This is really sweet in an honest, unaffected, natural way — and that’s why you’ll love it.
Click here for an article about the young father, Jorge Narvaez, age 24, and his daughters. Said Narvaez, “Every moment I have with them is special. It just happens that I put this one on YouTube and it blew up.”
As I type, the clip nears 6,000,000 total views.
True story: I was telling a teacher friend about the video contest the other day, urging him to check it out, and thought to myself: “Hmmm, blog fodder!”
Because once you have a blog, the world quickly divides into two parts: blog-worthy or not so much.
Here, give this 90 seconds and we’ll talk:
Fun idea, right? Simply compress the full story of a Newbery Medal or Honor Book into a video that runs no more than 90 seconds.
I can see how a good teacher, with a lively classroom, could make hay out of something like this. Get creative, allow students to actively contribute in different ways, read and learn how to analyze (not to mention summarize) a classic book, and so much more.
The contest will culminate in a Film Festival at the New York Public Library. The whole shebang has been spearheaded by author Jamie Kennedy and Betsy Bird of Fuse #8 Fame. Nice going, guys.
Click here for rules and full details.
Here’s a list of Newbery Medal and Honor Books, 1922-2011. Because it’s all about convenience here at Jamespreller.com.
Hi. My name is Christopher and I am in the 3rd grade. We were given a project to do on our favorite author and I picked you. I have to do a visual aid that needs to include some interesting facts about you. Can you give me some interesting facts about you? What are some of your favorite hobbies other than writing?
Christopher, thanks for selecting me as your favorite author. I have three kids and I can’t even crack their Top Ten List. Interesting things? Oh dear. Let’s see:–1. I suffer from terrible dandruff.–Actually, this photo is from a recent trip to New York City. And guess what? It snowed. A lot.–2. I sat in the last row of Shea Stadium, up high in the clouds, for the 5th Game of the 1969 World Series when the New York Mets won it all. I was in 3rd grade, just like you, and I remember it like it was yesterday. However, yesterday I don’t remember all that well.–3. The funny thing about hobbies is, well, I don’t really think of anything I do as a hobby. I mean, I don’t carve wooden ducks in the basement. I don’t collect anything (except dandruff: see above). Hey, wait. I once got hired to write a book about Baseball Card Collecting, and as a result I decided to collect a complete set o 1969 Topps baseball cards. The most valuable card I own is probably this one, it cost more than $100:––4. I love music and listen to it all the time. My favorite songwriter is Bob Dylan. But if I’m really concentrating (unlike, say, now), I have to switch to something instrumental, in which case I prefer jazz: Thelonious Monk, John Coltrane, Miles Davis, Charles Mingus, etc.–5. I once wrestled an alligator on a trip down to Florida. Just for kicks, Christopher, because that’s how I roll. It did not work out well for the alligator:–––Seriously, Christopher, I don’t know that there are any interesting facts about me. I’m just a guy, a husband, a father. My life isn’t extraordinary. Whatever limited magic I might have, I try to put into the books. However, for your report, you can find more information about me with a little digging in this very blog. 1) Up at the top of the page, click on “BIO,” and; 2) Click on “Q & A.” If there’s any interesting stuff (unlikely), you’ll find it there.–Good luck on your report!–JP
I’m headed down to NYC to catch a concert and to celebrate a pending birthday. This poem has been in my computer for a couple of years, fussed with and ignored in equal measure, so figured I’d throw it out there. Just because.
–
THE GRASS, THE EARTH
–
he was puttering in the yard
spreading fertilizer w/ a coffee can
alone except for the failing sun
& all that sky above
–
what did he think when his heart
gave out?
was there that flash of knowing bright as foil
the glimmering chord of a twelve-string
struck? a chime of bells,
what the bells told:
—————–death on the lawn,
they tolled him
so
–
I imagine
he lay half-broken, half-dreaming
“I’ll take tiger mountain by dawn . . .”
