Originally written last December......completed today......
It was time to figure out what to read next........age-old bibliophilic problem.
My dilemma was quickly and easily solved!
Earlier this year, a young friend of my son's was visiting our home. I asked the usual question when getting to know someone......."What is your favorite book?".........(who else does this???)
She responded with: A TREE GROWS IN BROOKLYN
I replied: I always wanted to read that....but I never got around to it........
I was very pleased to receive a copy in the mail last week from her. And I immediately set aside a little reading time to get started........and it was these passages below.......that got me.
I love this story already. I love Francie already.
Let me share my favorite passages from the first few chapters........I want to put them here so that later, when I want to relive my "falling-in-love" with this story, it will be easy access to the memories.....
Francie is a 12-year-old girl in the early 1900's Brooklyn.........from a poor Irish family.....
"Francie loved the smell of coffee and the way it was hot. As she ate her bread and meat, she kept one hand curved about the cup enjoying its warmth. From time to time, she'd smell the bitter sweetness of it. That was better than drinking it. At the end of the meal, it went down the sink.
Mama had two sisters, Sissy and Evy, who came to the flat often. Every time they saw the coffee thrown away, they gave mama a lecture about wasting things.
"As she read, at peace with the world and happy as only a little girl could be with a fine book and a little bowl of candy, and all alone in the house, the leaf shadows shifted and the afternoon passed."
It was time to figure out what to read next........age-old bibliophilic problem.
My dilemma was quickly and easily solved!
Earlier this year, a young friend of my son's was visiting our home. I asked the usual question when getting to know someone......."What is your favorite book?".........(who else does this???)
She responded with: A TREE GROWS IN BROOKLYN
I replied: I always wanted to read that....but I never got around to it........
I was very pleased to receive a copy in the mail last week from her. And I immediately set aside a little reading time to get started........and it was these passages below.......that got me.
I love this story already. I love Francie already.
Let me share my favorite passages from the first few chapters........I want to put them here so that later, when I want to relive my "falling-in-love" with this story, it will be easy access to the memories.....
Francie is a 12-year-old girl in the early 1900's Brooklyn.........from a poor Irish family.....
"Francie loved the smell of coffee and the way it was hot. As she ate her bread and meat, she kept one hand curved about the cup enjoying its warmth. From time to time, she'd smell the bitter sweetness of it. That was better than drinking it. At the end of the meal, it went down the sink.
Mama had two sisters, Sissy and Evy, who came to the flat often. Every time they saw the coffee thrown away, they gave mama a lecture about wasting things.
Mama explained: "Francie is entitled to one cup each meal like the rest. If it makes her feel
better to throw it way rather than to drink it, all right. I think it's good that people like us can
waste something once in a while and get the feeling of how it would be to have lots of money
and not have to worry about scrounging."
This queer point of view satisfied mama and pleased Francie. It was one of the links between the ground-down poor and the wasteful rich. The girl felt that even if she had less than anybody in Williamsburg, somehow she had more. She was richer because she had something to waste. She ate her sugar bun slowly, reluctant to have done with its sweet taste, while the coffee got ice-cold. Regally, she poured it down the sink drain feeling casually extravagant."
Francie's mother sent her to buy stale bread.....while she wited for the bread truck to dump its load......
This queer point of view satisfied mama and pleased Francie. It was one of the links between the ground-down poor and the wasteful rich. The girl felt that even if she had less than anybody in Williamsburg, somehow she had more. She was richer because she had something to waste. She ate her sugar bun slowly, reluctant to have done with its sweet taste, while the coffee got ice-cold. Regally, she poured it down the sink drain feeling casually extravagant."
Francie's mother sent her to buy stale bread.....while she wited for the bread truck to dump its load......
"Francie stared at the oldest man. She played her favorite game, figuring out about people. His
thin tangled hair was the same dirty gray as the stubble standing on his sunken cheeks. Dried
spittle caked the corners of his mouth. He yawned. He had no teeth. She watched, fascinated
and revolted, as he closed his mouth, drew his lips inward until there was no mouth, and made
his chin come up to almost meet his nose. She studied his old coat with the padding hanging
out of the torn sleeve seam. His legs were sprawled wide in helpless relaxation and one of the
buttons was missing from his grease-caked pants opening. She saw that his shoes were
battered and broken open at the toes. One shoe was laced with a much-knotted shoe string,
and the other with a bit of dirty twine. She saw two thick dirty toes with creased gray toenails.
Her thoughts ran. ...
