KS Mitchell Author

Valentine’s Day: A Celebration of….what?

Valentine’s day hasn’t been about Valentines since I was three years old. That was the year my little sister was born on, you guessed it, February 14th. I was only just grasping the concept of cards, candy and balloons when Natalie arrived in the world. I remember my dad lifting me up to peer into the nursery window at all the newborns.

“Which one?” I asked, gazing at several rows of babies.

“The one with the heart on her cheek.” A nurse had placed a sticker there to identify her as a Valentine’s day baby. From that moment on, the day was hers.

Victorian Letter — An early Victorian Valentine was often a heartfelt letter.

Not to say we didn’t celebrate the day of love. I still had the valentine parties at school and the general excitement of picking out valentines for classmates. In third grade I made my first real valentine for a boy instead of giving him the usual store bought card. I didn’t sign it and when he discovered it in his bag, the rest of the class spent the entire party trying to deduce who gave it to him. I denied I made it several times and stewed in my embarrassment. That was about as far as that romance ever got.

Still, Valentine’s Day always involved a birthday celebration. So it wasn’t too much of a surprise, or a disappointment, when I met my husband and discovered his birthday was also on Valentine’s Day. God must have been preparing me from the age of three for that one. My husband likes to insist that Valentine’s Day is the day everyone celebrates his birthday.

Why do we have this arbitrary day in February to fuel the greeting card, candy and flower industry in an effort to express love?

The history of Valentine’s day is somewhat murky. There are up to a dozen saints named Valentine. Several Valentines were martyred – the opposite of what you’d expect for a day celebrating love. One of the earliest stories centers around a priest who performed weddings for soldiers who’d been forbidden to marry by Emperor Claudius. Kind of romantic until the part of the story where he’s executed.

Some also trace the origin of the day to the Roman fertility festival Lupercalia. After sacrificing a goat, Roman priests would strip the goat skin, dip it in the blood and walk the streets, where women would wait for the priests to touch them with the goatskins to increase their fertility. A nice, romantic tradition, right?

Geoffrey_Chaucer_(17th_century) — Blame Chaucer and Shakespeare for your Valentine romantics.

Later on, Chaucer seemed to have a hand in popularizing the day when he wrote a poem called Parliament of Fowls and featured birds finding their mates on St. Valentine’s day. Other poets picked up the theme, then Shakespeare included it in several of his works. So you can blame writers for having a hand in romanticizing the day.

In the Victorian era, sending Valentine letters became popular, and soon these turned into more elaborate cards that could be sent by mail. And so we reach modern day, where we’re bombarded by companies selling cards, candy, balloons, flowers, jewelry and dinners, all in the name of love.

But February 14th is just as good a day to celebrate love as any other. So Happy Valentine’s Day, no matter why you’re celebrating or with whom. Enjoy the chocolates, cards and other tokens of love.

I’ll be the one eating birthday cake!

“Birthday Cake” courtesy of tiverylucky, “Love Concept Background” courtesy of hyena reality, and “Victorian Love Letter”courtesy of Simon Howden, all at FreeDigitalPhotos.net.

Geoffrey Chaucer and Saint Valentine used under Creative Common License.

The Great Sled Train Disaster of 1980 something…

In lieu of actual snow this winter, how about a classic sledding story, complete with a disastrous ending?

The year was 1980 something…I grew up on one of the biggest neighborhood hills you’ve ever seen. Seriously, unless you’re from San Francisco, not much could compete with the hill on Colonial Drive in Sapulpa. The hill was so steep, the school bus driver refused to attempt it. Bill would let us off at the bottom and my sisters and I would wave goodbye to the Beyers and hike to the top along with the Willes. We didn’t mind at all. Snow meant one thing in my neighborhood. Sledding.

My earliest memories of sledding are somewhat terrifying. I remember the Flexible Flyer, that awesome and dangerous mix of wood and metal, my mom or dad laying on the sled with me on their back and their admonishment to “hang on tight.” More like hang on for dear life. The speed you could gather sliding down that hill was breathtaking. And the more sleds that traversed it, the more packed the snow became. Not to mention if the snow melted off slightly, then refroze overnight, those tracks turned into unnavigable ice.

