Writing Is Heroic

The Trouble with Heroes – by Kate Messner
Bloomsbury Children’s Books, 2025

“I’m still sad and I’m still angry sometimes, because so much stuff isn’t fair and grief is totally on that list.” That sentence, from a letter to a dead woman whose gravestone he defaced in a moment of rage, is by Finn Connelly, a boy in middle school. His father, a New York City firefighter, survived 9/11/2001, only to succumb years later, during the Covid-19 pandemic. This novel in verse, by acclaimed author Kate Messner, is getting excellent reviews. Instead of just adding to them, I will make a few points about some questions that the book raises.

It seems counterintuitive that novels in verse should have become so popular. Reading poetry is not in the mainstream of middle-grade or young adult literature.  Having read many of these books, it has become obvious that the most attractive feature of this genre maybe its short length. Each chapter is a short poem, often, but not always, in a conversational or free verse form.  The Trouble with Heroes is not this kind of facile example, which relieves the author of the obligation to create a narrative with continuity between each part. Simply dividing sentences of prose into shorter lines does not add up to poetry.  Whenever I read an accomplished book in verse for young readers (I have, for example, reviewed other examples here and here and here), I am impressed that the author has thoughtfully crafted a distinctive voice for a range of characters, often using a variety of metric forms.

Middle-grade literature is full of angry kids. Childhood and adolescence provide many reasons to be angry, and Finn’s motives are severe enough to grant him a kind of instant empathy. Still, vandalizing someone’s grave is awful, and needs to be met with a strong response. Should that response be a punishment, an opportunity for growth, or perhaps a mere acknowledgement that being a victim does not excuse victimizing others?  Finn earns the reader’s respect, not because his life is unbearably sad, but by his honest, caustic, and introspective reactions to everything life has thrown in his path. We would still feel sympathy for what he has suffered, but that emotion alone does not make a character worth the reader’s attention for over 300 pages.

The adults in Finn’s life are imperfect, from his mother, worn down by her own burdens, to his supportive grandmother, to the teacher who expects him to turn in poems about heroes. One truth that emerges from Finn’s story is that each person is trapped in his own experience, which can never be fully shared. At the same time, Finn struggles, and learns how to accept the flawed, tarnished, human beings who care about him.  Whenever adults do their best to impart survival skills, learned from their own experiences, the author needs to weigh the validity of the child’s response.  Finn is not obligated to be fair, but Messner succeeds in creating a character whose contradictions are believable.

Finally, there are recipes in some of the poems.  I was relieved by that, because Finn enjoys food, and his family bakery plays a role in the plot.  I was afraid he was going to be thrown into mountain climbing in the Adirondacks because Edna, the woman whose grave he vandalized, had touched people’s lives through her commitment to hiking.  The outdoors are not necessarily the ideal setting for every single human being to undergo life-affirming epiphanies. How appropriate was the choice, by Edna’s daughter, to enforce hiking as an alternative to more punitive consequences? Readers may differ on the answer, but I appreciated the references to other areas of Finn’s life that did not involve potentially brutal geography, wild animals, and a mother’s totally realistic fears for her son.

Tune In

And There Was Music – written and illustrated by Marta Pantaleo, translated from the Italian by Debbie Bibo
Eerdmans Books for Young Readers, 2025

Sometimes children’s books address a question that may seem obvious. How can you explain the meaning of music, the way that people use it to communicate regardless of whether they share a language or a culture? Marta Pantaleo’s And There Was Music offers an answer through spare, poetic language, and bright imagery.  Her answer is non-academic, not definitional. Instead, she approaches the subject through examples that are diverse enough to constitute a whole. Music is shared by everyone, arises from our senses, memories, and emotions, and utilizes different instruments, as well as our voices and bodies, to make itself heard.

