catalina island & my darlin' clementine

In the summer after 6th grade my family and I took the ferry from Long Beach, California, 26 miles across the channel to Catalina Island. Destination: Girl Scout camp at the beautiful Emerald Bay. We unloaded my sleeping bag then picknicked on oranges and peanut butter sandwiches before I waved them good-bye.

This photo above shows me in my uniform ready for the nightly campfire of driftwood. I loved these sunsets on the beach: scarfing gooey s'mores and belting out folksongs with my new best friends. One of my favorites was "Oh My Darling Clementine!", a strangely sad tune. The verse that got me was Ruby lips above the water, blowing bubbles soft and fine, but alas I was no swimmer so I lost my Clementine. The zinger was the last one: How I missed her! How I missed her, how I missed my Clementine, but I kissed her little sister, I forgot my Clementine. WHAT!? Who was this cad that would kiss his dead girlfriend's sister? And did Clementine really drown? I wanted to know.

So a few years ago when my publisher at the time, Jean Feiwel, suggested I write a novel based on this ballad I was raring to go. I set the story in 1866 in the fictional Nugget, based on the wild mining town of Idaho City which is just up the mountain from my home in Boise. It was a blast pondering the life of 16-year old Clementine and mixing in some mystery and romance. My editor at Holiday House, Leanna Petronella, helped me shape the adventure and we titled it My Darlin' Clementine.

A happy postcript: The Idaho Commission for Libraries has selected Clementine as Idaho's book to be featured in the Pavilion of States on the Mall at the National Book Festival in Washington, D.C. September 25, 2010. I'm thrilled and honored by this recognition. And it all began at Girl Scout camp!

california beach girls & bronte's book club

In 1960, in California, a few of us neighborhood kids started the Manhattan Beach 4th Street Book and Snack Club. That wasn't its official name, but that's how we thought of it. We were nine years old. With younger siblings tagging along, we rode our bikes to the pier then up the hill to the library where whispering--quiet whispering--was strictly enforced. There we roamed the stacks until we each found a book to check out, its plastic cover then crackling against our handlebars as we rode home, fast, because of the treats that awaited us. It was the best part of the club, eating our snacks while looking out at the ocean. Though we never actually discussed the stories we read, we sure had fun.

That year Island of the Blue Dolphins by Scott O'Dell was published. I fell in love with the Indian girl Karana, who had been abandoned on San Nicholas Island in the 1830s. Based on a true story, it sparked my imagination because the Channel Islands were practically out our front door. When it wasn't foggy we could see the purple hump of Catalina, 26 miles out; further southwest was San Nicholas where the real Juana Maria had lived for 18 years. How I wanted to canoe there with my friends and live as she had with her dog and wild birds.

Fast forward to being a grownup. I set Bronte's Book Club in the fictional Gray's Beach, a composite of all the coastal towns I had lived in. So when Bronte starts her book club as a way to make friends, she choses her favorite story: Island of the Blue Dolphins. The discussions don't go quite as planned--there's some bickering and tension--but eventually the five girls learn how to trust and to care for one another.

A dog also joins Bronte's book club. Dogs are perfect for these sorts of gatherings because they eat spilled snacks, they're good listeners, and they don't interrupt.

PHOTO: five best friends just after a swim, summer of 1964 (I'm 2nd from the left), at 4th Street in Manhattan Beach. ABOVE: This cover for Bronte's Book Club is one of my favorites because it's cheerful & fun; my editors Regina Griffin and Leanna Petronella were also cheerful and fun (and a bit sassy).

in praise of children's librarians

One of the best family vacations we had was a solid month at the Jersey shore, when the boys were 8 and 10. Our cottage was walking distance to the boardwalk and the beach, and a block from the Ocean City Free Public Library.

First thing after unpacking, we walked along the railroad tracks to town and got our library cards. One rainy afternoon I was checking out another armload of books and chatting with the children's librarian as she date-stamped our Berenstain Bears' and I-Can-Reads. Suddenly a shrill fire alarm made me jump. 

"Don't worry," she said. "It's just kids."

"Typical," I said, proud that my sons were in a corner reading. "Some parents are so irresponsible." 

The words hadn't left my mouth before two young boys flew out of a conference room at full speed. My boys. They squeezed in beside me, covering their ears from the noise. "Mom, we opened a door to go outside, and something happened. Are we in trouble?" 

Soon enough a janitor reset the alarm and all was quiet. I was mortified. My apologies to the librarian were profuse. 

Without missing a beat with her date stamp she said "My dear, what would the world be without the curiosity of little boys?" 

I stopped holding my breath. With her few words, she had told me she understood. 

The next day the sun was out so we headed to the beach with a picnic. While my husband and I spread our towels in the sand, the boys raced each other to the waves, peeling off their t-shirts as they ran. In a wild shout of abandon they threw them like frisbees to watch them land on the water. But within moments the waves had swallowed those shirts and that was the last we saw of them. 

"WHAT were you guys THINKING?" I yelled.  

"We wanted to see what would happen, Mom. We're really sorry." 

So when writing Across the Wide and Lonesome Prairie, I couldn't resist letting Benny throw his shirt in the Platte River. Readers often ask why Hattie's little brother did that because, of course, he never saw it again. I answer, "Benny just wanted to see what would happen."

What would the world be without the curiosity of little boys and patient librarians?

a sick puppy helps with a pirate story

It was raining when the boys told us our new puppy wouldn't eat his dinner or drink any water. We found him curled in the back of his dog house, eyes closed, shivering. Russell was a golden retriever. He was our family's first pet and just three months old, but already he had won our hearts.

