A Long Way From Chicago: A Novel in Storiesby Richard Peck
A Newbery Honor Book
A summer they'll never forget.
Each summer Joey and his sister, Mary Alice—two city slickers from Chicago—visit Grandma Dowdel's seemingly sleepy Illinois town. Soon enough, they find that it's far from sleepy...and Grandma is far from your typical grandmother. From seeing their first corpse (and he isn't/i>/b>
A Newbery Honor Book
A summer they'll never forget.
Each summer Joey and his sister, Mary Alice—two city slickers from Chicago—visit Grandma Dowdel's seemingly sleepy Illinois town. Soon enough, they find that it's far from sleepy...and Grandma is far from your typical grandmother. From seeing their first corpse (and he isn't resting easy) to helping Grandma trespass, catch the sheriff in his underwear, and feed the hungry—all in one day—Joey and Mary Alice have nine summers they'll never forget!
"A rollicking celebration of an eccentric grandmother and childhood memories." —School Library Journal, starred review
"Each tale is a small masterpiece of storytelling." —The Horn Book, starred review
"Grandma Dowdel embodies not only the heart of a small town but the spirit of an era gone by...Remarkable and fine." —Kirkus Reviews, starred review
A Newbery Honor Book
A National Book Award Finalist
An ALA Notable Book
An ALA Best Book for Young Adults
Read an Excerpt
Later, much later, we heard something. . . .
We heard a little sawing, singing sound as a file began to slice through screen wire. From the settee Mary Alice made some tiny, terrified sound. Grandma reached down for something in her sewing basket. The darkness made me see pinwheels like sparklers. I just managed to notice Grandma’s rocker was rocking and she wasn’t in it. She was standing over me. “Keep just behind me,” she whispered.
I followed her across the room to the kitchen. You wouldn’t believe a woman that heavy could be so light on her feet. She floated, and we moved like some strange beast, big in front, small behind. Now we were by the door to the kitchen, and I heard the scuffle of heavy feet in there on the crinkly linoleum. . . .
“Part vaudeville act, part laconic tall tale, the stories, with their dirty tricks and cunning plots, make you laugh out loud at the farce and snicker at the reversals. Like Grandma, the characters are larger-than-life funny, yet Peck is neither condescending nor picturesque. With the tall talk, irony, insult, and vulgarity, there’s also a heartfelt sense of the Depression’s time and place. . . . Many readers will recognize the irreverent, contrary voices of their own family legends across generations.”
—Booklist, starred review
“Each tale is a small masterpiece of storytelling.”
—The Horn Book, starred review
The 1999 Newbery Honor Book
Also by Richard Peck
NOVELS FOR YOUNG ADULTS
Are You in the House Alone?
Bel-Air Bambi and the Mall Rats
Blossom Culp and the Sleep of Death
Close Enough to Touch
Don’t Look and It Won’t Hurt
The Dreadful Future of Blossom Culp
The Ghost Belonged to Me
Ghosts I Have Been
The Great Interactive Dream Machine
Here Lies the Librarian
The Last Safe Place on Earth
A Long Way from Chicago
Lost in Cyberspace
On the Wings of Heroes
Remembering the Good Times
Representing Super Doll
The River Between Us
Secrets of the Shopping Mall
Strays Like Us
The Teacher’s Funeral
Those Summer Girls I Never Met
Three Quarters Dead
Through a Brief Darkness
Unfinished Portrait of Jessica
Voices After Midnight
A Year Down Yonder
NOVELS FOR ADULTS
New York Time
This Family of Women
Past Perfect, Present Tense
Monster Night at Grandma’s House
Invitations to the World
It was always August when we spent a week with our grandma. I was Joey then, not Joe: Joey Dowdel, and my sister was Mary Alice. In our first visits we were still just kids, so we could hardly see her town because of Grandma. She was so big, and the town was so small. She was old too, or so we thought—old as the hills. And tough? She was tough as an old boot, or so we thought. As the years went by, though, Mary Alice and I grew up, and though Grandma never changed, we’d seem to see a different woman every summer.
