Skip to main content

Tomie dePaola: 9/15/34 - 3/30/20

Like James Marshall, Arnold Lobel, Maurice Sendak, James Howe, Howard Ashman, and Tim Federle, Tomie dePaola was a gay man whose special gift was writing for kids.

A popular writing prompt: Travel through the looking glass and describe the fantasy world that you see. I believe this sort of thing ran through dePaola's head when he invented his most-famous spot, his imagined version of Calabria.

A friendly witch delivers potions; she'll cure your headache, remove your warts, help you to fetch a man. She has a calm and appropriate answer to everything. Her assistant, Anthony, is a mess, and it's basically an act of charity to keep him on the payroll. Meanwhile, a rival, Strega Amelia, is a kind of frenemy....like a gentler version of the Elizabeth Perkins character from "Weeds."

As a teacher, I loved reading the Strega Nona books to my students, and I realized that the special chant could be paired with the tune to "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star." Here's how I remember it (incorrectly, I think):

Bubble, bubble, pasta pot....
Make me some pasta, nice and hot.....

Now simmer down, my lump of clay...
And rest until another day....

It's my theory that, as dePaola moved along, he became more comfortable with his sexual orientation. I don't have great evidence. But I can observe that dePaola, in a late book, wrote about his childhood and about the experience of being called a "sissy." DePaola also based a late character--based her explicitly--on Bernadette Peters.

If you search the dePaola archives, you'll find a touching tribute to Gloria Swanson, from "Sunset Boulevard."

I loved this guy. So much wonder. So many gifts that he left to the world.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more