As we got older, we were allowed to sled alone or with a sister on board. My parents, perhaps because they got older, too, waved goodbye to us in the morning and told us to be back for lunch. It felt like sheer freedom to wade through the snow to the top of our hill and join all the other neighborhood kids.

We Train in Snow - The Great Sled Train Disaster - #Stories #LivingStories created sled trains, linking our Flexible flyers to each other by slipping the toes of our snow boots into the space between the metal frame and the wooden crossbar of the sled behind ours. We made trains up to ten sleds long and took turns leading them.

If one of the older neighbor boys led, invariably he would start swerving halfway down the hill, causing the few sleds on the end to swing wildly out of control until legs and toes could no longer contain the force and sleds catapulted up the bank on one side or, for the unlucky ones, the deep ditch on the other.

On one such snow day, I joined a train like this and convinced Natalie to join me. I was in third grade and greatly enjoying the break from Mrs. T.C.’s class. Natalie was a kindergartner who still trusted her older sister. Big mistake.

The oldest kids often went first on the trains since being the leader was the coveted spot. The leader decided if the train would swerve and how often, with the added bonus of an uninhibited view of the hill on the way down. A third grader was not nearly old enough to win that spot. Natalie and I took our position close to the end of the train with only Elizabeth, a first grader, behind us.

“Hold on tight,” I told Natalie as the sled train began to move. I put my hands on the snow covered road and paddled like a surfer, every kid doing the same to build our momentum. But with nine sleds and riders, it didn’t take long to gain speed. Soon we were bucking and weaving down that hill and Natalie and I were hanging on for dear life. I felt my leg muscles burning as Elizabeth’s sled swung behind us. I couldn’t keep my feet in position and finally released her sled, hearing her scream as the next curve swept her into a snow bank. I gripped my sled and hoped the kid in front of us would do better. We nearly made it.

We passed my neighbor’s house, whose steep property dropped off quickly into a deep ditch and ended in a frozen pond. The neighbors hated any sledding on their property, which always added to the thrill if you accidentally swung into their ditch or skidded out of control into the trees and pond.

I relaxed my grip a little as we passed safely by. Then the train curved one last time and I saw the pair of boots tucked into my sled lift up. I wrestled with the wooden crossbar, trying to keep my flyer on the icy road, but we skidded across the car tracks and onto the Gearheart’s driveway. And right off the other side.

A three foot drop greeted us and we thudded into the ditch. Natalie flew off my back into the snow. I landed on the sled but rolled off. I gasped and sucked icy air into my lungs, a sharp reminder I was alive. Then the smell hit me. The snow beneath me had turned to a brown sludge and the stench that rose from it reminded me of the septic tank when it overflowed. I stood up shakily and realized I was soaked in the goo.

Natalie was sniffling and had a cut on her shin. I was also banged up. Shouts greeted us from the road top. My other sisters and neighbors had finally thought to check on us and see if we’d survived. They surveyed us silently as we trekked out of the ditch, bloody and poo covered. Then Michael, the sled train leader, guffawed and the others followed. I tried to collect my dignity and hauled the sled with one hand and my sister with the other all the way back up the hill to home.

We were back on that hill the next day.

Images courtesy of Poulsen Photo, Suat Eman, and franky242 at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Guest Post: How to Create Diverse Characters

Today I have a guest post on a great blog, Latin@s in Kid Lit. As the name implies, they cover all things related to Latino writers and characters in children’s fiction. Check out my post on how to create diverse characters and look around the rest of the site while you’re at it!

Roller Skates and Handlebars

My grandfather could fix just about anything you put in front of him. After many years working at Otasco, he officially retired. Unofficially, he continued to tinker with items friends and neighbors brought by his shop at 801 11th Street in Mena. Toasters, lawn mowers, bicycles. Knowing how things worked, or having the curiosity to figure it out, was a huge part of who Clarence Roy “Foots” Lay was. Along the way, he collected many odds and ends other people no longer wanted. Grandpa often saw uses for things most people would consider junk.

