I did not grow up with the usual Uri Shulevitz books: Snow, for example, I only saw when I was older. The book I associate most strongly with Uri Shulevitz is not his beautiful, Caldecott Medal winning, The Fool of the World and the Flying Ship, and it’s not the more recent How I Learned Geography. All of those books are beautiful. They showcase a range of his talents. But the one I know best, the one from my earliest memories, has no glowing colours and now beautifully rounded story arc. It’s deliberately rough and deliberately awkward. It’s drawn with attention to detail, masterful skill, and a loving respect for each figure in the book, each character, each article of clothing. And these figures are often a bit ugly, the clothing ill-fitting, everything feeling somewhat exaggerated, a bit of a caricature, the oddity capturing, underneath, a deeper truth.

The book is Hanukah Money by Sholem Aleichem, the art by Uri Shulevitz deftly leaping to catch the meaning of each word, draw it forth in sepia tones, and highlight how, in this story, this book, this scene from the Old Country is gone. It was once, perhaps, a reality, though the deliberately folktale like character of the book casts it into fiction. Once, people lived in shtetls; it was a product of injustice but it was a way of life for many Jews. That ended. It was another injustice. And, after the Shoah, through which Uri Shulevitz lived, well. The people were murdered, the way of life they led was gone.

The folktale quality, the fiction, the funniness, all carries a terrific pathos, a massive discomfort which bothered me terribly as a child, because I sensed something was wrong. If you’d asked me, I probably would have said that it wasn’t pretty.

No, it’s not pretty. Because it’s beautiful. It’s full of odd and funny uglinesses, and it’s art of the very highest register.

What a bizarre combination. How astonishingly strange, a beautiful book of awkwardly unattractive bits and bobs and people! But what comes through in this pathos, this sadness, is love and celebration. Uri Shulevitz is honouring these beautifully odd people who led such hard lives in such an unjust world which gave them so few chances. He takes that folkloric quality and with tender respect renders each person with careful humour, a delicate fineness of lines and shading. The children are handled with particular fondness, but the funny little scene when Aunt Pessl calls to deaf Uncle Moishe-Aaron captures so much in one page that I feel a little smile creep over me every time I look at it. How often has that wife yelled to that husband, barely a foot away? How often has he grumbled? How often have those kids looked on, thinking nothing of it, really, just waiting for some Hanukah money?

What comes through is a very deep sense of honesty, of artistic truth and integrity, and of dedication to giving life to this bygone world, cruelly robbed of life. When you look at Uncle Moishe-Aaron, he is wearing ripped and torn clothes, carefully patched, in a ripped and torn world, carefully restored in these pages.

The world, now, feels ripped and torn to me. There’s a gigantic, gaping hole where Uri Shulevitz was. His work is monumental, but when you look at it, so much of it feels like these moments in Hanukah Money: small moments, odd people, treated with gentleness and respect. The Fool of the World is a strange boy, and his parents barely notice his going. But Uri Shulevitz dismisses the brilliant older brothers as they walk right out of the fairy tale, and, per fairy tale tradition, we walk with the last and the least. But something struck me, in reading it to my Spriggan: the music. The Fool of the World is always singing. We sing with the Fool of the World, and the art sings, too.

The world is ripped and torn. We Fools of the World can be odd and imperfect, awkward and ill-fitting. But Uri Shulevitz taught us to honour even the uglies, even our last and least with deftness and care, with attention to detail, with loving lines and respect for each patch on a worn out coat. We may be hurt, but we should find our companions and sing together. Put a map on the wall and dream of difference, of possibility, and of each other, with singing colours and harmonized oddities.

I don’t think I’ll ever stop thinking that the loss of Uri Shulevitz is a gap in the world. One more gap in a list that feels far, far too long by now: Lore Segal, Tomie De Paola, Eric Carle, Kazuo Iwamura, Ashley Bryan, Lois Ehlert, Jerry Pinkney… I am struck by how many names come to me so very quickly, each a very keen pain. But I am grateful for what Uri Shulevitz gave us through his life and his years of dedicated work: beautiful art, respect for those who were diminished, and honest love for even the last and the least. Let us not forget that he chose to create his exquisite work for children. Let’s carry on doing just that: giving only the best and the most brilliant art to our children.

