Merry Merry FIBruary

Merry Merry FIBruary
written by Doris Orgel
illustrations by Arnold Lobel

As March blows the door closed on February, I thought it appropriate to show off my new favorite find.  At a buck seventy-five, Merry Merry FIBruary is a book full of crazy.  And it had Pippi and I in stitches all the way through to the skinny yellow pencil at the end.

Although Lobel illustrated FIBruary for its author, Doris Orgel, there is so much of Lobel in this book.  The armchair which sprouts a rosebush (Mouse Soup) would have fit neatly within the pages of FIBruary, which makes me think that Orgel could have lived happily ever after inside Lobel's brain, watching his clever images in early infancy as a sort of moving picture show.  Crazy talk, maybe.  You be the judge. 

Merry Merry FIBruary is that one magical month of the year when everything is turned on its ear, with each of the thirty days (FIBruary includes a bit of fibbing about the numbers) represented by a truly nutty scenario.  The animals at the zoo are made to wear "shoes and socks and pants and dresses - You and me, though, we go bare."  And Uncle Harry "found no reason why he should spend his whole life as a grown-up - and grew back down to babyhood."

The book even includes a mock calender for each of the four weeks.

So without further ado, here is a sampling of the happenings of the merry merry month of FIBruary.

Day First.

And one of our favorites, a day when "Giants shrink and midgets grow.  Take Fee-Fi-Fo and Tiny Tom, though which is which I do not know."

And here's Billy Frink, who "grew petunias in his bathtub and took showers in his sink."

And Pippi's ultimate fantasy, the dentist turned patient, with the girl holding the drill.

And the hands down giggle winner.  Gotta give you the verbatim words for this one.

And here it is.  The skinny yellow pencil at the end.  Nothing remarkable about its yellow pencil-ness.  But without it, my previous reference makes no sense.

 Have a merry merry last day of FIBruary!

The Man Who Lost His Head

The Man Who Lost His Head
by Claire Hutchet Bishop
illustrated by Robert McCloskey

Just when you think you know someone, really cozy up and get comfortable in a barefoot in their house sort of way, you discover a new facet that knocks your socks off . . . of your um . . . your bare feet.  Well, that didn't work out so well.

But, you know what I mean, right?  Married to your spouse for five years, and discover one day that he has to, has to put his left sock on before the right.  Or that your best friend since nursery school, hillbilly girl that she is, secretly loves to sing along with Karen Carpenter.

This was the sort of experience I had when opening this book and reading it to the kids for the first time. 

Robert McCloskey.  You know the guy, right?  Blueberries For Sal.  That sweet duck family, for Pete's sake.  Burt Dow.  All nursery familiars.  All safe.  Beautiful stories.

Then there's this guy.

The Man, as he is known throughout the story, wakes up one morning to find that he has somehow lost his head.  Literally.

And no matter how much thought he gives the matter - thought from a headless character - he can not come up with a reasonable explanation that would account for his missing noggin. 

Now, his hands remembered something soft and silky.
That was his pig.
And his feet remembered a long tiring walk.
That was the way to the fair.

So the Man resolves to retrace his steps.  But first he must freshen up a bit.

Man, this just gets stranger and stranger.  Then he decides he can't possibly go out in public as a headless fellow, so to the garden patch he goes to fashion a head from a pumpkin.  Which is a total failure.  So a parsnip would be a better fit, he believes.

Nah, that's not working so well either.  So he carves a stump into a wooden head, and sets off on his peculiar quest.

And just when you think things can't get any stranger, the Man meets the Boy,

who offers to help the Man find his head. 

And from there the story swerves off the road, straight into Bizarre.

But for all it's wonkiness, the book is truly great.  The story is as fresh and unpredictable as no doubt it was at it's birth in 1942.  And the wordplay and rich vocabulary alone are worth the price of the book. 

So, I'll leave you with this little diddy.

BouliboulibouliboulibouliBANG!

Sylvester, The Mouse with the Musical Ear

Sylvester, The Mouse with the Musical Ear
by Adelaide Holl
illustrated by N.M. Bodecker
out of print, available here

I picked this up at my favorite book store last night and read it to my sick little boy this morning.  And since I'm pretty busy today, wiping noses, playing with cars and trains, and trying to keep Tommy from flying Superman style off of the furniture, I'll keep this brief, mostly pictures with a quick synopsis.

Meet Sylvester.

