Ramona Quimby, Age 8

"Ramona Quimby, Age 8" is like a Greatest Hits album for American literature. I think literally every scene is iconic.

Ramona has entered third grade, and her devil-may-care teacher says "Hey guys" -- and not "I wonder why I'm hearing so much noise...." This teacher also uses Sustained Silent Reading--which becomes a life-changer for Ramona.

But all isn't well. The Quimbys must economize, so that Mr. Quimby can return to school to become an art teacher. (No more thick socks for hours of work in the freezer section of the grocery store. No more memorizing of the price-change list.) Cutting corners means serving "tongue" -- and lying to your children about what's on their plate.

Mrs. Quimby has so much worry at this stage, she accidentally grabs a raw egg and stuffs it in Ramona's lunch-bag. This leads to the canonical moment: Ramona ends up spilling raw yolk all over her head.

Cutting costs also means ignoring a deteriorating car--until one adult discovers, one morning, that he can no longer drive backwards. This is *not* the source of hilarity that little Ramona *wants* it to be. In the midst of the car drama, Ramona forgets to tell an adult that she is feeling nauseated--and then we have a scene of vomit-in-the-classroom. (Little Marsha pretends to be motherly and solicitous, but she sounds just a bit too excited as she delivers Ramona to the nurse.)

Like every other reader, I view this book as a film of my own life. I feel for Ramona, as she plots a retort for Yard Ape. ("I'm not an Egghead. I'm a DEVILED Egghead.") I feel for Mrs. Whaley, as she tries to explain some intrigue in the copy room. ("It's not YOU that would be the nuisance. It's the YOLK that is the nuisance.") But on another level, I'm always thinking about craft. I love that Cleary gets "meta": She has Beezus remark, at the end, that a free dinner is "like a happy ending." (And--wonderfully--Ramona says, "A happy ending for today. There's always tomorrow....")

Someone once said that Alice Munro makes plots seem natural; "you don't see the stitches." I feel this way about the climax of "Ramona Quimby, Age 8." Home and sick, Ramona gets asked to write a "sales pitch": "Pretend you're not reviewing this novel, but selling it to potential readers." Ramona knows how this will play out: Twenty bored children mumbling, "If you want to know what happens next....you'll have to read the book..."

By contrast, Ramona uses her knowledge of cat-food commercials to have human colleagues dress up as singing cats. Like Beyonce, Ramona stands downstage: "This book was tasty and nutritious....This book gave me energy for my day....This book filled me up...." Then, borrowing from a Tums commercial: "I can't believe I read the WHOLE book!"

The success of Ramona's commercial leads Ramona to take greater risks with her teacher--and thus we have a misunderstanding cleared up, and the beginnings of a happy finale.

And it's this idea--interconnected-ness--that makes the book so special. One event leads to another, and to another, and a character can have great (subtle) power over the people around her. Every soul matters.

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...

Liars and Saints

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