest literary festival, the Miami Book Fair International.
(from http://www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/nation/la-na-book-awards-20111117,0,292135.story)
A widower and his four children living in rural Mississippi face Hurricane Katrina.
Nonfiction: Stephen Greenblatt, The Swerve: How the World Became Modern
How the salvage and dissemination of Lucretius’ philosophical epic, “On the nature of things,” sparked the Renaissance.
Young People’s Literature : Thanhha Lai, Inside Out & Back Again
The story of a young Vietnamese refugee as she struggles to adjust to life in America.
Poetry: Nikky Finney, Head Off & Split
Poetry about the “emblematic figures and events in African American life. . . from Rosa Parks to Condoleezze Rice to a woman on a rooftop during Hurricane Katrina. . . . [Her poems] ask us to be mindful of what we fraction, fragment, cut off, dice, dishonor, or throw away. . .” (Amazon.com ; 11/17/11)
Lifetime Achievement Award:
Poet John Ashbery, 84, received the Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters.
Literarian Award for Outstanding Service to the American Literary Community:
Mitchell Kaplan, a bookstore owner in Florida and a driving force behind the East Coast's largest literary festival, the Miami Book Fair International.
(from http://www.latimes.com/news/nationworld/nation/la-na-book-awards-20111117,0,292135.story)
Happy Thanksgiving
GRATEFULNESSE
~ George Herbert (1593- 1633)
Thou that hast given so much to me,
Give one thing more, a grateful heart.
See how thy beggar works on thee
By art.
He makes thy gifts occasion more,
And says, If he in this be crossed,
All thou hast given him heretofore
Is lost.
But thou didst reckon, when at first
Thy word our hearts and hands did crave,
What it would come to at the worst
To save.
Perpetual knockings at thy door,
Tears sullying thy transparent rooms,
Gift upon gift, much would have more,
And comes.
This not withstanding, thou wenst on,
And didst allow us all our noise:
Nay thou hast made a sigh and groan
Thy joys.
Not that thou hast not still above
Much better tunes, than groans can make;
But that these country-airs thy love
Did take.
Wherefore I cry, and cry again;
And in no quiet canst thou be,
Till I a thankful heart obtain
Of thee:
Not thankful, when it pleaseth me;
As if thy blessings had spare days:
But such a heart, whose pulse may be
Thy praise.
~ George Herbert (1593- 1633)
Thou that hast given so much to me,
Give one thing more, a grateful heart.
See how thy beggar works on thee
By art.
He makes thy gifts occasion more,
And says, If he in this be crossed,
All thou hast given him heretofore
Is lost.
But thou didst reckon, when at first
Thy word our hearts and hands did crave,
What it would come to at the worst
To save.
Perpetual knockings at thy door,
Tears sullying thy transparent rooms,
Gift upon gift, much would have more,
And comes.
This not withstanding, thou wenst on,
And didst allow us all our noise:
Nay thou hast made a sigh and groan
Thy joys.
Not that thou hast not still above
Much better tunes, than groans can make;
But that these country-airs thy love
Did take.
Wherefore I cry, and cry again;
And in no quiet canst thou be,
Till I a thankful heart obtain
Of thee:
Not thankful, when it pleaseth me;
As if thy blessings had spare days:
But such a heart, whose pulse may be
Thy praise.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Journal Highlights
In the newest issue of The Atlantic
"The Glory of Oprah"
"The ally from hell." America's Pakistan problem
"The Greatest Gossip." An article about John Updike.
"The Rockford Style." Why James Garner is star.
And in Forbes
"The world's 70 most powerful people"
"The Glory of Oprah"
"The ally from hell." America's Pakistan problem
"The Greatest Gossip." An article about John Updike.
"The Rockford Style." Why James Garner is star.
And in Forbes
"The world's 70 most powerful people"
Happy Veteran's Day
"This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he today that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
Make him a member of the gentry, even if he is a commoner.