The book’s text is pitch perfect.  It alternates statements and questions: “When you listen to music, your heart changes rhythm. Can you hear it?  Some of the statements may seem self-evident: “If you are sad, it can make you feel better.” Still, they need to be said.  The feelings evoked by listening to, or making, music, are largely involuntary: “You don’t decide all this. It just happens.” Some statements are broader, with social and political implications: “Music is a bridge that unites us.”

A book composed of generalities about music would be less useful than this one. Readers of. Pantaleo’s work will learn about several distinctive forms of music, which are briefly explained a section at the end of the book. There are bagpipes, acoustic guitars, drums, harmonicas, and brass band.  Musicians are from India, Bali, New Orleans, the American South, and Hawaii, and, of course, from your own community.  The illustrations are boldly colored, and influenced by traditional art.  (The also remind me of Maira Kalman’s work.) They also portray activity, but caught in a specific moment, as in a snapshot.  A girl moves her hands across a piano keyboard, her eyes closed in concentration. A gospel choir captures “hope,” with their voices and hands. A girl sings in the bathtub with a brush as her microphone.  Each image is its own performance.

The design of the book and the composition of each page are also key notes to its success. Four young people surround a campfire. Each one has equal weight in contributing to the whole. A boy strums the guitar. A girl plays a flute. Two others do not play instruments, but they look up towards the sky at shooting stars and the moon.  “Music is connection,” yet, at the same, time each individual in the scene experiences it differently.

The melody of words, the harmony of voices, the choreography of figures, all make And There Was Music instrumental in helping children to understand this form of language. After you share it with them you will both continue to hear the echoes.

Music is connection.

Yom HaShoah

Beyond Courage: The Untold Story of Jewish Resistance During the Holocaust – by Doreen Rappaport
Candlewick Press, 2012

Today is Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day, on the Jewish calendar. It seems almost redundant to point out that high-quality educational materials for young readers about this tragedy are essential. Now, as fewer survivors are here to tell their stories, and as a political climate of hatred and repression escalates antisemitism, we are even more obligated to continue telling the truth about the genocide of Europe’s Jews. (I have written many reviews in this area; a few relevant interviews can be found here and here and here and here and here).

Doreen Rappaport is a distinguished author of non-fiction for children (see, for example, here and here). I recommend Beyond Courage for many reasons. It is meticulously researched, carefully and accessibly presented, and illustrated with photographs, maps, and other documents. The book does not presuppose previous knowledge, but is also written, like all her work, in an intelligent tone that never patronizes the reader. There are five sections, each one focused on the heroism of those who defied death in their acts of resistance. The chapter titles encompass different components of these acts, from motivation, “The Realization,” and “Saving the Future,” to locations, “In the Ghettos,” and “In the Camps,” to dramatic depictions of the ultimate results, “Partisan Warfare.”

The choice to write about resistance is a crucial one. First, it allows children ten and older to process one part of the Holocaust; graphic descriptions of mass murder may be inappropriate for readers this young. Most importantly, it refutes the lie that Jews went, as the expressions states, like sheep to the slaughter. Examples of the true meaning of courage are not abstractions, especially as we live in a time when alleged leaders have chosen to abdicate all responsibility to their countries and allow dictators to seize total power.

Rappaport ends the book with a poem. (There is also extensive backmatter with further information and additional resources. In the notorious concentration camp of Theresienstadt, which the Nazis designed as a “model camp” to deceive the world about the Final Solution, many inmates created paintings and literature. Franta Bass, who was eleven years old at the time, wrote:

I am a Jew and will be a Jew forever.
Even if I should die from hunger,
never will I submit.
I will always fight for my people,
on my honor.
I will never be ashamed of them,
I give my word.”