I think most of those who read my words here are Canadian or American, and I wonder… Have you heard of Kazuo Iwamura? The two countries where I met his books were not on this continent; I met him in France and in Israel. I fell in love with the kind of precipitousness one associates with romantic comedies, but to me evokes the openheartedness of children. He caught me right in the raw heart of my childhood delight in watching squirrels and mice. Beatrix Potter, Jill Barklem, Leo Lionni all understand this, and so did Kazuo Iwamura.

So when I saw an announcement through Librairie nordest, one of my favourite book shops in Paris, that Kazuo Iwamura had died on December 19, 2024, I cried, and then I looked around and was astonished to see that few people on my continent seemed to have noticed. And I thought for a second and realized that I’d gathered his books in French for my French storytime (I read to little kids at my local public library once a month and it is my absolute favourite time I spend do anything for kids who aren’t mine), but getting them in English had always been a little harder. (Many of his books, but not all, have been produced in English by NorthSouth, distributed by Simon and Schuster.)

So I feel like it rests with me to share a bit about the wonders of his books and try to encourage you to find a few, in French or English or Japanese or any language at all, really, to read to yourself or with a child. I like the English and French translations, both, though the French voice comes through with a particular pep and vigour, so I think he must have had a particularly excellent translator there. Truly, though, the engagement of the art, which is of such a breathtakingly beautiful quality, is so high, that the words serve as a guide to the art, like one of the rope ladders or pulleys that his little mice use to climb up to the treetops for a lunar picnic one night of the year. You can reach that lovely meal in the moonlight regardless, but it’s very nice to have the words to guide you there.

What is a Kazuo Iwamura book like? One of the ones I’ve read most often, both to the children at the library and to my own little Spriggan at home (he doesn’t know French but loves being read to in French), is L’Hiver de la famille souris (The Mouse Family in Winter). Has it been translated into English, too? I actually haven’t checked. I wonder if a British publisher may have done these. But the first view of the mouse family is not outside, and not in the snow. They’re cozy at home, making things. Some are cooking, others are woodworking, the little ones are playing or helping in those ways that small children play or help in the “getting under everyone else’s feet” method. It’s delightfully real. And after everyone enjoys a snack and a game they go outside. They play in the snow, the adults as well as the children. Then they go home.

That is it.

The environment, the atmosphere, the full family involvement and engagement, are all exquisite. There’s a sense of tranquility and a sense of mischief. There’s a bit of bickering. There are mishaps. They’re all in the context of generally good-natured interactions, and they aren’t reported immersively. That is: you certainly get dialogue, but the effect is at a distance, like watching a slowly developing fresco on a long passageway, as the mice go along from moment to moment and you’re walking along the mural, watching their day unfold before your eyes. The immersiveness isn’t in the characters but in the entire scenario, the landscape and the world.

This is how his forest resembles Jill Barklem’s Brambly Hedge or the Lake District in Beatrix Potter’s stories.

I find enormous comfort and huge joy in flipping through his scenes, and thinking that there was a man in this world who threw himself into art this beautiful and of such a high level for the sake of children. He built a museum for children and picture book art, too, the Kazuo Iwamura Picture Book Museum of the Hill in Nasu-Karasuyama. I can only imagine its beauty, because anyone who spent his time putting such tender care into the art he made for children must have created a museum with equivalent dedication and attention. I want to leave you with a quote from a recent interview he had with NorthSouth Books: “I’m convinced that it’s really essential for children not only to have top class picture books but also to become familiar with the real world of nature.” Thank you, Kazuo Iwamura, for giving children the top of the top class in picture books, and ones that are a window onto nature, and surely make them wish to go out and see it and feel it with all their senses. I will visit you in your books.