Sylvester, a brown country mouse, lives in a grassy meadow and spends his days listeing to the lovely sounds all about him.

But his peaceful conservatory is soon invaded by sprawling suburbia, television antennas marching into the horizon.  Sylvester becomes just another city mouse, mired in a grimy world bereft of beauty.

But then chance brings him by a music store, and his days are once again filled with music, although of a different sort.  He makes his home in the hollow of a guitar, sleeping by day, making music by night.

One night, the store owner hears the guitar, playing on its own, or so it seems, Sylvester secreted in the shadows.

Word of the magical guitar travels far and wide, and one day Tex, a dusty cowboy hears of the guitar and travels a long, long way to find it.

He buys the enchanted instrument and before long, Tex, the guitar, and sleeping Sylvester leave the city behind.  When night falls, Tex settles among the prairie grass, gazing at the stars.

Sylvester awakens to the lost but not forgotten sounds of the country side, and joins in with his plinking on the guitar.  Tex and Sylvester travel far and wide together, but no matter where their travels take them, they always have their music.

Mop Top

Mop Top
by Don Freeman
In print and available here

Yesterday Tommy was playing on the floor with his Imaginext Pirate Cave and narrating a story to himself.  I caught snatches of his play, simply adorable and entirely his own brand.  Then I heard him say, "Batman climbs up the chinaberry tree." 

I love when my kids surprise me with their vocabulary.  I remember when Pippi was two and a half she used the word jaunty in proper context.  From a book we'd read, of course.

So I asked, "Tommy, how do you know about the chinaberry tree?"

Pippi, always the girl with the answers, said without even a thinking pause, "It's from Mop Top."  Which of course prompted an impromptu story time.

Although Mop Top is not my absolute favorite Don Freeman title, not even in the top three, I do love this sweet book.  Probably because it reminds me so much of Tommy, who loves to wear his cowboy boots and hates having his hair cut.

Meet Moppy,

a shaggy redhead who lives for playtime and loves to swing from branch to branch in his very own chinaberry tree.  (An uncanny memory my girl has.)  One day his mother calls him down from his tree and gives him some money and sends him off to see Mister Barberoli, the local barber, so that he will look nice and neat for his birthday party.

Don Freeman had a great ear for words.  I just love reading this page aloud.

"Here's some money, sonny," his mother said.  "'I've just called Mister Barberoli, and he says he'll be ready for you at four o'clock sharp.  It's a little after half-past three now, so let's see you hippity-hop to the barbershop all by yourself."

So Moppy pockets the money and beats it to the end of the street and turns the corner before he realizes what his mother has sent him to do.  Get a hair cut.  He grumbles all the way to the town square where he meets with a frilly woolly puppy outside the candy store.

"What a silly-looking pup you are! said Moppy as he bent down and tried to find the pup's eyes.  "You're the one who needs a haircut, not me!"

Not long after, Moppy shuffles by Mr. Lawson mowing his lawn, who sports a handkerchief tucked into his back pocket and a tobaccy pipe hanging from his mouth.

"That lawn is what needs a haircut, not me!" said Moppy.

Then Moppy clippety-clops by a man lopping branches off a "low, droopy tree."

"You could do with a few snips of these snippers, skipper!"

At last Moppy makes it to the barber shop, but in one last ditch attempt to save his mane, he darts into the grocery store next door, where he hides behind a mop and broom display.

See that woman there in the background?  Well she's looking for a mop.  A nice sturdy one, with which to mop her kitchen floor.  And you can imagine what happens next. 

Well at least I hope you can, because I'm not telling. 

You'll just have to hippity-hop to your favorite local book shop to find out.

Fish Head

Fish Head
written by Jean Fritz
illustrated by Marc Simont
Out of print, but available here

Meet Fish Head, also known as Long-Tailed Liver Loving Thief, also known as Public Nuisance and Dirty Wharf Cat.

And yes, that is a nasty, stringy fish head hanging from his mouth.  Hence, the moniker.  Poor ol' alley cat.  With nowhere to lay his head, no one to scratch his back, or feed him kibble, Fish Head lives by his wits, which often leads to thievery and ratting.  But he doesn't know he's poor.  He's a proud cat.

He does just what he likes to do,
just when he likes to,
and just how he likes to do it.
He is that kind of cat.