His greatest inventions, in my eyes, were the scooters he fashioned together out of wooden boards, cast off old roller skates and handle bars removed from small bikes. These scooters were presented to my sisters and me just as the scooter craze revived in the late 80s and stores began selling the trussed up versions that sported mini bicycle wheels and bicycle handlebars.

Our scooters, painted red, blue and green, were unique in their construction, each a slightly different size. The red was the tallest, the green the smallest, but the blue scooter was definitely the fastest and the one we fought over the most. The metal roller skate wheels made a loud whoosh as we pushed up and down our long driveway.

The neighbor kids didn’t know what to think at first and made fun of these contraptions that must have looked a little clunky compared to the smooth new scooters they acquired. Undaunted, we held races and found my grandfather’s inventions to be just as fast, and the noise far more pleasing.

I remember Grandpa watching us race around on one of his visits. After awhile, he’d call one of us over, take the scooter in his hands, flip it over and pull a tool from his pocket. After tinkering with a screw or occasionally lubing the wheels, he’d turn the scooter back over to us with a grin. “That oughtta make you go a little faster,” he’d say with a wink and a nod towards the neighbors with their new scooters. Usually a race would ensue and I knew Grandpa was pleased to see his inventions holding their own against factory made scooters.

When my little sister eventually got one of these newer scooters, we took turns riding it, but we still used my grandfather’s scooters until we were too big for their wooden bases. I’m not sure what happened to those scooters, but they were so well worn they probably couldn’t be passed down to others. They’d served their original owners too well. Not bad for a few boards, roller skates and handlebars somebody else threw away.

Photo credits: “vintage bicycle” by foto76 @ freedigitalphotos.net, skates and scooters under Creative Common License at freeimages.com.

1988 Sure Was Great

I’d been waiting five years, half my life, to be a fifth grader at Liberty Elementary in Sapulpa, Oklahoma. Fifth graders ruled the roost and the playground, although certain fourth graders were allowed privileges, such as joining in the kickball games. I remember reaching fifth grade as the pinnacle of my early years, and indeed it was, as middle school would change so many things.

My older sister was a full five years ahead of Lindsay (my twin sister) and me in school. This meant she’d experienced the other teachers well in advance and was an invaluable source of information at the start of each school year. She knew which teachers were loved, hated or feared. She was as excited as Lindsay and I were when we found ourselves in Mr. Beltzner’s fifth grade class.

Jennifer had told us a lot of stories about Mr. Beltzner’s class as we rose through the ranks of the Liberty Eagles. By the time we reached his class, he seemed a living legend. Here was the teacher who held Pennsylvania Dutch day, emceed most school events, acted in local plays and singlehandedly started the Rocket Club, infusing a new generation with Space fever.

Mr. Beltzner turned 33 that year. As an eleven year old, this seemed a solid age for a teacher to be. Younger than my parents, but certainly much older than I could imagine being. On his birthday, Mr. B announced he was now the age Jesus Christ was when he died. I’d never heard a teacher say anything like that. It made such an impression on me that when I turned 33, I remember having the same thought, with the realization that 33 was nowhere near as old as I’d imagined it to be in 5th grade.

Mr. B was somewhat of a perfectionist. All his students carried spelling cards with them at all times. We added to this binder ring full of index cards every week, cycling through the growing pile, knowing any word could pop up on the weekly quiz. Although I already loved reading, it’s possible my love of words started here.

We memorized and recited poetry in front of the class. I remember muttering the words to Clement Clarke Moore’s ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas and Edgar A. Guest’s It Couldn’t Be Done over and over, performing them in front of my twin, my parents, the bathroom mirror. The day of recitations brought excitement and terror. What if I forgot a word, stuck, with all eyes on me and nothing in my brain? But there was nothing like finishing the last word of that poem and knowing I’d nailed it. To this day, speaking in front of a crowd doesn’t bother me.