I was about to begin this post “I think that you’d have to be living under a rock not to have heard of Jon Klassen’s new board book series,” and then I paused. I reflected. I think that sentence says everything you need to know about me. If I’ve learned one thing in my years on this planet, it’s that, inexplicably, people don’t pay attention to children, and to things pertaining to children. I find this infuriating. So, while I was thinking, “Oh, everyone out there knows that Jon Klassen has made a board book series, I’m sure,” it turns out that, as a matter of fact, that assumption was incorrect. I am here to correct this problem. Please meet: Your Farm, Your Island, and Your Forest. The very titles, to me, gently but very definitively orient the books and the read-aloud scenario around the child.

I do not normally think of Jon Klassen and “inexorable” in the same sentence (I have not met him, alas, but he seems gentle and lovely), but he inexorably leads the reader to put the child first, and allows the child to play in these worlds as the prime mover of their own space. It seems (based on, I want to say, if I remember correctly, some Instagram posts on the Candlewick account, but you’ll have to dig it up yourself) that he was inspired in making these by felt books where you could arrange shapes to create scenes and stories. Not only did he have these growing up, but his mother has these sets (designed by him, made by her, I believe) for sale, because an insanely talented creator like that clearly gets his skills from somewhere! Jon Klassen’s mother seems amazing, I’m just saying.

You can easily imagine, looking at those simple, cleanly designed shapes, moved around and organized neatly on the page (each shape is introduced on the right side of each spread, then tidily placed on the left), a child picking up a tree or a rock and placing it somewhere. As an adult, you beam inside thinking how nicely behaved that child is. Then, reflecting for a minute, you probably acknowledge that at the end of the game it’s all going to get thrown in the air and the pieces will be scattered. A cat might chew on one of the felt shapes. But this? This is a board book. It stays put. It is calm, it is organized. And the gentle amusement, the chuckles we get from those shifting eyes, all come to a close with the beautiful rising moon, making these ideal sleepy-time books.

The loveliness of the atmosphere calls to mind Taro Gomi’s gorgeously balanced, occasionally mischievous board books. One of my favourites is Little Chicks in which the chicks run and move and– whoops, there’s someone to avoid!– until they’re safely all the way home. There’s a quietness, an atmosphere that rounds out the “start, middle, end” structure rather than relying on an overly engineered plot or a scene squashed helter-skelter into cardboard pages. Well, that comparison is clearly not by happenstance because in the NYT piece I linked above, but am linking to again because it’s better worth reading than this but not as well worth reading as the board books themselves, Jon Klassen cites two board book influences: Taro Gomi and Sandra Boynton. (Sandra Boynton: if you’re reading this, send me a note, because I have so many questions for you about The Going to Bed Book, a work of literary genius.)

If you’re a board book connoisseur, you will instantly be intrigued because those two are very different one from the other. You will also be impressed, because they are, simply and bluntly put, the best creators at this format.

Board books are hard. I will up and say right now that even Jon Klassen (and I love Jon Klassen and am angry he’s not yet received the Nobel Prize for Literature) did not get himself added to Sandra Boynton and Taro Gomi as “the best at this format” in my personal pantheon. He’s pretty damned close, though, because his method in this series and his approach to the format as a whole are both brilliant. He centres the child and forces the reader to accord the child the attention and agency of building a world. The feeling of reading these with a child on your lap is perfect love. Further, he gives a span to the book not by cramming a plot that’s too big and unwieldy for a board book (a common error) into the cardboard pages, but by giving each the natural arc of a day. Simple, natural. The absolute best of the trio, to my mind, is Your Forest because of the ghost. My co-reader adored that ghost and was so satisfied the ghost came out at night as promised. Every book creator should keep promises with the attention of Jon Klassen.

And why does he do that? Because Jon Klassen respects his readers, these small ones as well as the older child. I love these books, and I think he even has room to grow as a board book creator if he has a mind to. And one thing that satisfies me in my deepest heart, the soul of my soul, is that I know that if he doesn’t think he’s got another board book to share, Jon Klassen will not squeeze one out. Like that felt book above, like the places he hands to the smallest children for them, like the bear seeking his hat– Jon Klassen takes the quality of what he produces seriously.