Picking Out Plants and Turning Bad Moods Around

Everyday Bean (Tiny Bean’s Big Adventures, Book #1) – written and illustrated by Stephanie Graegin
Tundra Books, 2025

There are many book series chronicling the adventures of best friends, some human and some animals. Frog and Toad, Ivy and Bean, Stella and Marigold, Mouse and Mole, Elephant and Piggie, are only some of the best-known and loved. The relationship between grandparents and their grandchildren also constitutes the core of picture and chapter books, as well as middle-grade novels (see a list of examples at the opening of this review). In Everyday Bean, Stephanie Graegin has given a little hedgehog and her grandma the same kind of symmetry as peer friendships, but simultaneously the unique empathy and protectiveness of a grandparent, and the loving trust of a grandchild. There is continuity with other books celebrating both friendship and family (such as the books by Lore Segal) but Graegin also offers a new verbal and visual picture of a unique connection.

A key element of Everyday Bean is balance. Each short chapter is an independent story, linking together in a thematic whole. Bean is tiny. Grandma is bigger, from Bean’s perspective, but still small from the viewpoint of the reader. We meet each one of them against a background of white space, emphasizing the scale of these personified animals. As they toast marshmallows together, Bean invents a story about “tiny ghosts,’ while Grandma prefers one about “giant marshmallows.” Bean reminisces about the blanket her grandmother had created for her when she was a baby. Somewhat mysteriously, the blanket kept shrinking, and ultimately became a bandana (another common kidlit theme). The reduction in size is not translated into reduced importance. While in Goldilocks and the Three Bears, each diminishing bowl of porridge, chair, or bed, is fraught with tension, the disparities in size between Bean and her grandma, blanket and bandana, all give a sense of security.

A visit to the plant nursery is one example of Graegin’s understated method. Mr. Green, the store owner, is a rabbit who is carefully attending his lush assortment of plants in the store window. The balcony of his brick shop is also densely filled with plants, in contrast to the following page, where white space allows Bean and Grandma to examine each possible plant without distraction. The exchange between the two is brief; they can intuit each other’s thoughts in this situation. The round, prickly cactus that Bean selects is perfect, because it embodies the qualities of both Bean and Grandma in each other’s eyes.

In “A Box for Bean,” Graegin revisits the cliché about a child preferring to play with an empty box to an elaborate toy. Grandma helps Bean construct a house out of the box, but then respects the child’s imagination, as Bean experiments with the box as a spaceship, pirate ship, and ice cream truck. There is a quiet image of parallel enjoyment, as Bean colors in the box while Grandma sits outside, in her own space, reading. This picture gives further evidence of the pair’s smallness, as flowers dwarf the box and Grandma’s teacup rests on a mushroom.

“Bean’s Bad Mood,” presents the difficult test of how a parent or grandparent responds to a child’s intense emotions. I was reminded of Little Bear, where the mother’s tenderness serves as a gentle test of reality, as in an imagined trip to the moon. Sophie’s patient grandma in Rosemary Wells’s Time Out for Sophie also came to mind. As Bean lies prone on the floor, enclosed in her “dramatic moping mood,” Grandma calmly assures her that bad moods are inevitable. In fact, she has anticipated this event: “I knew this would happen someday…Just be back by next Thursday. I’ll make you a sandwich.” Unhappiness cannot be avoided, but something simple to eat might mitigate its effects. Her well-stocked kitchen is neat and orderly. A portrait of Bean hangs on the wall. Grandmother and granddaughter wear matching boots, with only the older hedgehog using eyeglasses. Bean’s posture of mild defiance, with hand on hip, faces Grandma’s slight stoop, and her use of both hands to hold a cup. Each note in Everyday Bean resonates.

Learning French with McDuff

McDuff Goes to School – written by Rosemary Wells, illustrated by Susan Jeffers
Hyperion Books for Children, 2001

If you have never read any of the picture books about McDuff, the little terrier who is adopted by a loving couple living in a charming village in the 1930s, you have missed a modern classic. They are collaborations between two legendary authors and artists, Rosemary Wells and Susan Jeffers. McDuff Goes to School is the fifth in the series, and it holds a particular interest in the category of children’s books that informally present a new language (other example include Pizza in Pienza, Eat, Leo, Eat and My Sister is Sleeping). 