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day."
[Act IV, scene 3, Henry V /Shakespeare]
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Thursday Book Trailers
“Claire scrambled to pick up her cell phone. . . . [Then] she noticed something sticky on her hand. Blood. . . . She could see now that she had tripped over a person. . . She reached up to the neck to feel for a pulse. Where the neck was supposed to be, there was a space. [The wound] went on and on, until Claire realized that the head was barely attached at all, and that the puddle she was kneeling in was almost certainly not rainwater.(from p. 2-3)
Book Trailer
Book Trailer
“Uncle Spade always called it “boxing,” but what I did was fight. . . . I had gloves…, but we made more money without them. Crowds like a real knockdown show with blood and bruises.” (from the book jacket)
(I could not find a trailer, but this is a book that should be read! Read it and record a trailer.)
Cylin tells her story.
Book trailer
‘Jake!’ I screamed. Kieran spun around to face me, then back toward where Jake had been a second ago. We both shouted his name.
But he was gone.” (p. 83)
Book trailer
over. . . . He was even more certain now that his father's death was no accident - and he's starting to wonder if he can really trust his closest allies. When he learns of a secret buried within the Ix Codex, he must journey back to the secret Mexican city of Ek Naab. Shocking news awaits him about the mysterious Bracelet of Itzamna. Did Josh's dad really take it? And where is it now? Josh has no idea what's waiting for him. . . .” (http://www.joshuafiles.co.uk/ice_shock; 10/21/2011)
Book trailer
Nate and I have been together for two months, and it’s wonderful. Life is good!
Well, except for the fact that I still might be failing history.
And I no longer have a BFF.
And the assistant headmaster seems to have a vendetta against me.
And it appears that I’m being blackmailed.
Mad_mac is trying not to panic! (from the cover)
Interview with author.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Monday, October 31, 2011
Happy Halloween
The Raven (excerpts) / Edgar Allan Poe
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;
Only this, and nothing more." . . . .
Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word,
Lenore?, This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word,
"Lenore!" Merely this, and nothing more.
(from Complete stories and poems of Edgar Allan Poe, p. 756)
(from The Historian / Elizabeth Kostova)
“My dear and unfortunate successor:
It is with regret that I imagine you, whoever you are, reading the account I must put down here. The regret is partly for myself – because I will surely be at least in trouble, maybe dead, or perhaps worse, if this is in your hands. . . . (p. 5)
[And so began a young scholar’s acquaintance with the legend of Dracula. It was a legend that would haunt him – and stalk him -- for life.]
The painting was a richly hued watercolor. . . . [The artist] had caught a splotch of color that I recognized as the back of my red straw hat, with my father in blurry tan and blue just beyond. . . .But my glance at [the painting] had shown me a lone figure sitting beyond my father, a broad-shouldered, dark-headed figure, a crisp black silhouette among the cheerful colors of awning and tablecloths. That table, I recalled clearly, had been vacant all afternoon.” (p.88)
“When I was five, I would not go to bed willingly because something came into my room. This was a private matter between me and it. If I spoke of it, it would kill me.
It entered the room by flattening itself against the open door and sliding in. It was a transparent, luminous oblong. I could see the door whiten at its touch; I could see the blue wall turn pale where it raced over it, and see the maple headboard of [my sister’s] bed glow. It had two joined parts, a head and a tail, like a Chinese dragon. It found the door, wall, and headboard; and it swiped them, charging them with its luminous glance. . . .
I dared not blink or breathe; I tried to hush my whooping blood.
Every night before it got to me it gave up. . . . I heard the rising roar it made when it died or left. I still couldn’t breathe. I knew. . . it could return again alive that same night.
It was a passing car. . . . When the low roar drew nigh and the oblong slid in the door, I threw my own switches for pleasure. It’s coming after me; it’s a car. . . .”
Friday, October 28, 2011
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