He admires the witchery of Sandra Boynton; I admire the craftsmanship of Jon Klassen. And both of those creators admire and attend to the genuine readership of their non-reader audiences. They respect babies, toddlers, and children. I think we all should.

I have a lot of thoughts about the past few years in picture books, in particular, as well as children’s literature overall. Some of it is very cranky, and can be broadly but mostly accurately summed up in the following wish for publishing: Publish fewer books, but spend more time on bringing each to its own best self. On the other hand, I feel powerful excitement about those books I particularly love. I hope this list will not just be a one person Mock Caldecott, but also a chance to choose some particularly good books as, for example, gifts, or even ideas for what to buy with that gift certificate you got, so I’ll add up front that this is only for 2024. Other books I’m giving as gifts include Hugo Cabret by Brian Selznick, Nevermoor by Jessica Townsend, anything and everything by Grace Lin and Sy Montgomery, and so much more. The thing about books is they don’t often expire and they can be read more than once.

I think Tumblebaby by Adam Rex and Audrey Helen Weber might have won my Caldecott this year. Beautiful, clever, it’s a kind of Wild West In the Night Kitchen. Bracketed by the fundamental love of parents (only partly seen) for their new baby, Tumblebaby tumbles through the world, surrounded by chaos but the imperturbable, happily sleeping Tumblebaby simply tumbles through, an island of smiling snoozing calm, until Tumblebaby tumbles back home in the end. Yes, yes, there are coyotes. Yes, yes, there are bandits. Easily shocked parents will be scared, I’m sure, but this is an absolutely delightful read-aloud, and the refrains have been living in my head, occasionally making my toes tap as I murmur to myself: “Tumblebaby hi, Tumblebaby ho, Tumblebaby fly down the driveway and go…”

For a perfectly delightful, perfectly delicious read-aloud that will somehow make your room feel cozy, wood-panelled, with a big fireplace and deep chairs, each with a wool blanket on it… Look, I think that even if you’re in a corporate boardroom, the magic would still work for this one: Santa’s First Christmas by Mac Barnett and Sydney Smith is less a story and more a sensory experience. I love the entire premise– the elves make Santa take a day off and celebrate Christmas– but in anyone else’s hands it would have run a very strong risk of becoming arch and oh-so-funny or gooey and saccharine. Only Mac Barnett and Sydney Smith, I think, could have approached it logically, matter-of-factly, and with a warmth and kindness that gave the Christmas feast savoury smells, rich flavours, and both sugar and spice in the desserts. Enjoy this book; there’s nothing quite like it.

I have two books illustrated by Felicita Sala on this list, and I want to assure you this is not part of some nefarious plot to have the world taken over by Felicita Sala; this is a one-woman enterprise, so any plots are only with myself.

Written and illustrated by Felicita Sala, If You Run Out of Words is yet another fun book to read aloud– this one I’ve tested on groups with great success, but my absolute preference is to read it as the last book before bedtime to a small, cozy child on my knee, whispering the last few words with my cheek pressed against his hair and bringing everything down to a warm hug, a kiss, and transferring him from my knees to his bed. Parents will be pleased with a story about reassuring a child that in a busy world of adults talking to each other on the phone, in person, texting, communicating all the time– no, they will never run out of words for their children. Children, well. A parable: I have a Spriggan in my house who, when he needs me, will ask for “a Once Upon a Time.” And if he’s upset, concerned, or nervous, I will pull him to me and say, “Once upon a time…” and he turns his face up, eager for the story. Children, then, will simply recognize this is another form of that, an “and then what happens, what happens next?” situation. They will love the oddity and adventure.