Now I’m older than Grandma was then, quite a bit older. But as the time gets past me, I seem to remember more and more about those hot summer days and nights, and the last house in town, where Grandma lived. And Grandma. Are all my memories true? Every word, and growing truer with the years.
Shotgun Cheatham’s Last Night Above Ground
You wouldn’t think we’d have to leave Chicago to see a dead body. We were growing up there back in the bad old days of Al Capone and Bugs Moran. Just the winter before, they’d had the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre over on North Clark Street. The city had such an evil reputation that the Thompson submachine gun was better known as a “Chicago typewriter.”
But I’d grown to the age of nine, and my sister Mary Alice was seven, and we’d yet to see a stiff. We guessed that most of them were where you couldn’t see them, at the bottom of Lake Michigan, wearing concrete overshoes.
No, we had to travel all the way down to our Grandma Dowdel’s before we ever set eyes on a corpse. Dad said Mary Alice and I were getting to the age when we could travel on our own. He said it was time we spent a week with Grandma, who was getting on in years. We hadn’t seen anything of her since we were tykes. Being Chicago people, Mother and Dad didn’t have a car. And Grandma wasn’t on the telephone.
“They’re dumping us on her is what they’re doing,” Mary Alice said darkly. She suspected that Mother and Dad would take off for a week of fishing up in Wisconsin in our absence.
I didn’t mind going because we went on the train, the Wabash Railroad’s crack Blue Bird that left Dearborn Station every morning, bound for St. Louis. Grandma lived somewhere in between, in one of those towns the railroad tracks cut in two. People stood out on their porches to see the train go through.
Mary Alice said she couldn’t stand the place. For one thing, at Grandma’s you had to go outside to the privy. It stood just across from the cobhouse, a tumbledown shed full of stuff left there in Grandpa Dowdel’s time. A big old snaggletoothed tomcat lived in the cobhouse, and as quick as you’d come out of the privy, he’d jump at you. Mary Alice hated that.
Mary Alice said there was nothing to do and nobody to do it with, so she’d tag after me, though I was two years older and a boy. We’d stroll uptown in those first days. It was only a short block of brick buildings: the bank, the insurance agency, Moore’s Store, and The Coffee Pot Cafe, where the old saloon had stood. Prohibition was on in those days, which meant that selling liquor was against the law. So people made their own beer at home. They still had the tin roofs out over the sidewalk, and hitching rails. Most farmers came to town horse-drawn, though there were Fords, and the banker, L. J. Weidenbach, drove a Hupmobile.
It looked like a slow place to us. But that was before they buried Shotgun Cheatham. He might have made it unnoticed all the way to the grave except for his name. The county seat newspaper didn’t want to run an obituary on anybody called Shotgun, but nobody knew any other name for him. This sparked attention from some of the bigger newspapers. One sent in a stringer to nose around The Coffee Pot Cafe for a human-interest story since it was August, a slow month for news.
The Coffee Pot was where people went to loaf, talk tall, and swap gossip. Mary Alice and I were of some interest when we dropped by because we were kin of Mrs. Dowdel’s, who never set foot in the place. She said she liked to keep herself to herself, which was uphill work in a town like that.
Mary Alice and I carried the tale home that a suspicious type had come off the train in citified clothes and a stiff straw hat. He stuck out a mile and was asking around about Shotgun Cheatham. And he was taking notes.
Grandma had already heard it on the grapevine that Shotgun was no more, though she wasn’t the first person people ran to with news. She wasn’t what you’d call a popular woman. Grandpa Dowdel had been well thought of, but he was long gone.
That was the day she was working tomatoes on the black iron range, and her kitchen was hot enough to steam the calendars off the wall. Her sleeves were turned back on her big arms. When she heard the town was apt to fill up with newspaper reporters, her jaw clenched.