"He is old. He must be past seventy. He was born about the time Abraham Lincoln was living and getting himself ready to be president. Williamsburg must have been a little country place then and maybe Indians were still living in Flatbush. That was so long ago." She kept staring at his feet. "He was a baby once. He must have been sweet and clean and his mother kissed his little pink toes. Maybe when it thundered at night she came to his crib and fixed his blanket better and whispered that he mustn't be afraid, that mother was there. Then she picked him up and put her cheek on his head and said that he was her own sweet baby. He might have been a boy like my brother, running in and out of the house and slamming the door. And while his mother scolded him she was thinking that maybe he'll be president some day. Then he was a young man, strong and happy. When he walked down the street, the girls smiled and turned to watch him. He smiled back and maybe he winked at the prettiest one. I guess he must have married and had children and they thought he was the most wonderful papa in the world the way he worked hard and bought them toys for Christmas. Now his children are getting old too, like him, and they have children and nobody wants the old man any more and they are waiting for him to die. But he don't want to die. He wants to keep on living even though he's so old and there's nothing to be happy about anymore."
"He is old. He must be past seventy. He was born about the time Abraham Lincoln was living and getting himself ready to be president. Williamsburg must have been a little country place then and maybe Indians were still living in Flatbush. That was so long ago." She kept staring at his feet. "He was a baby once. He must have been sweet and clean and his mother kissed his little pink toes. Maybe when it thundered at night she came to his crib and fixed his blanket better and whispered that he mustn't be afraid, that mother was there. Then she picked him up and put her cheek on his head and said that he was her own sweet baby. He might have been a boy like my brother, running in and out of the house and slamming the door. And while his mother scolded him she was thinking that maybe he'll be president some day. Then he was a young man, strong and happy. When he walked down the street, the girls smiled and turned to watch him. He smiled back and maybe he winked at the prettiest one. I guess he must have married and had children and they thought he was the most wonderful papa in the world the way he worked hard and bought them toys for Christmas. Now his children are getting old too, like him, and they have children and nobody wants the old man any more and they are waiting for him to die. But he don't want to die. He wants to keep on living even though he's so old and there's nothing to be happy about anymore."
And, just because my beloved Dodgers are mentioned:
"They played furiously, cursing, sweating and punching each other. Every time a stumble bum passed and loitered for a moment, they clowned and showed off. There was a rumor that the Brooklyn's had a hundred scouts roaming the streets of a Saturday afternoon watching lot games and spotting promising players. And there wasn't a Brooklyn boy who wouldn't rather play on the Brooklyn's team than be president of the United States."
And I loved this scene in the library........so glad that the librarians who befriended my young self were not as this one.....
"After awhile, Francie got tired of watching them. She knew that they would play and fight and show off until it was time to drift home for supper. It was two o'clock. The librarian should be back from lunch by now. With pleasant anticipation, Francie walked back towards the library.
"They played furiously, cursing, sweating and punching each other. Every time a stumble bum passed and loitered for a moment, they clowned and showed off. There was a rumor that the Brooklyn's had a hundred scouts roaming the streets of a Saturday afternoon watching lot games and spotting promising players. And there wasn't a Brooklyn boy who wouldn't rather play on the Brooklyn's team than be president of the United States."
And I loved this scene in the library........so glad that the librarians who befriended my young self were not as this one.....
"After awhile, Francie got tired of watching them. She knew that they would play and fight and show off until it was time to drift home for supper. It was two o'clock. The librarian should be back from lunch by now. With pleasant anticipation, Francie walked back towards the library.
"The library was a little old shabby place. Francie thought it was beautiful. The feeling she had
about it was as good as the feeling she had about church. She pushed open the door and went
in. She liked the combined smell of worn leather bindings, library paste and freshly-inked
stamping pads better than she liked the smell of burning incense at high mass.
"Francie thought that all the books in the world were in that library and she had a plan about reading all the books in the world. She was reading a book a day in alphabetical order and not skipping the dry ones. She remembered that the first author had been Abbott. She had been reading a book a day for a long time now and she was still in the B's. Already she had read about bees and buffaloes, Bermuda vacations and Byzantine architecture. For all of her enthusiasm, she had to admit that some of the B's had been hard going. But Francie was a reader. She read everything she could find: trash, classics, time tables and the grocer's price list. Some of the reading had been wonderful; the Louisa Alcott books for example. She planned to read all the books over again when she had finished with the Z's.
Saturdays were different. She treated herself by reading a book not in the alphabetical sequence. On that day she asked the librarian to recommend a book.
After Francie had come in and closed the door quietly behind her-the way you were supposed to do in the library-she looked quickly at the little golden-brown pottery jug which stood at the end of the librarian's desk. It was a season indicator. In the fall it held a few sprigs of bittersweet and at Christmas time it held holly. She knew spring was coming, even if there was snow on the ground, when she saw pussy willow in the bowl. And today, on this summer Saturday of 1912, what was the bowl holding? She moved her eyes slowly up the jug past the thin green stems and little round leaves and saw ... nasturtiums! Red, yellow, gold and ivory-white. A head pain caught her between the eyes at the taking in of such a wonderful sight. It was something to be remembered all her life.