The other book illustrated by Felicita Sala is written by Mary Lyn Ray, When You Find the Right Rock. I’m impressed by the perfect pairing of artist to text. So, what is it about kids and rocks, by the way? Remember Alfie finding his Bonting, that one rock that fits so perfectly in his hand? And, Canadians, have you seen The Rock Box from Running the Goat? Kids love rocks. And, somehow, they know when a rock is their rock, the rock they connect to. Perhaps an adult looks and says, “That sure is a rock, yes. Um, can we leave it at the park?” Do not try this, I do not recommend it. I have personally experienced the storm of tears, the despair, and the fury of a child told that maybe we should leave the rock outside. Mary Lyn Ray and Felicita Sala get it. And, honestly, at age 37, I’m starting, maybe, to get it, too. Maybe I haven’t found the right rock for myself, but I look at kids holding a rock, and turning it over, or climbing and sitting on a rock, and I just have to smile. They’re warm young things right there with the bones of the earth, after all. Also, Felicita Sala’s art– I know I haven’t said much about it, I’ve focused on the text in these two books. She can make me see the soul of a rock.

As soon as I saw Kevin and the Blackbirds by David Almond and P.J. Lynch on the Candlewick list, I went for it– well, to be honest I was so excited I clicked too hard in the wrong place and closed the open window and had a brief moment of panic that I’d never get the book now, which is simply not how any of this works. What’s most to love? David Almond is one of my favourite writers for children. He trusts them as readers. One of my favourite books of the 21st century so far is The Woman Who Turned Children Into Birds, and the idea of a story based on the Life of St. Kevin by him, with art by one of the greatest illustrators working today, P.J. Lynch, was thrilling. The story is tender in itself and deeply human. The story is old and very specific to a specific person and place and time. Through that specificity, it somehow encompasses a compassion and love for the world, each other, and for all life which enriches us all. Also, it made me dig up the Latin Vita Sancti Coemgeni because I was eager to see where it came from.

I have been a fan of Akiko Miyakoshi since… Well, this review of The Tea Party in the Woods was published on February 19, 2016. That was a while ago, wasn’t it? I think her mastery of her own form has only improved, and Little Shrew is an absolute exemplification of what Alan Garner talks of when he says the advice he received from his grandfather was never to do what the other feller could do. Only Akiko Miyakoshi could have looked at a shrew and spun this series of stories, so truthful, so humane, and so patently, so obviously, not about a human, but about a shrew. The logic of each story is perfect, internal to the book, and her art is so exquisite I fell in love with her tiny shrew with the successfully solved Rubik’s Cube. The lines capture both texture and love. Akiko Miyakoshi loves her shrew, we can tell, and so do we.

Sally Nicholls is an exciting new discovery for me. Her retelling of Godfather Death with art by Júlia Sardà is reminiscent of the best kind of storytelling, it has personal voice and character, and is absolutely uncompromising. You can’t have a story like Godfather Death, an old folktale of the most exploratory kind, the type where you feel the storyteller puzzling through every question people have asked about injustice, death, poverty, and human suffering. It has a sardonic side, but it’s not cynical. It has a rough and biting edge, but it’s full of pain and sympathy. And, against all odds, it has great warmth and humour alongside the sadness. The art by Júlia Sardà is utterly perfect: it recalls to me Mary Azarian, Wanda Gág, and Barbara Cooney, but the painterliness is entirely Júlia Sardà.

As if this weren’t already enough, I have already reviewed Tove and the Island with No Address, Emma Full of Wonders, and Round and Round the Year We Go and those links will bring you right back to the reasons why they’re good, but don’t you just trust me by now? That should all give you plenty to work with for the time being, so, in the words of Nanty Solo: Go on! Be happy. Off you fly.

In case you were wondering: Yes, books have come out. I do, in fact, have thoughts about them. But I’ve spent more time thinking than writing lately, and some of that time was spent, usefully and delightfully, at NCTE at the end of November.

My husband is a brilliant man; this is a topic on which I feel that I’m clear-sighted and unbiased. The only people I know who are, in truth, brighter and more brilliant and more beautiful than he is are our children. And my husband said, after I’d complained yet again about something I’d read that seemed half-baked and unintelligent to me, that, in a nutshell, we need to spend more time, as a society, thinking than talking. Discourse about discourse in reaction to discourse is just too much.