Presently she said, “I’ll tell you what that reporter’s after. He wants to get the horselaugh on us because he thinks we’re nothing but a bunch of hayseeds and no-’count country people. We are, but what business is it of his?”
“Who was Shotgun Cheatham anyway?” Mary Alice asked.
“He was just an old reprobate who lived poor and died broke,” Grandma said. “Nobody went near him because he smelled like a polecat. He lived in a chicken coop, and now they’ll have to burn it down.”
To change the subject she said to me, “Here, you stir these tomatoes, and don’t let them stick. I’ve stood in this heat till I’m half-cooked myself.”
I didn’t like kitchen work. Yesterday she’d done apple butter, and that hadn’t been too bad. She made that outdoors over an open fire, and she’d put pennies in the caldron to keep it from sticking.
“Down at The Coffee Pot they say Shotgun rode with the James boys.”
“Which James boys?” Grandma asked.
“Jesse James,” I said, “and Frank.”
“They wouldn’t have had him,” she said. “Anyhow, them Jameses was Missouri people.”
“They were telling the reporter Shotgun killed a man and went to the penitentiary.”
“Several around here done that,” Grandma said, “though I don’t recall him being out of town any length of time. Who’s doing all this talking?”
“A real old, humped-over lady with buck teeth,” Mary Alice said.
“Cross-eyed?” Grandma said. “That’d be Effie Wilcox. You think she’s ugly now, you should have seen her as a girl. And she’d talk you to death. Her tongue’s attached in the middle and flaps at both ends.” Grandma was over by the screen door for a breath of air.
“They said he’d notched his gun in six places,” I said, pushing my luck. “They said the notches were either for banks he’d robbed or for sheriffs he’d shot.”
“Was that Effie again? Never trust an ugly woman. She’s got a grudge against the world,” said Grandma, who was no oil painting herself. She fetched up a sigh. “I’ll tell you how Shotgun got his name. He wasn’t but about ten years old, and he wanted to go out and shoot quail with a bunch of older boys. He couldn’t hit a barn wall from the inside, and he had a sty in one eye. They were out there in a pasture without a quail in sight, but Shotgun got all excited being with the big boys. He squeezed off a round and killed a cow. Down she went. If he’d been aiming at her, she’d have died of old age eventually. The boys took the gun off him, not knowing who he’d plug next. That’s how he got the name, and it stuck to him like flypaper. Any girl in town could have outshot him, and that includes me.” Grandma jerked a thumb at herself.
She kept a twelve-gauge double-barreled Winchester Model 21 behind the woodbox, but we figured it had been Grandpa Dowdel’s for shooting ducks. “And I wasn’t no Annie Oakley myself, except with squirrels.” Grandma was still at the door, fanning her apron. Then in the same voice she said, “Looks like we got company. Take them tomatoes off the fire.”
A stranger was on the porch, and when Mary Alice and I crowded up behind Grandma to see, it was the reporter. He was sharp-faced, and he’d sweated through his hatband.
“What’s your business?” Grandma said through screen wire, which was as friendly as she got.
“Ma’am, I’m making inquiries about the late Shotgun Cheatham.” He shuffled his feet, wanting to get one of them in the door. Then he mopped up under his hat brim with a silk handkerchief. His Masonic ring had diamond chips in it.
“Who sent you to me?”
“I’m going door-to-door, ma’am. You know how you ladies love to talk. Bless your hearts, you’d all talk the hind leg off a mule.”
Mary Alice and I both stared at that. We figured Grandma might grab up her broom to swat him off the porch. We’d already seen how she could make short work of peddlers even when they weren’t lippy. And tramps didn’t seem to mark her fence post. We suspected that you didn’t get inside her house even if she knew you. But to our surprise she swept open the screen door and stepped out onto the porch. I followed. So did Mary Alice, once she was sure the snaggletoothed tom wasn’t lurking around out there, waiting to pounce.