McDuff lives at number nine Elm Road, a location as essential to the series as Paddington’s address at 32 Windsor Gardens. One day, a new, French family moves in next door. They also have a dog, and, no, she is not a French poodle. That detail is consistent with the understated realism of Wells and Jeffers’ creation. The first conversation between the two dogs is bilingual: “’Woof! Said McDuff. ‘Ouf,’ said Marie.” Note the use of italics for a foreign word.

Marie, the new dog, has owners who are as kind as Fred and Lucy, the couple who adopted McDuff.  Celeste and Pierre de Gaulle (well, I guess their last name is the equivalent of a French-speaking French poodle), agree with Fred and Lucy that their respective pets need to attend obedience school. Mainly, Celeste seems to be in charge, and she is extremely determined. Lucy, realistically, too busy taking care of her baby, and Fred is “too tired after a day’s work” to train a dog. These are totally reasonable explanations, with no apologies offered; they are not inept dog owners.

Celeste’s daily repetition of commands to “assieds-toi!” and “Saute!” are translated in a glossary at the end of the book.  Children will get a real sense of the gap in communication between speakers of different languages, and also appreciate the advantages of bilingualism.  It turns out that McDuff’s apparent lack of progress in school is due to his attentiveness; he is listening to Celeste and learning to understand her language like a native.

As in every McDuff book, all of the humans are smartly dressed. The men wear argyle vests and driving caps. The women have lovely but practical collared dresses and t-strap pumps. Celeste even wears a Chanel-style pastel blue sweater and skirt set.  The book concludes with a luncheon en plein air, including cheese, French bread, fruit, and an American, probably apple, pie. There is even a checked tablecloth.  Both the dogs have earned ribbons.

Hello, Baby

My Book of Firsts: Poems Celebrating a Baby’s Milestones – written by Lee Wardlaw, illustrated by Bruno Brogna
Red Comet Press, 2025

Opening Lee Wardlaw and Bruno Brogna’s endearing book about the milestones in a baby’s life is like taking a step, or rather two. The first is into the perspective of a baby or toddler, as well as her caretakers, as each one experiences a sense of accomplishment. The second step leads into classic mid-twentieth century illustration, with pictures that promote nostalgia, but not fantasy.  Babies have always been babies, but ways of visualizing our delight in them have taken different forms.

Wardlaw is a prolific poet, with most of her work aimed at older children. In My Book of Firsts she uses direct and off-rhyme, onomatopoeia, and other familiar forms from traditional poetry for the young.  In “First Word,” she charts the series of incomprehensible sounds that eventually become human speech: “Squeaked,/shrieked,/squawked,/and scowled,” “Babbled,/gabbled, jabbered, mooed…” resolves into the surprise of the child’s first word.  Brogna’s accompanying picture shows a mother fox in a smart yellow housedress with white collar, as well as a bushy red tail. She is holding up her kit and they are clearly communicating their mutual joy.

The same mom is at a first birthday party for a bear cub, with other species in attendance. (image).  The bear parents are much stockier than the fox mother, and they are wearing appropriately looser, but still attractive, clothing.  Wardlaw’s poem begins with rhyming couplets that build momentum: “Up early./Family flurry./Bake a cake./Decorate./Guests arrive./Come inside!”  In addition to the cake there is pizza, juice boxes (a more contemporary touch), and other delicately colored pastel items that may be vegetables, pastry, and candy.

Each poem refers to events that parents will recognize. “First Outing” catalogues the crucial items necessary for this milestone. These include the general categories of sunscreen, diapers, and tasty snack, but also the more specific “Flossy cap that Grandma knit.”  A raccoon mother holds her careful checklist and pushes the stroller as fast as she can as her child points to the “adoring fans” waiting to meet him.

Naturally, one poem is devoted to the accomplishment that any reader of this book would expect. In “First Book,” a rabbit reads to her kit. The book has a duck on its cover, because children’s interest is not limited to their own identity. The first stanza describes how a child first engages with this new object: “What is that?/Let me hold it!/I promise not to bend/or/fold it” She is excited to learn that mother and child can share the experience of this wonderful object. The book is “a perfect fit” for her hands, but “We both can sit/and look at pictures inside of it.” Of course, books end, but reading does not, and the kit demands a second reading, and inevitably many more.