That might be why I’m spending a bit more time thinking about the books than writing them up, lately, though some do get mentions in my letters to Lucy over at Twenty-Two Cups of Tea. But I also found a lot to think about at NCTE, and had plenty to talk about with other bright and practical-minded folks.

If you’ve never seen the Boston Convention Center, the place is massive, unfriendly, concrete, and, well. A convention center. If the modern trends of what is hygge and cozy and “extra” had a polar opposite, it would be the Boston Convention Center. I walked in on November 21, apprehensively rehearsing to myself that I really, truly was an English teacher (of my daughter, but still) and editor and reviewer and belonged here. And found myself facing a brisk crowd of people with glasses and sweaters, often plopping themselves down on the dull, industrial carpeting with highlighters and post-it notes to hand as they cross-referenced the literacy exam that was the huge honking convention program. These, my friends and readers, were English teachers. This was, as the kids may once have said and may still say for all I know, this was my jam. These were sensible people in sensible shoes carrying pens and highlighters. My soul swelled in the consciousness that pretty much everyone here either had a cat or liked cats, a conviction shortly proved by the three people in a row who said they either liked my dress because it was patterned with books and cats, or had this dress at home and almost wore it today, but decided on pants instead.

The only problem was that giant conference program. The place was full of sessions for teachers, and Friday there would be the exhibition hall, where I planned to poke my nose around and talk to publicists about books. Thursday I would talk to teachers, and Friday to authors and publishers. Very well, but… This place was huge.

I did the only reasonable thing. I opened the book at random and jabbed a finger. The session I landed on was about teaching literacy supported by museum visits. I had nothing better to do, and went.

I am not and probably will never be a classroom teacher again. I never was an elementary school teacher. I wish these people were my teachers, and I am so glad– so glad– this country has such a wealth of dedicated teachers who bustle like these people were doing to figure out how to do the best they can with as few resources as possible for the kids they’re teaching. The keynote of every session I was in was how to give as much literacy support as possible for as diverse a population of learners as possible. The kids discussed were frequently disadvantaged or marginalized, but the growing recognition that diverse learning needs cross every which way was pretty neat to see. And one thing that struck me powerfully was that many of the people whose sessions I attended were simply teachers from districts in, say, Bridgeport, Connecticut, not super well to do, but they’d figured out a method that worked for giving students a focal point for observation and writing about a museum artefact. It worked repeatedly, and they wanted to share. They had handouts showing what they used with their groups. They offered to share printouts and resources.

Friday was my day with the publishing folks, people I know better, but that Thursday with teachers is going to live with me for a while. The few times I mentioned rather humbly that, “No, I only have one student because I homeschool my daughter,” not a single teacher let me get away with it. “That’s teaching,” was the brisk reply.

To give an idea of the single-minded focus these teachers had on using anything and everything at this conference to the benefit of their students, I will tell you another thing about the creature comforts of the conference hall. There was a snack bar. It did not, as it were, have people there except confused teachers wondering if it was worth it to pay $4 for a bottle of Aquafina water and how on earth you did that, anyway? To get in, you scanned a credit card and hoped the Convention Center didn’t take your entire income. The gate shuddered and let you in. You walked around and realized the place contained nothing potable or edible you dared consume except that $4 Aquafina. Uncertain, you pick up the bottle and look for how to pay and leave. At that point I decided to cease dissociating, use the first person, and, timidly, ask someone else how the hell to get out with the water and without getting arrested for theft. The young teachers I was speaking to pointed up, “See the creepy cameras?” “Oooh we’re in a dystopia!” I replied, light dawning. “Yes,” the young woman agreed, “this is my new object lesson for when I teach Fahrenheit 451, and the cameras track what we get and charge us when we leave!” I nodded, agreeing it would be a good contribution to the class, and suggested she get some pictures to show the class. “Oooh, good call,” and she whipped out her phone.

We may be entering a new Pandemonium, but, thankfully, we have a wonderfully committed set of teachers working to make sure we have the context clues and skills to identify what’s going on and describe it.