“You a newspaper reporter?” she said. “Peoria?” It was the flashy clothes, but he looked surprised. “What they been telling you?”
“Looks like I got a good story by the tail,” he said. “‘Last of the Old Owlhoot Gunslingers Goes to a Pauper’s Grave.’ That kind of angle. Ma’am, I wonder if you could help me flesh out the story some.”
“Well, I got flesh to spare,” Grandma said mildly. “Who’s been talking to you?”
“It was mainly an elderly lady—”
“Ugly as sin, calls herself Wilcox?” Grandma said. “She’s been in the state hospital for the insane until just here lately, but as a reporter I guess you nosed that out.”
Mary Alice nudged me hard, and the reporter’s eyes widened.
“They tell you how Shotgun come by his name?”
“Opinions seem to vary, ma’am.”
“Ah well, fame is fleeting,” Grandma said. “He got it in the Civil War.”
The reporter’s hand hovered over his breast pocket, where a notepad stuck out.
“Oh yes, Shotgun went right through the war with the Illinois Volunteers. Shiloh in the spring of sixty-two, and he was with U. S. Grant when Vicksburg fell. That’s where he got his name. Grant give it to him, in fact. Shotgun didn’t hold with government-issue firearms. He shot rebels with his old Remington pump-action that he’d used to kill quail back here at home.”
Now Mary Alice was yanking on my shirttail. We knew kids lie all the time, but Grandma was no kid, and she could tell some whoppers. Of course the reporter had been lied to big-time up at the cafe, but Grandma’s lies were more interesting, even historical. They made Shotgun look better while they left Effie Wilcox in the dust.
“He was always a crack shot,” she said, winding down. “Come home from the war with a line of medals bigger than his chest.”
“And yet he died penniless,” the reporter said in a thoughtful voice.
“Oh well, he’d sold off them medals and give the money to war widows and orphans.”
A change crossed the reporter’s narrow face. Shotgun had gone from kill-crazy gunslinger to war-hero marksman. Philanthropist, even. He fumbled his notepad out and was scribbling. He thought he’d hit pay dirt with Grandma. “It’s all a matter of record,” she said. “You could look it up.”
He was ready to wire in a new story: “Civil War Hero Handpicked by U. S. Grant Called to the Great Campground in the Sky.” Something like that. “And he never married?”
“Never did,” Grandma said. “He broke Effie Wilcox’s heart. She’s bitter still, as you see.”
“And now he goes to a pauper’s grave with none to mark his passing,” the reporter said, which may have been a sample of his writing style.
“They tell you that?” Grandma said. “They’re pulling your leg, sonny. You drop by The Coffee Pot and tell them you heard that Shotgun’s being buried from my house with full honors. He’ll spend his last night above ground in my front room, and you’re invited.”
The reporter backed down the porch stairs, staggering under all this new material. “Much obliged, ma’am,” he said.
“Happy to help,” Grandma said.
Mary Alice had turned loose of my shirttail. What little we knew about grown-ups didn’t seem to cover Grandma. She turned on us. “Now I’ve got to change my shoes and walk all the way up to the lumberyard in this heat,” she said, as if she hadn’t brought it all on herself. Up at the lumberyard they’d be knocking together Shotgun Cheatham’s coffin and sending the bill to the county, and Grandma had to tell them to bring that coffin to her house, with Shotgun in it.
By nightfall a green pine coffin stood on two sawhorses in the bay window of the front room, and people milled in the yard. They couldn’t see Shotgun from there because the coffin lid blocked the view. Besides, a heavy gauze hung from the open lid and down over the front of the coffin to veil him. Shotgun hadn’t been exactly fresh when they discovered his body. Grandma had flung open every window, but there was a peculiar smell in the room. I’d only had one look at him when they’d carried in the coffin, and that was enough. I’ll tell you just two things about him. He didn’t have his teeth in, and he was wearing bib overalls.