My Book of Firsts includes spaces to record a child’s name, first birthday, first steps, and several more milestones, reinforcing the allusion to classic poetry and illustration. Childrearing methods change, but charting a baby’s progress, with patience and awe, does not.

A Different House, A Different Perspective

The Gift of the Great Buffalo – written by Carole Lindstrom, illustrated by Aly McKnight
‎Bloomsbury Children’s Books

Rose lives on the prairies, in a Métis-Obijwe indigenous community. Preparing for the buffalo hunt that will sustain her people, she is eager to actively take part.  This elegant picture book takes place in the 1880s, and, like Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House on the Prairie series, Rose’s dwelling is small and homemade.  However, as author Carole Lindstrom explains in her detailed “Author’s Note,” she was motivated to tell Rose’s story by her own sense of distance from Wilder’s accounts.  The Gift of the Buffalo offers the perspective of the Native Americans who are a shadowy and distorted presence in Little House. Lindstrom and the artist, Aly McKnight have not created a rebuke, but rather, an alternative and illuminating vision.

I have written about the complexity of Laura Ingalls Wilder’s works (see here and here and here and here and here), which, along with racism, include a great deal of ambiguity about how a young girl interprets the conflicting messages of her parents and community about the people whose land they have appropriated.  The Gift of the Buffalo would stand alone for its excellence, even without the essential commentary that Lindstrom and Ally McKnight offer about the reality of an autonomous world, which is not merely a frustrating background for the story of Wilder’s pioneers.  Rose is an intelligent and perceptive child. When her father discourages her from accompanying him on the buffalo hunt, insisting that “that’s no place for you. Besides, Ma needs you more,” she cannot accept his restriction. 

Rose’s decision to defy her father is not based principally on her individual needs, although there is an implicit statement about the independence of a young girl. She is deeply concerned about her family and friends. Lying in bed next to her oshiimeyan (younger sister), both of them enveloped in buffalo robes, she is excited about the hunt.  When she later hears adults express concern about their lack of success, she knows that she will need to step forward. Pragmatism is connected to spirituality; Rose will communicate directly with the spirit of the animals that, in the Métis consciousness, will give their lives to sustain their fellow beings. 

The watercolor and graphite illustrations are stunningly beautiful.  Earth and jewel colors, expressive faces, and alternating dark and light, frame realistic depictions infused with metaphor.  Rose, in a blue dress that complements the lighter blue of the sky, offers up a prayer of gratitude, in advance, expecting that the buffalo will “provide food, shelter, and clothing for her people.” Her father sometimes wears a wolf skin when hunting, and Rose assumes the mantle of his authority by putting on the special garment and identifying with the wolf. This ritual enables her to hear the buffalo assure her that her efforts will be productive: “We offer our lives for our relatives.” This evidence of mutual connection contrasts sharply with the exploitation of settlers, who had exhausted the supply of animals, even hunting for sport.

After the hunt, Rose’s father gently admonishes her. She had located the buffalo, but only by breaking his rule.  His suggestion that she might, in the future, accompany him on a hunt, shows  recognition of her needs as well as those of the tribe.  Readers will find familiar elements in Rose’s story of independence and growth, as well as an invitation to learn about a different house, family, and world.

Drawing Welcome Conclusions

Drawing Is…Your Guide to Scribbled Adventures – written and illustrated by Elizabeth Haidle
Tundra Books, 2025

The somewhat clichéd term “interactive” is only marginally useful for describing Elizabeth Haidle’s Drawing Is…Your Guide to Scribbled Adventures.  Reading, and using, this practical and philosophical guide does not involve lifting flaps or choosing endings, although it does encourage choosing paths. Instead, from the very first page, it challenges young (and older) readers to think about what it means to use your imagination in a visual form.  There are questions and suggested pathways, graphics, lists, numbers, black, white, and color.  Every sentence and image is related to all the others, becoming points of entry to the creative process.  All this happens without a touch of pretense!