—–& maybe find a little boat
conjure some small craft to carry me
across
——-((be sure to place pennies on my lids
to pay the ferryman
& so with a push set out splash upon the water
yes always drawn to that liquid space
of the mind, & the lively open air
–
maybe toss a line, see what bites
heading home, heading out — wind
in the face! –- hold near, hold steady
to that resting
place
–
——& splat I fell flat asunder
chopped down like an old oak, timber!
rotten to the core — damnedest thing, damnedest thing
I ever saw
–
did he gaze at a last white rock
& finally see the thing true & clear or say
an ant climbing a blade or
the clouds gray & immense above or
think of her
———–his wife his love his life
Annie watching television unawares
chomping on her famous glass of ice or
smell deep the grass, the earth
so rich the loam, so glad the glade
kind of amazing when you get right down
to it
–
—–the lateness of the hour . . .
—-
cue the fading
lights, curtains
My oldest son is a high school senior, gearing up for college. We’re in the application phase, after whittling down the choices to eight colleges. It fell upon me to write the parent perspective, which I did a while back.
As you may know, I wrote Six Innings based in part on Nick’s Little League experiences, combined with my own as an ex-kid, a father, and a long-time coach. It weird and maybe goofy how so many of the biggest things in my life, including my relationship with my mother, comes back to baseball.
Not sure why, but today I thought I’d share with you what I came up with:
PARENT PERSPECTIVE
Early one night in May, Nick sat in the stands beside his stepmother, Lisa, and watched as his fifth-grade brother, Gavin, hit his first home run of his Little League career. It was a booming shot, high and far. As the team’s manager, I stood in the third base coach’s box and worked to contain my elation. Play it cool, I told myself. So I smiled at Gavin as he rounded second base, gave him a low five when he turned the corner and headed home. A wonderful moment for my little guy, and a thrill for any parent. A minor dream realized.
Seven years earlier, I had coached Nick on that same field. He needed a courtesy runner back then, unable to run the bases, as he was in the midst of chemotherapy treatment for leukemia. Nick was first diagnosed at age 26 months, went through three years of tough medical treatment, then relapsed again in fourth grade. Two more years of chemo, far worse this time around, spinal taps, toxic drugs, surgeries. Nick weathered it all with stoic calm, his bravery mixed with a child’s denial. Nick’s steadfastness pulled him through.
For Nick, cancer was something to get through, and move beyond; something to willfully ignore and, finally, push back into the dark closet of the past. And yet it is always present, will always be a central fact in his life. Those five hard years, the setbacks and the struggles, the blows to his confidence and self-esteem. And then the slow, steady rise from those depths to where he stands today, on the cusp of a great future.
I’m sure that every father has visions of his child’s successes. The home runs hit, the tests aced, the races won, the pretty girls kissed. We all look at our children and see the great possibilities; we dream of the potential realized, the wild hopes fulfilled and surpassed. Yet on that same baseball diamond, Nick was never a star. He didn’t hit well, didn’t even move well. He struck out too often. Nick’s face was puffy, bloated from prednisone, muscles achy from vincristine and methotrexate. He missed a few games due to fatigue, too sick to rise from the couch (though he rarely missed a day of school).
As a parent of a child with cancer, I had to reconcile some of those dreams of stardom with this new reality: Nick would not be hitting blasts over the wall, circling the bases to return home to the cheers and admiration of his teammates. That’s my boy, that’s my boy. No, it became enough –- more than enough –- that he simply played, a boy on the green grass among other boys, searching the sky for high-flying baseballs.
After Gavin returned triumphant to the dugout, I glanced in the direction of my wife. Lisa smiled at me, gave a little wave. And beside her sat Nick, a seventeen-year-old boy who had come to watch his little brother play. Not just to watch, but to root for Gavin, to hope and dream of home runs like the rest us. When I looked at Nick’s beaming face, I could not help but remember all that he’d been through. And I did not see any jealousy in his eyes, or envy, or the slightest trace of bitterness. Nick only showed pure, fierce pride in his little brother, maybe a little awe, and a lot of happiness.
He’s a good guy, that Nick.
In his life’s journey, Nick has traveled far, with many miles ahead. And I’m here to say that I’m proud of the young man he’s become.
That’s my boy, that’s my boy.
As far as I’m concerned, he’s already knocked that ball over the wall, high and far.
Nick, four days old, 1993.
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