The people in the yard still couldn’t believe Grandma was holding open house. This didn’t stop the reporter who was haunting the parlor, looking for more flesh to add to his story. And it didn’t stop Mrs. L. J. Weidenbach, the banker’s wife, who came leading her father, an ancient codger half her size in full Civil War Union blue.
“We are here to pay our respects at this sad time,” Mrs. Weidenbach said when Grandma let them in. “When I told Daddy that Shotgun had been decorated by U. S. Grant and wounded three times at Bull Run, it brought it all back to him, and we had to come.” Her old daddy wore a forage cap and a decoration from the Grand Army of the Republic, and he seemed to have no idea where he was. She led him up to the coffin, where they admired the flowers. Grandma had planted a pitcher of glads from her garden at either end of the pine box. In each pitcher she’d stuck an American flag.
A few more people willing to brave Grandma came and went, but finally we were down to the reporter, who’d settled into the best chair, still nosing for news. Then who appeared at the front door but Mrs. Effie Wilcox, in a hat.
“Mrs. Dowdel, I’ve come to set with you overnight and see our brave old soldier through his Last Watch.”
In those days people sat up with a corpse through the final night before burial. I’d have bet money Grandma wouldn’t let Mrs. Wilcox in for a quick look, let alone overnight. But of course Grandma was putting on the best show possible to pull wool over the reporter’s eyes. Little though she seemed to think of townspeople, she thought less of strangers. Grandma waved Mrs. Wilcox inside, and in she came, her eyes all over the place. She made for the coffin, stared at the blank white gauze, and said, “Don’t he look natural?”
Then she drew up a chair next to the reporter. He flinched because he had it on good authority that she’d just been let out of an insane asylum. “Warm, ain’t it?” she said straight at him, but looking everywhere.
The crowd outside finally dispersed. Mary Alice and I hung at the edge of the room, too curious to be anywhere else.
“If you’re here for the long haul,” Grandma said to the reporter, “how about a beer?” He looked encouraged, and Grandma left him to Mrs. Wilcox, which was meant as a punishment. She came back with three of her home brews, cellar-cool. She brewed beer to drink herself, but these three bottles were to see the reporter through the night. She wouldn’t have expected her worst enemy, Effie Wilcox, to drink alcohol in front of a man.
In normal circumstances the family recalls stories about the departed to pass the long night hours. But these circumstances weren’t normal, and quite a bit had already been recalled about Shotgun Cheatham anyway.
Only a single lamp burned, and as midnight drew on, the glads drooped in their pitchers. I was wedged in a corner, beginning to doze, and Mary Alice was sound asleep on a throw rug. After the second beer the reporter lolled, visions of Shotgun’s Civil War glories no doubt dancing in his head. You could hear the tick of the kitchen clock. Grandma’s chin would drop, then jerk back. Mrs. Wilcox had been humming “Rock of Ages,” but tapered off after “let me hide myself in thee.”
Then there was the quietest sound you ever heard. Somewhere between a rustle and a whisper. It brought me around, and I saw Grandma sit forward and cock her head. I blinked to make sure I was awake, and the whole world seemed to listen. Not a leaf trembled outside.
But the gauze that hung down over the open coffin moved. Twitched.
Except for Mary Alice, we all saw it. The reporter sat bolt upright, and Mrs. Wilcox made a little sound.
Meet the Author
Richard Peck is one of the most celebrated children's book writers in the country He is the author of more than thirty novels, including A Long Way from Chicago, A Year Down Yonder, Secrets at Sea and The Mouse with the Question Mark Tale. He has won the Newbery Medal, the Edgar Award, the Margaret A. Edwards Award, a National Humanities Medal, and twice been a National Book Award finalist, among many other honors. He lives in New York City.