First, you open the book to see the endpapers, a collection of photographed tools of the trade: pencils, erasers, pens, crayons, brushes.  Then, a black and white doodle with grey sketching presents a small man lifting a, proportionally, huge pencil, reflecting his effort. Haidle prepares you to steer the course with a definition that is simultaneously ambitious and reassuring: “Drawing is two-dimensional traveling. You can travel far away. You can drive inward.”  If you have ever felt discouraged trying to draw, her negative definitions will resonate. Drawing is definitely not a contest, an endeavor exclusively for the talented, nor a “waste of time.” Once you get that out of the way, you can move forward.  As Haidle’s checklist humorously points out, if you blink, inhale, exhale, read, or listen, you can draw.

The demonstrative drawings include lines, shading, color, scale, contrast, and texture, all presented with no assumptions about prior knowledge.  But those elements are not isolated from others: magic, wonder, feeling, and focus.  Haidle convinces the reader to be open to experience through her own example.  Along with guidance through concrete steps, she openly acknowledges the ineffable part of self-expression.  “Here are some places that I’ve visited in my sketchbook” lists, not the Eiffel Tower or the neighborhood park, but a “magical library,” a place where she “can feel safe,” and the state of feeling “calm,” pictured as a figure safely ensconced in a volume with smiling eyes and mouth. On the other hand, sometimes an attempt fails, otherwise known as “drawings that turn out awful.”  Don’t worry, but do “watch out for the part of your brain that wants to quit!”

The more mechanically oriented pages are just as filled with delight as the emotional ones. Using contrast to create a lovely owl out of lines, dots, dark, and light is a section you can immediately put to use, while still contemplating Haidle’s vision of art.  There is even a glorious two-age “Intermission” at the middle of the book, informing you that images of baby donkeys, or something the equivalent in cuteness, will help you to pause and recalibrate your gaze. If you are contemplating a self-portrait, (image) unexpected directions can lead to a surprising kind of accuracy. 

There are a number of wonderful books about drawing for children and adults to share, and I have used many of them. Ed Emberley is definitely the grandfather of simplicity in drawing. Contemporary authors such as Kamo, Sachicko Umoto, Annelore Parot, and Kimiko Sakimoto, among authors, have written lovely guides with beautiful graphics. Elizabeth Haidle has approached her subject from a completely different angle; this is one of the best, most complete, books on the subject I have seen, a truly essential work.

There are a number of inspiring people within the pages of this book: André Breton, an inventor of surrealism; the cartoonist Lynda Barry, poet Emily Dickinson, and the great Japanese master of print making, Hokusai. The humility interwoven with genius led him to state that his work before the age of 70 is unrealized, compared to what he hopes to produce when he reaches 90 or 100.  Even as metaphor, this endless faith in persistent creativity will motivate readers to return to Haidle’s book over and over, and to put her ideas into practice.

A Case of Mistaken Identity

Ramon Fellini the Dog Detective – written and illustrated by Guilherme Karsten
Eerdmans Books for Young Readers, 2025

Sometimes people believe what they want to believe, in spite of evidence to the contrary. Children have their own frame of reference for viewing the world. Whether you choose to call it innocence, or just a still untested belief that no one would lie to them, sometimes they interpret events differently than an adult would.  The endearing boy who narrates Ramon Fellini the Dog Detective needs to determine who overturned his fishbowl, leaving one fish missing and the remaining one “terrified.” When a self-proclaimed Dog Detective shows up at his door, offering to help, he is relieved, if momentarily confused. This dog looks just like a cat.

