orthodontist's waiting room & the story behind "Earthquake at Dawn"

Having braces at age 40 was a bummer, but Dr. Neufeld's waiting room made all those months worthwhile: he had great magazines! People, US Weekly, and home improvement stuff. One morning before my appointment, I became engrossed in a National Geographic article about the San Francisco earthquake of 1906. One of the black-and-white photos mesmerized me.

It showed a team of beautiful horses that had been killed by falling bricks, their wagon covered in debris. I'd grown up in California, but earthquake reports had always been sanitized, meaning children and animals didn't die. Certainly not pretty horses delivering milk for breakfast. Another photo was of 22-year old Edith Irvine, whose camera captured this and other powerful images from that terrible morning of April 18th.

The magazine also printed --for the first time -- excerpts from a 33-page letter written by another young woman who survived the earthquake, Mary Exa Campbell. She described looters being shot, the fires, and babies being born in the park, including triplets. By the time I was reclined in the dental chair, a story was whizzing through my brain. At home, I called National Geographic. They gave me phone numbers of Edith's nephew, Jim Irvine, and Mary Exa's relatives who graciously sent me her letter and a 1st person account by Jack London.

I was delirious with story-itis -- can that be a word? -- and couldn't wait to call my editor at Harcourt, Karen Grove. A tale to tell is the most exciting moment for a writer, especially with true-life characters and original source documents; yikes, it was fun. Jim Irvine drove to my house in Redlands, with old photos and letters -- in the 1800s his family had owned the great sheep ranch which eventually became one of the largest cities in California: Irvine.

The original cover of Earthquake at Dawn (Great Episodes)shows Edith Irvine with the horses in the background [ABOVE], and several of her photos are inside the book. I was thrilled when the Commonwealth Club of California honored it with the Silver Award for Juvenile Fiction in 1992.

a scary old house & the haunting of hillside school

The old house was just uphill from the ocean in Manhattan Beach. As kids, we'd pass it on our walks to Becker's Bakery where we loaded up on sugar cookies, two for a nickel, then would run out to the end of the pier and back. On our way home we'd stop in front of the house. The place was scary: weeds in the sidewalk, windows boarded up. We dared each other to peek through the cracks. Once we heard a frightful moan and saw a figure creeping around inside, or at least we thought we did, so we raced away screaming.

The idea of an old mansion where strange things happen stayed with me through the years and inspired The Haunting of Hillside School. It's #4 in the Cabin Creek series where the cousins try to solve the mysterious music and a face at the window. My editor Kristin Earhart picked the name Hillside School, and it turns out practically every town in America has one by that name. 

[PHOTO ABOVE]: In 1963 I convinced my friends Chris and Martha to pose by the broken door so I could take their picture. We were in 7th grade. The image is too small to see our little paper bags from Becker's Bakery.

a real mystery in our living room & the secret of the junkyard shadow

One December night long ago, my little brother and I woke to a clunk and clanging. We lived at the beach and from our open bedroom window could hear the familiar sounds of the surf and foghorn, but this noise was new. Maybe Santa had come early! It was almost Christmas. Our parents were asleep, apparently not aware of the commotion. We crept out to the living room to investigate, leaving our sister safe in her crib.

Santa had been there! But instead of toys he had left behind a bunch of black boxes in various shapes. We opened the lids, astonished to find a shiny musical instrument in each box, nestled in blue velvet. There was a trumpet, a trombone, flute, clarinet, and a saxophone. We bumped into some brass cymbals, which finally roused the household.

I don't remember my parents' reaction except that they called the police. After all, a stranger had broken into our home!

This curious event from my childhood inspired The Secret of the Junkyard Shadow. In this Cabin Creek adventure, folks are perplexed about broken items showing up on their porches in good repair. It takes much sleuthing for the cousins to solve this mystery, but a lot of nice things happen along the way.

Back to our living room. It turned out that a musician from a beach club had volunteered to deliver all the instruments to a friend's home. It was late and dark and he was on the wrong street. So when he found the house with the porch light on and the front door unlocked, he figured he'd found the right place. 

p.s. I've been accused of stretching the truth to have fun with a story, but not here. Yesterday I verified this one with my mom while we were drinking coffee and playing Bananagrams. You can ask her :)

our 1st indepence day, philadelphia 1776

On a hot and humid July 4th, 1776, a horseman brought worrisome news to Philadelphia: ships carrying 10,000 British soldiers had landed in New York. Redcoats were now camped on Staten Island, just one day's ride by horseback. Meanwhile, a printer named John Dunlap worked through the night making copies of the Americans' letter to King George III, their declaration of independence from England.

In Five Smooth Stones: Hope's Revolutionary War Diary,  nine-year-old Hope and her mother sit in their garden, in the shade of their tall brick house. They read this letter to each other, which calls King George cruel and unfit to be the ruler of a free people. "Our country has a new name," Hope writes in her diary, "the United States of America. No longer will we call ourselves an English colony."

It took days for this news to reach every farm and village, but soon patriots were ringing bells from all the church steeples. They were reading the Declaration of Independence to one another, from courthouse steps and from the saddles of express riders stopping along dirt roads. With the exception of Loyalists, Americans were jubilant. They blasted cannons and tore down the royal flags of England, setting them on fire, and destroyed statues of King George. Blacksmiths carted away the chunks of iron to melt down for bullets to use against the enemy: This war for independence would continue until 1781.

Hope memorizes the words treasured by so many of us: "We hold these truths to be self-evident. All men are created equal. Their Creator gives them certain rights. Among these rights are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness."      Happy Independence Day, everyone!!

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?