"When I get big," she thought, "I will have such a brown bowl and in hot August there will be nasturtiums in it."
She put her hand on the edge of the polished desk liking the way it felt. She looked at the neat row of freshly-sharpened pencils, the clean green square of blotter, the fat white jar of creamy paste, the precise stack of cards and the returned books waiting to be put back on the shelves. The remarkable pencil with the date slug above its point was by itself near the blotter's edge.
"Yes, when I get big and have my own home, no plush chairs and lace curtains for me. And no rubber plants. I'll have a desk like this in my parlor and white walls and a clean green blotter every Saturday night and a row of shining yellow pencils always sharpened for writing and a golden-brown bowl with a flower or some leaves or berries always in it and books ... books ... books. ...
She chose her book for Sunday; something by an author named Brown. Francie figured she had been reading on the Brown's for months. When she thought she was nearly finished, she noticed that the next shelf started up again with Browne. After that came Browning. She groaned, anxious to get into the C's where there was a book by Marie Corelli that she had peeped into and found thrilling. Would she ever get to that? Maybe she ought to read two books a day. Maybe. ...
It was a sunny afternoon. A lazy warm wind carried a warm sea smell. The leaves of the tree
made fugitive patterns on the white pillow-case. Nobody was in the yard and that was nice.
Usually it was pre-empted by the boy whose father rented the store on the ground floor. The
boy played an interminable game of graveyard. He dug miniature graves, put live captured
caterpillars into little match boxes, buried them with informal ceremony and erected little pebble
headstones over the tiny earth mounds. The whole game was accompanied by fake sobbings and heavings of his chest. But today the dismal boy was away visiting an aunt in Bensonhurst.
To know that he was away was almost as good as getting a birthday present.
"Francie thought that all the books in the world were in that library and she had a plan about reading all the books in the world. She was reading a book a day in alphabetical order and not skipping the dry ones. She remembered that the first author had been Abbott. She had been reading a book a day for a long time now and she was still in the B's. Already she had read about bees and buffaloes, Bermuda vacations and Byzantine architecture. For all of her enthusiasm, she had to admit that some of the B's had been hard going. But Francie was a reader. She read everything she could find: trash, classics, time tables and the grocer's price list. Some of the reading had been wonderful; the Louisa Alcott books for example. She planned to read all the books over again when she had finished with the Z's.
Saturdays were different. She treated herself by reading a book not in the alphabetical sequence. On that day she asked the librarian to recommend a book.
After Francie had come in and closed the door quietly behind her-the way you were supposed to do in the library-she looked quickly at the little golden-brown pottery jug which stood at the end of the librarian's desk. It was a season indicator. In the fall it held a few sprigs of bittersweet and at Christmas time it held holly. She knew spring was coming, even if there was snow on the ground, when she saw pussy willow in the bowl. And today, on this summer Saturday of 1912, what was the bowl holding? She moved her eyes slowly up the jug past the thin green stems and little round leaves and saw ... nasturtiums! Red, yellow, gold and ivory-white. A head pain caught her between the eyes at the taking in of such a wonderful sight. It was something to be remembered all her life.
"When I get big," she thought, "I will have such a brown bowl and in hot August there will be nasturtiums in it."
She put her hand on the edge of the polished desk liking the way it felt. She looked at the neat row of freshly-sharpened pencils, the clean green square of blotter, the fat white jar of creamy paste, the precise stack of cards and the returned books waiting to be put back on the shelves. The remarkable pencil with the date slug above its point was by itself near the blotter's edge.
"Yes, when I get big and have my own home, no plush chairs and lace curtains for me. And no rubber plants. I'll have a desk like this in my parlor and white walls and a clean green blotter every Saturday night and a row of shining yellow pencils always sharpened for writing and a golden-brown bowl with a flower or some leaves or berries always in it and books ... books ... books. ...
She chose her book for Sunday; something by an author named Brown. Francie figured she had been reading on the Brown's for months. When she thought she was nearly finished, she noticed that the next shelf started up again with Browne. After that came Browning. She groaned, anxious to get into the C's where there was a book by Marie Corelli that she had peeped into and found thrilling. Would she ever get to that? Maybe she ought to read two books a day. Maybe. ...
She stood at the desk a long time before the librarian deigned to attend to her.
"Yes?" inquired that lady pettishly.
"This book. I want it:" Francie pushed the book forward opened at the back with the little card pushed out of the envelope. The librarians had trained the children to present the books that way. It saved them the trouble of opening several hundred books a day and pulling several hundred cards from as many envelopes.