Guilherme Karsten has created a believable character. In his striped shirt, curly dark hair, and oversized glasses, the boy is an image of curiosity combined with trust.  The dog resembles a cat because his costume is “impeccable.” The questions posed by this detective are searching, and, if his methods seemed “strange,” the boy still has confidence that he will find the culprit.  One might think that a close up revealing the dog’s interrogation of the remaining fish would invite skepticism. The fish “looked like it had just seen a ghost,” and the detective extends his very feline tongue towards the fishbowl. But the boy has suspended his disbelief. (Suspension of belief is a theme in Karsten’s work.)

Every picture conveys character. The dog detective mirrors the black and white of the venetian blinds, as he lifts one of the slates to peer outside. One of his eyes half closes exactly like the aperture. But while the blinds are just an object, the dog looks notably sly.  Meanwhile, the boy looks on in appreciation of the detective’s skills.  Even after this supposedly canine Sherlock insists on taking a walk with the fish in its bowl to search for clues, the boy is only worried that his pet will be cold.

Will children think of the boy as foolish? No; just look at the abundant evidence and expertise the dog detective shows, even using a pointer to indicate his deduction about the fish’s escape. When Fellini hands him a post card from the fish’s destination, the boy has even more support for his faith in good deeds.  The dog detective is “AMAZING,” “a legend,” and even “a boy’s best friend.” (images).  The price of the boy’s happiness is not clear. After all, the fish is gone, and the boy is left with the deep satisfaction of having benefited by the detective’s incredible skills and dedication.  What has he really lost?

Perhaps the Model for Lionel Trug

Paddington in the Garden – written by Michael Bond, illustrated by R.W. Alley
HarperCollins, 2002

At the beginning of Paddington in the Garden, the bear we all love is, typically, engaged in an act of gratitude. He is making a list of “all the nice things” about his life with the Brown family.  Paddington is not one to overlook the simple joys of life: “a room of his own and warm bed to sleep in.” Of course, he singles out the availability of marmalade, which in Darkest Peru had been only a weekly treat. R.W. Alley pictures him seated at a table in his own garden, where climbing trellises of red and purple flowers and a bird sipping from a fountain set the scene.

Mrs. Bird, the housekeeper whose wisdom is matched only by her kindness, suggests finding space for Paddington, along with the Brown children, Jonathan and Judy, for their own sections of the garden to tend. At first Paddington is perplexed, learning that gardening is challenging, especially for a bear. He decides to go shopping, in search of some inspiration.  In the local market, he comes upon an old copy of an apparently popular guide, How to Plan Your Garden, by Lionel Trug. 

I recently read an obituary in The New York Times that suggested a real-life model for the gardening expert, who eventually awards Paddington a medal for his quite original entrance in the National Garden Day competition. Mr. David Hessayon was, according to the subtitle, “a fixture of British life for half a century.” He earned this status with a series of how-to volumes on gardening, with titles such as Be Your Own Gardening Expert (1959), Be Your Own House Plant Expert, and The New Flower Expert. The books appealed with their straightforward advice and unpretentious tone.  Then I read that Mr. Hessayon was the children of immigrants from Cyprus. By their names, his parents seem to have been Jewish.  His father was a watchmaker, immediately calling to mind Paddington’s friend, Mr. Gruber, tinkering in his antique shop.  Michael Bond was an outspoken advocate for immigrants; Paddington himself found refuge in Britain after a long sea voyage. He was fortunate to be met by the family who took the instructions, “Please look after this bear,” to heart.  (link to my previous posts on Bond.). He specifically linked the character of Mr. Gruber to his memory of having seen Jewish children arriving during World War II, on the kindertransport program.

In the book, Mr. Trug has gray hair and sideburns and wears a tweed vest and a green sports jacket.  Paddington’s naiveté often highlights some human foible. Upon first glancing through the book, the bear had remarked that Mr. Trug, who appears on the back smoking a pipe, seems to “do most of his planning while lying in a hammock.”  He seems a bit full of himself as he marches towards the recipient of his prestigious award. I’m sure that Mr. Hessayon, shown in the Times grinning broadly in a greenhouse with his geraniums, was not pompous at all. In fact, I’m sure that Paddington would have been his friend.