Mr. Beltzner’s enthusiasm for learning swept through the class and caught all of us up in its fire. Reading and the Book It program, Facts Master, science and rocket building, all of these became more than school assignments. I’d always liked learning, but Mr. Beltzner’s class fired my imagination in ways no teacher had done before.

I felt I could learn anything I wanted to and become anything I wanted to be. I felt invincible that year, on top of the world, and higher, since we spent so much time learning about space.

I’ve been lucky to have other great teachers, but none stick in my mind in quite the same way. Whether it was the realization that life was soon to change and it was time to seize the day, the haze of nostalgia as I remember my 80s childhood, or Mr. B truly was as incredible a teacher as my memories say, I wouldn’t experience another year quite like this in my school career.

We’re All Living Stories.

2014 sure had its ups and downs. One of the downs was the loss of my husband’s grandfather, the second half of a dynamic story-telling duo, along with his grandmother who passed away in 2012.

Fortunately, my husband’s grandmother had taken the time to record memories of their life together, beginning with how they met in the midst of World War II. Later she added another chronicle of her own childhood with information on her husband’s as well.

My husband remarked to me sometime around the funeral that it was hard to imagine that most of the stories of his grandfather’s life would die with him. And we are fortunate to have some of those recorded. My own grandparents more than held their own as story-tellers, yet I have little recorded. How I wish I did.

This thought came back to me again as the rest of 2014 passed. My life, my childhood, my parents and all those around us. Lives being lived out, eventually to be extinguished, and the stories with them.

My family is in the habit of making Christmas lists, and for Christmas this year, my husband put an unusual request on his list – one that went largely ignored. He asked for “your story.” Perhaps family members were puzzled by the meaning of his request, or more likely, swamped with other projects, as December can be the most wonderful time of year, but often the busiest, as well.

With the new year upon us, many bloggers around me are choosing one word to focus their blog, writing and lives on this year. I like this idea, as I always need more focus in my writing (and life.)

My word for 2015 is Story.

As a writer, I’m working on stories every day. This is different. This is a focus on my story, and all the stories that come together to make up my story. These stories are for me, but they’re also for you, for my family, my friends, even those of you who don’t know me. Each week, I’ll be blogging about a few of my stories.

After all, stories are meant to be shared.

Will you consider joining me in 2015 and writing some of your story, too?

Images courtesy of noppasinw, Vlado at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Guest Post: We Need Diverse Books and the Solstice MFA Program at Pine Manor College

Hi there! I have a guest post today on the Pine Manor College blog. I received my Master’s in Creative Writing for Children and Young adults from their Solstice MFA program and was so impressed with their intentional efforts to create diversity within the program that I had to blog about it! Check it out at http://www.pmc.edu/we-need-diverse-books

2014 going…going…

Is the month getting away from you?

Between the parties, holiday shopping, festive atmosphere, not to mention those early evenings, 2014 is slipping away quickly.

I’m staring at a note card pinned to the bulletin board above my desk, the one labeled 2014 followed by the three major writing goals I wanted to accomplish this year.

I love this habit of setting writing goals in January.

I hate it in December.

Today I see a checkmark by the first goal – finish that novel and send to agent. Done.

The next two? Hmm. It’s true I’ve started on my next book, but the goal? Start and finish. Ah, this revision thing is dragging on. This book has been more difficult to write than any other, but perhaps all books feel that way when you’re in the middle of revision.

That last goal? I’m not going to hit it. Not in 2014.

So, as I sit at my desk, revising like mad to finish Goal 2 (and this revision won’t be a final one by any means), and staring at Goal 3, the one I won’t hit this year, and Goal 1, that completed novel, the one I had high hopes for this year that haven’t yet come to pass, I’m starting to feel like 2014 was a struggle, that I haven’t accomplished much as a writer, that maybe I’m a failure at this writing thing.

So today, instead of focusing on those end goals, I’ll focus on the little things I have accomplished.

I’ve continued to write, mostly every day.

I’ve hit walls in writing, and struggled over them (sometimes it felt like right through them). I’ve not reached my goal to be published, but I haven’t given up, either.