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My mom had read this book with my younger sisters ages 15,13, and 9. They all loved it and would laugh at nights, as this was the story that they had chosen to read. They story is about a funny grandma and when push comes to shove, she doesn't budge. There are funny lines and things that happen. There are her two grandkids that come and visit her and they are mostly quiet throughout the book and they observe a lot of what their crazy grandma does. I would recommend it to anyone who wants to laugh while reading!
What I think about this book, is that it is very funny. Reasons I think this book is funny, is because of the Grandma's personality. Like the time when Grandma, Joey, and Maryann was riding in a boat and saw the sheriff's dancing in their underware. OMG..! that was so funny. My favorite character was Grandma. And my favorite part was when she was shooting at her cat... But I recommend this book to anyone. A very Great book.
A Long Way From Chicago is a good book in my opinion, the plot of the story was humorous my favorite part of the book was when Mary alicewas dancing on the stage... When they come to visit there gandmother dowdel, they are there they get there releif from the city and they get to spend time with there mamas, but they don't always come when they want too... A Long way from Chicago was a fascinating novel to read...I am going to read the rest of the books.
A Long Way from Chicago is a interesting and entertaining story. The story is about two kids named Mary Alice and Joey. They go to their fun and crazy grandmother's house every summer. At their grandmother's they experience stuff they will never forget. Over all this was a great comedy and is great for a family book or just for kids.
This book consists of three main characters grandma, Joey, and Mary Alice. The three of them together have many adventures. I liked the grandma in this book because she was so funny, she didn't care what people thought about her, she was kind to everyone. She just had a funny ways of showing it. That is what I personally think the author is trying to tell us. We should be ourselves, and also help others. I think he is saying that because someone helped him when he was in need. Read this book to learn more adventures with Grandma, Joey, and Mary!
I think that it was a very great book and I recommend it to any book reader. It was so great, I nearly died laughing at the characters. The three main characters are Joey, MaryAnn, last, but not least, my personal favorite, Grandma. She is so funny, especially the little pranks she’s always pulls on everyone. Grandma and her Grandchildren (Joey and MaryAnn) have great and fantastic adventures. Like the time when they were rolling down the river, and saw a bunch of men singing and dancing around in their underwear....OMG! That was so hilarious. My favorite scene was when Grandma's Tom cat hoped out of the coffin and freaked everybody out, as Grandma was shooting her shotgun like crazy making people run away in all different directions. But this book is a very tremendous book. It will have you rolling on the floor laughing. So I strongly recommend anyone to read this book, I enjoyed it very much myself.
The reason why I liked it because it was a action filled book but it had times that it was a serious book. The really interesting moments with gradma dowdel shooting the casket with her winchester. This is why I liked the book!
A Long Way from Chicago was a excellent book. It was funny, dramatic, like when Grandma shot the coffin after it had moved. The story was dramatic due to the awkward moments in the story. When grandma knew that those boys were going to break in she pretended that she left. Then the boys got what was coming to them.I liked the story because of all the great story's,like how the story was produced. rote,and how it was structered.The story had its off and on moments. when they got on the Blue Bird train.On there way back to chicago, at the end of the story.
This book, A Long Way From Chicago is really good. I read it with my class and it is hilarious and also very good. The setting takes place in a small farm town in Illinois. It is about a grandma that was really weird and did go crazy at times but she had really good reasons, she can also be kinda scary but friendly and trust worthy. The one thing I do know about her is SHE HAS A SHOT GUN AND KNOWS HOW TO USE IT!. But she does make a very good goose berry pie. Mary Alice and Joey Dowdel visits Grandma every summer in Illinois on a small farm just off Main street. In the end Mary Alice and Joey have made many memories. I know I liked this book and I hope you do, too.
The book was well written just not a story that I could really get into to.
A Long Way From Chicago is a,in my mind,a very good book.I found the plot of the story interesting,and funny. One of my faveorite parts of the book had to be when the main character and narrator,Joey,Mary Alice,and Grandma Dowdel where poaching and saw the sheriffs in thier underwear.That was also when Joey stated that Mary Alice's eyes"Bugged out".The chapters were short and single stories,and I found them very easy to read.I think A long Way From Chicago is a great book.