When I came back on Friday (different dress, but also cats and books) I was headed into the exhibit space, and this was a more diverse crowd. When I say diverse, I do not mean in terms of anything except “not just teachers.” Editors, teachers, publicists, authors, illustrators, publishers– and I have no idea who I am, but I was there, too. I am the kind of person who was so deeply offended that the ALA was on my conference lanyard that my first stop was at the Chicago Manual of Style booth to show my support but really, mostly, to get my hands on the fancy new edition and look at it in person. Who am I? I’m the person whose fridge looks like this:

I saw a lot of books. And people. And I can tell you, now, that there are a few books to look forward to. I got ARCs for two books I’d desperately hoped to read early, Grace Lin’s The Gate, the Girl, and the Dragon, and Brian Selznick’s Run Away With Me, which is so brilliant I wept at the end. I haven’t gotten the Grace Lin back yet. I had to give it to my daughter right away as compensation for– I’ll tell you later. I got to see Kyle Lukoff again, always a pleasure. Kyle– a writer who knows how to write, and who cares about his readers. What a mensch.

And I had one moment of enormous, fangirling embarrassment. We all know how I feel about Elisha Cooper. If there is a picture book inheritor to the tradition of E.B. White, that’s Elisha Cooper. And I saw a sticker on Emma Full of Wonders saying “Meet the Author!” I asked the lovely, lovely person at Macmillan if he was at the conference then. “He sent me a panda!” I told her. She answered, “Oh, that’s so nice,” as though I had uttered a reasonable sentence. And she checked a schedule and said, “He’s coming out of room [I forget the number] in ten minutes, I bet you could make it and catch him on the way out.” I took that as permission to run pell-mell across a conference centre and see him coming out and say, “Elisha Cooper! You sent me a PANDA!” He is, I tell you this, the most calm and gracious person the world has met, took a look at my conference badge, and said, “Oh! I do know you!” which, considering what he previously knew was that I was a name presumably attached to a person who reads his books to my kids– that was generous. And we had a lovely chat and shook hands and I floated on a cloud back to the exhibition hall thinking what a nice man he is.

Look, this was a huge conference. I may have written out my bewilderment above, but I’m an experienced reader and academic and I know conferences well. There were so many sessions that I was really lucky, honestly, to have the background to be able to scan with eyes that know and choose, correctly, which were the ones I would find the most useful. Certainly, every conference of this range has a lot of crap. And publishing is the same; many books have not reached their final, perfect form, before they’re published. Others are stellar.

I looked at the conference with eyes that sought good material and good books and good people. It was, at this season and in this time, absolutely marvellous and inspiring to find so much that is worthwhile– so many people working for literacy and aspiring to excellence.

And this was the crowning moment for me. I had to leave early, for Shabbat (and telling people that– I was met only with “Oh, of course! Shabbat shalom! You know, this is something we were keeping for Saturday– take it early, ok?”), and on the way out I saw a woman whose hair I knew and beside her a bandana– was that really Sy Montgomery, my daughter’s hero, with Matt Patterson, the brilliant illustrator who worked with her on Of Time and Turtles? She felt my look and saw my badge: “You can’t be– are you– you ARE! You’re [daughter’s name]’s mother!” And then she made sure I got a photo– the only photo I think I have of people rather than books from that conference.

Between Elisha Cooper’s “I do know you!” and Sy Montgomery recognizing me through my brilliant, ferociously competent, and wildly talented daughter, I don’t think I’ve ever felt prouder or more recognized in a place where I started off so timid.

Well, I’m hoping to get out a “books I loved from 2024.” I need to talk about my beloved Tumblebaby and about Little Shrew. I need to talk about Kevin and the Blackbirds and absolutely everything Felicita Sala did this year, especially If You Run Out of Words. But if not, I want you to know that sometimes we need to dig a bit. Sort through a big conference with eyes focused on finding the kernel the Nutcracker is getting to (sorry, very Nutcracker focused in this house right now), but it’s ever so worth it to find what you’re looking for. And did I find it? I did. I found people who cared about books and literacy and kids, and that’s pretty good. They liked cats, too.