Skip to main content

Happy Hippo, Angry Duck

 Sandra Boynton attended the Yale School of Drama, but she found that the work was not easy to balance with the project of starting a family. So she dropped out; eventually, she began writing silly board books.


(She did return to Yale, to give a talk to students: "The Curious Misuse of a Yale Education.")

Boynton has conquered America; she is the subject of a scholarly piece by Pulitzer finalist Ann Patchett, and she has earned a shout-out in "Law and Order: SVU." (Noah Benson's favorite book is "Barnyard Dance.") Readers tip their hats: "My son never would have loved books without Sandra Boynton," "I'm so excited to learn there is a sequel to ...But Not the Hippopotamus!")

Boynton's work is joyful, and it's grounded in truth. You sense that these stories just bubble up out of the writer. A sequel might not have been a given, for "Moo, Baa, La La La." But when you imagine the cow on Halloween, how can you not draft "Boo, Baa, La La La"--? And how about inserting the cow into a Christmas party: "Moo, Baa, Fa La La La La"--? Another source of joy is in the unexpected rhyme: "On Halloween, the cow says BOO! She likes that word. It's something new." The truthfulness comes from Boynton's experience as a parent, I think: In one book, Mother Pig can't find a suitable Halloween costume for her Little Pookie. In another book, Mother Pig tries to guess why Pookie is upset; the final answer is, "Umm....I forget." If you're a parent, then you've lived through these discussions in your own kitchen.

A final trait I admire, in Boynton: She won't invent words to make her work convenient. She correctly assails Dr. Seuss for just cooking up random shit: Seuss is full of "yummers," "zizzards," "neckles," "flunnels." Boynton knows this is lazy; when she can't find a rhyme, she does something astonishing: "Maybe you feel you've lost all your fizz. Maybe you're frazzled like a.....frazzled thing. (I don't know what it is.)"

So many children's books are joyless and didactic and badly written. And then there is Boynton--who is, as Patchett notes, "perfection." I find her inspiring.






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...

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...

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...