A Long Way From Chicago A Long Way From Chicago was a really good book and I really enjoyed it. This book has everything from funniness to sadness. I loved the characters Joey, Mary Alice, and Grandma Dowdel. This book is about Joey and his sister Mary Alice who go to their Grandma Dowdel’s house nine times over nine years. I liked the entire story but the funniest part was when Grandma Dowdel took that old Winchester Shotgun and fired a hole into that wooden coffin! But the saddest part was when Joey sent a telegram to Grandma Dowdel saying “I will be coming though on a troop train watch for me”. The town was dark but every light in Grandma’s house was glowing and there she was waving and I waved back.
A LONG WAY FROM CHICAGO. A long way from chicago was a excellent book it was funny,dramtic,like when grandma shot the coffinafter it had (moved). The story was dramtic due to the ackward moments in the story.Like when grandma knew that those boys were going to break in,so she pretened that she left,and then the boys got what was coming to them.I liked the story because of all the great storys,like how the story was produced ,wrote,and how it was structered.The story had its off and on moments .Like when grandma alledgley forgot to drown the kittin,and it randomly apperaed in the kids clothes baske,when they got on the Blue Bird train.On there way back to chicago, at the end of the story.......................
I absolutely love this book. It made me laugh. I certainly favored the character Grandma Dawdell. She is funny and outgoing. I loved when Granny went to the county fair with her grandkids, Mary Alice and Joey. Granny Dawdell was always getting what she wanted by playing tricks on other people. Joey wanted to ride on an airplane very bad...and she found a creative way to help him with his adventure. If you are loooking for your own adventure you must read, A Long Way from Chicago!
In 1929, nine-year-old Joey Dowdel and his seven-year-old sister Mary Alice, who live in Chicago, IL, make the first of seven annual trips to spend a week with their Grandma Dowdel in southern Illinois, somewhere between Chicago and St. Louis, MO, during summer vacation. Each chapter covers one year's visit. And in those years, Joey and Mary Alice get to see and help Grandma give a funeral for Shotgun Cheatham, the town reprobate; get even with the Cowgill boys for their vandalism; trap catfish to feed the traveling unemployed men hit hard by the Depression; try to win the pie contest at the county fair; assist Vandalia Eubanks and Junior Stubbs to elope and get married ala Romeo and Juliet style; use the local rummage sale to keep Mrs. Elsie Wilcox's house from being foreclosed; and observe the town's centennial celebration. The year 1935 was the last visit because Joey was fifteen and the next year would be in line for a summer job in Chicago. However, there is a final chapter, almost an "afterword," for 1942 when he was going into the air corps to fight in World War II, and passed by Grandma Dowdel's house on the train. The idea of "A Novel in Stories" is that the plot progresses in a series of short stories. The first chapter actually had appeared as a short story in Twelve Shots: Stories About Guns edited by Harry Mazer in 1997. I first heard of this book through Scholastic and Children's Book of the Month clubs. But what I heard did not necessarily impress me. Of course, Scholastic and Children's B.M.O.C. both try to make the books they sell sound as good as possible, and their synopsis of A Long Way from Chicago was, "Grandma Dowdel lies, cheats, trespasses, and wakes up her sleepy little town-always for a good cause." To me, it did not sound very good. It was a Newbery Honor book in 1999, and its sequel, A Year Down Yonder, in which Mary Alice has been sent to spend the whole 1937-1938 school year with Grandma Dowdel while Joey is out West planting trees through a government work program, won the Newbery Medal in 2001. This does not surprise me, as being a Newbery winner nowadays does NOT mean that a book is good, or even fit to read for that matter. Grandma Dowdel returns in the year 1958, without Joey and Mary Alice, in a later book A Season of Gifts. It is true that there is a great deal of humor in the situations found in the book, but to see the humor one must overlook the fact that Grandma tells lies (some of which are described as whoppers), brews her own beer during prohibition, sets illegal fish traps, flaunts the law (even though the law in this case is somewhat less than perfect), cheats at the pie contest, and starts false rumors. In examining the book from a Biblical worldview, it has been suggested that one's view of the book will depend on his personal viewpoint on seeing humor in actions that are not always above reproach. I think that the underlying basis of the book may be encapsulated by the statement, "It was a story that grew in the telling in one of those little towns where there's always time to ponder all the different kinds of truth." Rather than a search for absolute truth, even in fiction, the idea of "different kinds of truth" sounds more like humanistic relativism. Also, when Joey asks Grandma about the punishment for setting illegal traps, she replies, "Nothin' if you don't get caught," which Joey concludes "was an example of the way Grandma reasoned." All in all, this
A Long Way from Chicago tells the story of a brother and sister who spend one week of each summer with their grandma who lives in a small town that seems miles from Chicago. Each chapter tells an outrageous story from their stay in one year. My kids loved the stories and begged me to read just one more. The chapters are about twenty pages each, though the last one is only two pages and will grab your heart.