She took the card, stamped it, pushed it down a slot in the desk. She stamped Francie's card and pushed it at her. Francie picked it up but she did not go away.
"Yes?" The librarian did not bother to look up. "Could you recommend a good book for a girl?" "How old?"
"She is eleven."
Each week Francie made the same request and each week the librarian asked the same question. A name on a card meant nothing to her and since she never looked up into a child's face, she never did get to know the little girl who took a book out every day and two on Saturday. A smile would have meant a lot to Francie and a friendly comment would have made her so happy. She loved the library and was anxious to worship the lady in charge. But the librarian had other things on her mind. She hated children anyhow.
Francie trembled in anticipation as the woman reached under the desk. She saw the title as the book came up: If I Were King by McCarthy. Wonderful! Last week it had been Beverly of Graustark and the same two weeks before that. She had had the McCarthy book only twice. The librarian recommended these two books over and over again. Maybe they were the only ones she herself had read; maybe they were on a recommended list; maybe she had discovered that they were sure fire as far as eleven-year-old girls were concerned.
Francie held the books close and hurried home, resisting the temptation to sit on the first stoop she came to, to start reading.
Home at last and now it was the time she had been looking forward to all week:
fire-escape-sitting time. She put a small rug on the fire-escape and got the pillow from her bed
and propped it against the bars. Luckily there was ice in the icebox. She chipped off a small
piece and put it in a glass of water. The pink-and-white peppermint wafers bought that morning
were arrange in a little bowl, cracked, but of a pretty blue color. She arranged glass, bowl and
book on the window sill and climbed out on the fire-escape. Once out there, she was living in a
tree. No one upstairs, downstairs or across the way could see her. But she could look out
through the leaves and see everything.
"This book. I want it:" Francie pushed the book forward opened at the back with the little card pushed out of the envelope. The librarians had trained the children to present the books that way. It saved them the trouble of opening several hundred books a day and pulling several hundred cards from as many envelopes.
She took the card, stamped it, pushed it down a slot in the desk. She stamped Francie's card and pushed it at her. Francie picked it up but she did not go away.
"Yes?" The librarian did not bother to look up. "Could you recommend a good book for a girl?" "How old?"
"She is eleven."
Each week Francie made the same request and each week the librarian asked the same question. A name on a card meant nothing to her and since she never looked up into a child's face, she never did get to know the little girl who took a book out every day and two on Saturday. A smile would have meant a lot to Francie and a friendly comment would have made her so happy. She loved the library and was anxious to worship the lady in charge. But the librarian had other things on her mind. She hated children anyhow.
Francie trembled in anticipation as the woman reached under the desk. She saw the title as the book came up: If I Were King by McCarthy. Wonderful! Last week it had been Beverly of Graustark and the same two weeks before that. She had had the McCarthy book only twice. The librarian recommended these two books over and over again. Maybe they were the only ones she herself had read; maybe they were on a recommended list; maybe she had discovered that they were sure fire as far as eleven-year-old girls were concerned.
Francie held the books close and hurried home, resisting the temptation to sit on the first stoop she came to, to start reading.
Francie breathed the warm air, watched the dancing leaf shadows, ate the candy and took sips
of the cooled water in-between reading the book.
If I were King, Love,
Ah, if I were King. ...
The story of François Villon was more wonderful each time she read it. Sometimes she worried
for fear the book would be lost in the library and she'd never be able to read it again. She had
once started copying the book in a two-cent notebook. She wanted to own a book so badly and
she had thought the copying would do it. But the penciled sheets did not seem like nor smell like
the library book so she had given it up, consoling herself with the vow that when she grew up,
she would work hard, save money and buy every single book that she liked.
As she read, at peace with the world and happy as only a little girl could be with a fine book and
a little bowl of candy, and all alone in the house, the leaf shadows shifted and the afternoon
passed.
******************************************
Even a few months later, the wonderful afterthoughts of this little gem of a book still linger. I am so happy to have my own copy.......because I am sure that I will be rereading this book again within the next decade.
Thank you so very much for this beautiful and thoughtful gift, Julia!
Spring & Reading Blessings to all!
God bless,
Chari
PS.......Interestingly enough, after reading this book above, the next book that I picked up was very similar in so many ways.......but instead of taking place in the early 1900's........it takes place in the 1950's and is an actual biography: The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls. It was an excellent follow-up book immediately after reading A Tree Grow in Brooklyn. Funny thing: The Glass Castle "found me".........a few months before, I had been taking my daily walk for exercise from home, and strangely, laying there on a country road, was this book. It insisted that I pick it up and take it home to read. When I finished reading the book, I slipped it to Julia so she could follow-up her reading with the book.......and it turns out it was on her MUST READ list. I love when books talk to us........
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