I rushed him to the vet. A blood test revealed he had a virus of the digestive system, Parvo, often fatal to young puppies. When told that Russell might not survive the night, I held my breath until I ran out to the car then burst into tears.

Glad that the boys were at home with their dad, I lay my head on the steering wheel and cried. "I hate Parvo," I said. "Parvo is terrible." Hmm. I sat up. The word had a certain ring to it. Said it aloud several times. It could be a name for a bad guy, say, a terrible no good mean ugly pirate.

I drove home in the rain, worried for Russell but now eager to reach my desk. At the time I was writing a novel for Scholastic: The Stowaway: A Tale of California Pirates. It was based on the true story of the French privateer Hyppolyte de Bouchard, who raided the California coast in 1818. He was the cruel captain of the 42-gun frigate, Argentina. I'd been trying to come up with a name for one of his swarthy crew members. Nothing seemed to fit until that trip to the vet.

So in the story Parvo met an untimely end, but back in the real world our sick puppy survived. Russell was to be our family's gallant companion for 13 1/2 years; there's even a photo of the two of us on The Stowaway's original cover from 1995. What a good friend he was.

PHOTOS: [left] Russell, age 13, inspecting our tomato garden; [above] cover of The Stowaway: A Tale of California Pirates, edited by my favorite pirate editor Regina Griffin.

tom sawyer's island & the secret of robber's cave

Disneyland in the late 50s and 60s was paradise. No crowds or lines during weekdays. My siblings and I ran amok in Frontier Land and hid from Captain Hook's pirate ship as it circled the lagoon. We caught real fish from Tom Sawyer's dock with bamboo poles & string--a photo in our family album is proof!

Lucky for us, our parents believed a well-rounded education meant skipping school now and then, for a day of playing make-believe. They dressed us in red sweaters so they could spot us from a distance and packed a sensible lunch of peanut butter on whole wheat with apples and a thermos of milk. Anaheim was a short drive from Manhattan Beach in our '55 Mercury, so there was only minor pinching and pummeling in the back seat. By the time we saw the Matterhorn from the highway, then Sleeping Beauty's castle as we pulled into the parking lot, we were ready to explode. 

What a blast! This photo above shows me at age ten, in my party shoes and red-plaid skirt [which matched our Thermos], camera bag over my shoulder, entering a cave on Tom Sawyer's Island. My brother, sister and I crept through the caverns and popped out from dark corners to scare each other. We jumped on the swinging bridge with delighted terror, watching for crocodiles in the river. 

Never did I dream that as a grown-up I'd be writing stories for children based on our fantasies at Disneyland. My first Cabin Creek Mystery: The Secret of Robber's Cave is about young siblings exploring just such an island and cave [cover above]. I love my parents for encouraging us to play and pretend.

When our sons were in 1st & 3rd grades, I told their teacher they wouldn't be in school the following day because we were going to Disneyland. "Wonderful!" she said. "Never let school get in the way of an education."

So the tradition continues. Thanks, Mom and Dad. And thank you, Mrs. Kimm, from Redlands Christian School.

a scary chairlift ride & the blizzard on blue mountain

Some scary things from childhood stay with you your whole life.

On one vacation in the 60s, my family skied in Sun Valley, Idaho. My little sister and I were on a chair lift half-way up Dollar Mountain when the girl in the chair ahead of ours, leaned way forward, as if trying to fix her safety strap. The next instant, she FELL 20? 30? feet, landing in a mangled sprawl on the slope. I have a vague memory of seeing blood and hearing her scream in agony, but maybe I'm making that part up. In any event, we heard later that she broke both her legs, and that pretty much cemented my fear of heights.

But why waste a terrifying experience! I drummed it up for The Blizzard on Blue Mountain, #5 in the Cabin Creek Mystery series. If you notice the cover [upper right], there's a broken chair lift. In the story Claire and her friend Sophie find themselves on the damaged chair, not realizing the danger. They hang on for their lives, their snowboards weighing them down. Their fright is what I imagined that girl on Dollar Mountain must have felt so many years ago.

PHOTO [upper left]: my brother and I getting ready to hit the slopes in Snow Valley, California. Check out our chic pants & boots.

40 eggs for George Washington's cake

I love wandering around historical sites when planning a story for children -- from ghost towns in the West to the tenements of New York City's lower Eastside. Rangers have sublime details, such as how to load cannons or what happens when a great white shark rams a row boat.

But some of the best stuff is in the gift shops. When researching the Revolutionary War, I bought a quill pen and ink jug, an American flag with thirteen stars, and fife and drum music from Colonial Williamsburg -- I love a patriotic march! These trinkets and music inspire me when I finally sit down to write. At the cash register in a Pennsylvania store, I found a recipe printed by the Women's Committee of the Valley Forge Historical Society: Martha Washington's Great Cake.

I have trouble following recipes, but this one seemed dangerously simple:
40 eggs
4 pounds butter
4 pounds sugar powdered
5 pounds flour
5 pounds fruit
mace & nutmeg
wine & some fresh brandy

Wait! 40 eggs, really? I checked with the historical society and was told that in Martha's day these were "pullet eggs", about the size of a child's thumb. I didn't dare try the recipe myself, but thought perhaps Abigail could help Mrs. Washington in The Winter of Red Snow.

So in the story, Abby and her sister Elisabeth visit neighbors asking for eggs while Papa waits in the wagon with a crate of wood ashes in which to carry them. The next day -- February 22, 1778 -- is General George Washington's 46th birthday. Not only does he have a very fine cake, it is recorded that he was serenaded by an artillery band with drums and fifes. Some say this was the first public celebration of his birthday.

The moral of the story is to go shopping!