My poor girl, cat lover and bundle of raw emotions, had a hard time with the beginning of this book.  Most of her favorite cat stories feature well fed house kitties.  Or cats of a fantastic sort, who act and think as people, sporting red scarves and dancing Irish jigs.  Even The Outside Cat seems a bit clean, sanitized even.  But not Fish Head.  The desperate sort of scrapping life of an alley cat is the fare in this salty tale by Jean Fritz, an author most well known for her biographies of early American historical figures.

As the story goes,

One drizzly Saturday night Fish Head was doing what he liked most of all to do.  He was chasing a rat.  A fat grandfather rat who knew the waterfront as well as Fish Head did.

In the back alleys they started.  They raced through the shadows, flung themselves around corners, and skidded through doorways.  Up fire escapes and over roof tops.  Tail streaming and ears flattened, Fish Head was only two tail lengths behind when they reached the Waterfront Market.

The chase takes them into the Waterfront Market with it's shelves of molasses and treacle, where Fish Head finds Grandfather Rat resting atop a barrel.



But rest long, Rat does not.  With Fish Head close at his heals, Rat skitters down, races across shelves and over bins, with Fish Head in hot pursuit.  What a mess they make of the market!  And in the end, Grandfather Rat makes his getaway, slipping away into the salty night.

And Fish Head finds himself

on a boat.

He was still there when the funny chug-chugging started but he was too tired to notice.

Slap, slap, slap.

Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh.

Putt-putt-putt.  The boat was moving!

Thus begins Fish Head's life at sea.  After a rollicking, ankle-swiping cat fight, Fish Head is accepted on board by the likes of Carrots and Kegs, two sailors on the vessel.  And once Fish Head gets his sea legs, he becomes as comfy at sea as a peg-leg pirate, spending his days catching flying fish and lolling on deck in the sun. 

Ah, the life!  But after a while, Fish Head grows restless, homesick for the waterfront on Clambake Island.  After watching the crew go ashore on island after island, Fish Head begins to wonder if he'll ever again chase rats through the wharf.

Until one day, there in the distance . . . an island. 

Clambake Island.

Home.

But after his maiden sea voyage, how will Fish Head cope with life as a once again homeless landlubber?

Little Red Riding Hood

Little Red Riding Hood
Retold and illustrated by Trina Schart Hyman
In print and available here

"Please, Grandmother, why do you have such big, sharp teeth?"
"Those are to eat you up with, my dear!"

Words such a part of our literary culture, that everyone knows the reference, or at least everyone of a certain age.  But can you remember the delicious fear, the creeping thrill spider walking up your spine upon the first dry rasping of those words?

Just a few days ago, I read the story of the red hooded lass to my three year old Tommy for the first time.  And by the time the wolf leapt at poor Red, Tommy was hiding behind my back, peeping over my shoulder, eyes wide as milk saucers. 

And because nursery tales and their darker kin, fairy tales, become such an indelible part of a child's garden of ideas, I believe that such books should be chosen with special care.  How many of you can remember the first time you felt Red's plight?  Saw the Horse's bloody head hanging over the gate in Goose Girl?  Cringed at the heartless words of Hansel and Gretel's stepmother? 

I can remember very few picture books from my childhood, but I do remember finding an illustrated edition of The Goose Girl.  Her long loose locks, white blonde like cornsilk, spilling over a white handkerchief, the red bloom of blood spreading outward, with the girl's white horse filling the background.  So much white in that picture.  The effect was chilling.  But most fairy tales are a blank in my mind.  I know the stories, the words, but there are very few images.

Fairy tales are some of the most exhausted stories.  Exhausted by retellers and illustrators.  It's like those old songs that every Tom, Dick, and Harry wants to cover.  Flipping through the Fairy Tale collection at book stores, I'm almost nauseated by the cheap, glittery renderings by Publishers, or Editors with no named illustrators. 

Then there is the humorous collection, illustrated and retold by the likes of James Marshall.  The tales become silly and frivolous, lacking all of the dark bite of the originals.  I don't think there is anything inherently wrong with these retellings.  But I think they should be reserved for an older set of children - those who have already been introduced to, and grown to love, renderings faithful to the originals.

But so many parents - and educators - choose the sanitized or silly stories, so as not to frighten the child.  Why not just wait until the child is old enough to be delighted by that delicious fear? 

What about you?

What is your favorite fairy tale?  And is there a particular picture book that haunts you from that long ago nursery reading? 

Please, do tell.