A book that our ELA class is reading as our 7th novel. This is probably the best book we read. We read Crispin, The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, The Westing Game, Bridge to Terabithia, Amos Fortune, and A Long Way From Chicago. When we have to read this book for homework, the excitement and curiosity forces me go on to next page and soon chapters. Grandma Dowdel is a kind of scary but friendly and trusty character. She has a shotgun and knows how to use it, but she also makes delicious gooseberry pies. I would recommend this novel to everyone. It is wonderful.
A Long Way from Chicago is a great book because it is funny, entertaining, and interesting. I couldn't stop reading it. This book is about two kids named Joey and Mary Alice Dowdel. Joey narrates the story, he shares the experiences of visiting his thrifty, hardworking, crazy grandmother. She is different than most grandmothers; she does alot of things a usual grandma would never do. Such as go fishing, hunting and making soap. The story takes place during The Great Depression. Mary Alice and Joey go to visit every summer. The three of them together have some great adventures. Some might even suprise you. I liked the grandma in this book because she was so funny, she didn't care what people thought about her, she was kind to everyone. She just had a funny was of showing it. That is what I personally think the author is trying to tell us. We should be ourselves, and also help others. I think he is saying that because someone helped him when he was in need. Read this book to learn more adventures with Grandma,Joey and Mary!
I am 9 and I am enjoying this book. It's funny in parts of the book and then again it's thrilling in others. It's one of those books you don't want to put down and look forward to reading it.
Ok i havent actually read this book yet, but is this the one where it says in the book. "they heard something outside, he turned to look, grandma wasnt in her chair but it was rockin with out her." And then something like "she said stay behind me," and she lights a match? I dont know. i want to read this if its this one.
The narrator of this novel is an appealing boy from 1930s Chicago who visits his grandmother each summer for seven years with his younger sister, Mary Alice. "Grandma," as they call her, lives at the edge of a small town in southern Illinois, and to Joey and Mary Alice, she's somewhat "larger than life." My eight-year-old son and I enjoyed coming to understand the wonderful character of Grandma through the gradually maturing viewpoint of Joey, who begins the novel at age 9 and is 15 at its brilliant close. Through humorous and surprising stories of their summer visits downstate, Joey reveals a big-hearted, principled woman who conducts her life without reference to convention and without a hint of sentimentality. But not all is revealed about Grandma. Joey represents her decisions and speech in ways that preserve the mystery of this memorable woman, which is just how Grandma would like it. Not that she's aiming at mystery: she's just a woman of few words who holds her cards rather close to her ample bosom, the better to protect her autonomy. My 11-year-old daughter appreciated Grandma's autonomy and chutzpah, and noticed with delight how, as the chapters passed, Mary Alice showed an increasing similarity to her intrepid grandmother.