Skip to main content

Beverly Cleary, 1916-2021

 I'm writing today in gratitude for Beverly Cleary, who was a "spiritual" writer. She didn't talk about God (at least not much, in my memory), but she was aware of powerful, overlooked currents in everyday life, and her writing was wondrous.

One of my favorites, among Cleary's inventions, is Leigh Botts. He is lonely in California, and he writes to the humor-novelist Boyd Henshaw, who basically says: "You have a shitty situation, but why don't you stop waiting for change? Why don't you yourself make some changes?"

Leigh begins to write, and his writing makes him a deeper reader, and his reading makes him inventive and empathic. The world around him doesn't get notably "better," but Leigh himself becomes stronger, and the lost, powerless page-one kid begins to seem like a distant memory. 

The book seems like a magic trick: Cleary describes personal change over time, and she doesn't make you aware of her machinations and tricks. The furniture glides on and off mid-scene, as in a well-staged play. You're in a dream.

The other moment I like very much is Ramona and Beezus with their mother. Beezus is royally pissed because she doesn't want an at-home haircut. Why must she be sensible all the time?

We expect Mom to blow her fuse. But--in an audacious twist--Mom empathizes. "I know what you mean," she says. "I hate being sensible all the time."

The girls are stunned.

Mrs. Quimby: "I'd like to go sit outside and blow dandelion fluff all over the yard."

Beezus is so shocked, she forgets that she was formerly looking for an *insensible* ally. "You CAN'T blow fluff on the yard!" she says. "YOU WOULD CAUSE THE GROWTH OF WEEDS!"

Mrs. Quimby smiles.

Ramona--made shy by Mrs. Q's self-disclosure--has a thought. She admits (quietly): "I'd like to blow dandelion fluff with you....Mom...."

Cleary wrote about universal human experience, and she wrote with an eye on minutiae, and she gave one long master-class--book after book after book--on how to tell a story.

To a gifted humorist/philosopher/memoirist/fabulist/mom/librarian: Goodbye, rest well, and thanks.

Comments

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...

Joshie

  When I was growing up, a class birthday involved Hostess cupcakes. Often, the cupcakes would come in a shoebox, so you could taste a leathery residue (during the party). Times change. You can't bring a treat into a public school, in 2024, because heaven knows what kind of allergies might lurk, in unseen corners, in the classroom. But Joshua's teacher will allow: a dance party, a pajama day, or a guest reader. I chose to bring a story for Joshua's birthday (observed), but I didn't think through the role that anxiety might play in this interaction. We talk, in this house, quite a bit about anxiety; one game-changer, for J, has been a daily list of activities, so that he knows exactly what to expect. He gets a look of profound satisfaction when he sees the agenda; it doesn't really matter what the specific events happen to be. It's just about knowing, "I can anticipate X, Y, and Z." Joshua struggled with his celebration. He wore his nervousness on his f...

Josh at Five

 Joshie's project is "flexibility"; the goal is to see that a plan is just an idea, not a gospel, not a guarantee. This is difficult. Yesterday, we went to a restaurant--billed as "open," with unlocked doors--and the owner informed us of an "error in advertising." But Joshie couldn't accept the word "closed." He threw himself on the floor, then climbed on the furniture. I felt for the owner, until he nervously made a reference to "the glass windows." He imagined that my child might toss himself through a sealed window, like Mary Katherine Gallagher, or like Bruce Willis, in "Die Hard." Then--thank the Lord!--I was able to laugh. The thing that really has therapeutic value for Joshie is: a firetruck. If we are out in public, and he spots a parked truck, he wants to climb on each surface. He breathlessly alludes to the wheels, the door, the windows. If an actual fire station ("fire ocean," in Joshie's parla...