I’ve had another year to pursue a career I love, with the support of people who love me.

So, 2014 goals? Thanks for giving me a jumping off point.

Time to enjoy the successes of the year, no matter how small, and start planning those goals for 2015.

2015 is wide open!

Did you hit some writing goals in 2014? Are you already planning your goals for 2015?

2015 Image courtesy of krishna arts, Goals Image courtesy of Stuart Miles and Sleigh Image courtesy of Mister GC at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Thankfulness – Diversity

I knew I wanted to end my November thankfulness series by spotlighting diverse authors. I didn’t realize how appropriate that would be.

Last week Jacqueline Woodson won the National Book Award for Brown Girl Dreaming. When I finished Brown Girl Dreaming in October, I knew it was one of the best books I’ve read in years. Jackie’s skilled telling of her childhood combined with the racial tension and events occurring in the 1960s and 70s brought an even clearer picture of the struggle she and many others have faced.

Immediately after accepting her award, the emcee of the event, a fellow children’s author, made an inappropriate, racist remark thinly veiled as an attempt at humor. It sadly revealed that the very things Jackie wrote about in Brown Girl Dreaming are alive in America today.

A heartfelt, public apology was made and backed up by raising over $100,000 for the #weneeddiversebooks campaign. Although that’s a wonderful outcome, it doesn’t erase the initial remark or the hurt and humiliation it must have caused.

Last night a grand jury in Ferguson failed to indict a police officer for killing an unarmed black teenager. I’m not making a legal judgment on a case where I don’t have all the facts (does anyone?), but I am shocked by the lack of empathy I’ve seen and heard today as I interact on social media, read opinions and talk with others.

My mind goes back to Jackie’s book, to her struggles as a child, and the realization that the struggles continue for so many in our country while others remain blind to what’s happening. This is exactly why we need books like Brown Girl Dreaming.

So today, with a heavy heart for those who are facing situations like we’ve seen in Ferguson, for those living in a world where hardships and challenges are more common than privileges, a world where we must have a #weneeddiversebooks campaign to increase the diversity of our writing, I’m thankful for writers like Jacqueline Woodson, An Na, Sherman Alexie, Pam Muñoz Ryan, Julia Alvarez, Tina McElroy Ansa, Sandra Cisneros, Marjane Satrapi and so many more – writers who are writing about their diversity, their experiences, their stories for the next generation.

Your stories matter. Your words matter. Your lives matter.

And we need them.

Thank you.

Thankfulness – C.S. Lewis

In this month of thankfulness, the second author I’m thankful for is C.S. Lewis. It seems like I was always rereading one of the Chronicles of Narnia as a child.

Lewis’ seven book series about the world entered through the wardrobe, the painting, the magic rings and other ways fascinated me. What child doesn’t want to discover a secret world where animals can talk and children can meet Santa Claus and fight in battles?

I loved that you never knew how or when an adventure to Narnia might begin. It could happen at any time, so you had to be expectant, watchful, ever dreaming of the next adventure. I found that true in my life as a child, and just as true as an adult. You don’t know when the next adventure is beginning. It could be just around the corner.

I’m not sure when I first made the connection between Aslan and Jesus. It probably wasn’t the first reading, and maybe not the second, but somewhere in those many readings, I realized Lewis was drawing a parallel between Aslan’s decision to let the White Witch kill him and the crucifixion of Jesus. I began to search for other parallels in the writing, and the books took on a new thrill as the deeper meanings of Lewis’ stories began to unfold before me.

There’s something magical and inviting about the world Lewis created that strengthened my faith in this world. I like to think that parts of his stories are in some ways true, if not here, then in a world I haven’t discovered yet, that world where talking animals do exist and I will get to meet Father Christmas face to face. That world where Aslan is king, both as the lion Lewis created and the man he personified.

“Africa Lion” Image courtesy of tiverylucky at FreeDigitalPhotos.net

“Lantern on Snow” Image courtesy of papaija2008 at FreeDigitalPhotos.net