A single parent is suddenly called to serve in the Persian Gulf War.
In early August 1990, eleven-year-old Jasmyn Williams is shocked when her mother, a member of the Army Reserve, is called to active service. Within thirty-six hours, she is gone. Jas and Andrew, her baby half brother, are left in the care of her mother's boyfriend, Jake, who has never been responsible for Andrew, much less Jas. At first Jas is filled with anger. Then, despite the sacrifices she must make, including precious basketball practice, Jas comes to understand that her mother has to do her job. Still, she wonders, should a mother have a job that might require abandoning her children? Alice Mead, always an advocate for children, takes a firm stand on their behalf even as she creates a heroine who could probably adjust to anything.
A single parent is suddenly called to serve in the Persian Gulf War.
In early August 1990, eleven-year-old Jasmyn Williams is shocked when her mother, a member of the Army Reserve, is called to active service. Within thirty-six hours, she is gone. Jas and Andrew, her baby half brother, are left in the care of her mother's boyfriend, Jake, who has never been responsible for Andrew, much less Jas. At first Jas is filled with anger. Then, despite the sacrifices she must make, including precious basketball practice, Jas comes to understand that her mother has to do her job. Still, she wonders, should a mother have a job that might require abandoning her children? Alice Mead, always an advocate for children, takes a firm stand on their behalf even as she creates a heroine who could probably adjust to anything.
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Overview
A single parent is suddenly called to serve in the Persian Gulf War.
In early August 1990, eleven-year-old Jasmyn Williams is shocked when her mother, a member of the Army Reserve, is called to active service. Within thirty-six hours, she is gone. Jas and Andrew, her baby half brother, are left in the care of her mother's boyfriend, Jake, who has never been responsible for Andrew, much less Jas. At first Jas is filled with anger. Then, despite the sacrifices she must make, including precious basketball practice, Jas comes to understand that her mother has to do her job. Still, she wonders, should a mother have a job that might require abandoning her children? Alice Mead, always an advocate for children, takes a firm stand on their behalf even as she creates a heroine who could probably adjust to anything.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781429940252 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Farrar, Straus and Giroux |
| Publication date: | 10/14/1999 |
| Sold by: | Macmillan |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 160 |
| File size: | 950 KB |
| Age Range: | 10 - 14 Years |
About the Author
Alice Mead, author of Adem's Cross, an ALA Best Book for Young Adults, Junebug, and Junebug and the Reverend, lives in Maine.
A children's writer has the unusual task of developing a unique voice coupled with evoking the so-called magic of childhood. But is childhood truly a magical kingdom?
I do know that childhood is a time so deeply and purely felt that adulthood can rarely match it. It is a time of great heroism, dashed hopes, leaps of joy, steadfast friendships, explosive frustration, utter hilarity, the shame of betrayal. Certain smells, certain words elicit powerful memories of childhood. For me, the smell of boiled brussels sprouts even now makes me feel utter revulsion. The smell of ethyl alcohol and the words "tetanus booster"cause sheer terror. The clap of an old, dusty book snapped shut and the words "hidden staircase" fill me with wonder. Where? Where? Tell me! How could I not write about childhood?
When I was seven and eight, my family lived in postwar England, in an industrial Yorkshire city that still showed the devastation of World War II and the Nazi bombings. This left a lasting impression on me. The journey there, by ocean liner across the Atlantic, and my later poking about deserted misty castles and the dank Yorkshire moors, and smelling pungent coal fires, all created an unusual and not always pleasant adventure filled with questions. Was Robin Hood real? Was that truly King Arthur's castle? And had I really snapped a photo of the Loch Ness monster? The long, snaky streak still shows plainly in my faded photo.
Back in the United States, I grew up during the Cold War, at the height of the nuclear arms race. I studied Russian for six years, or tried to, endlessly curious about the countries behind the Iron Curtain. And when I was eighteen, there was the Vietnam War. There were antiwar protests, Woodstock, flower children. I went to a Quaker college. I wanted to major in art, but there was no art department, so I majored in English. I started attending Quaker meetings.
One summer, when I was twenty, I worked as an art counselor at a Fresh Air camp for inner-city kids. Watching their sheer delight in using paint and clay, I was hooked. I became an art teacher. I felt privileged to be with kids, to make my classroom a safe place where they could explore their own creativity.
In the meantime, I married and had two sons, both of whom are now in college. One is studying economics and one physics. My husband and I have two dogs, and used to have the occasional rabbit, chameleon, hamster, and goldfish as visitors.
My life was going along smoothly until I was forced to leave teaching because of a chronic illness. I had to rest a lot. That gave me time to work harder on my writing. I began writing a storybook about nature called "Tales of the Maine Woods." Although editors seemed to like the stories, they weren't willing to publish them. Eventually I gave the stories a grandmother, and then I gave the grandmother a granddaughter named Rayanne. Two of those original tales are part of my first book, Crossing the Starlight Bridge.
For two years I watched the war in Bosnia, formerly part of Yugoslavia. In another part of this region, one million Albanian children are among the brutally oppressed. Even under these harsh conditions, they struggle to live in peace and dignity. The family bonds in their culture are extraordinary. I wrote about these children in Adem's Cross. Each day for the past four years, I have worked to help them, and all Balkan people, regain their freedom and human rights.
Recently, other Quaker values besides non-violence became more meaningful to me. These are simplicity and self-reflection. My husband and I moved to a small house near a cliff overlooking the islands in Casco Bay, Maine. I have a flower garden that my dogs like to dig up. When I am stuck writing a story, I can go and sit on the rocks and watch the water for a while, something I have enjoyed doing through my whole life.
Alice Mead was born in 1952 and attended Bryn Mawr College. She received a master's degree in education, and later a B.S. in art education. She founded two preschools for mainstreaming handicapped preschoolers, and taught art at the junior-high-school level for a number of years. She played the flute and piccolo for twenty-eight years, and now she paints, and enjoys gardening and writing--especially about a little boy named Junebug.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
"Jas!"
"Yeah. Coming."
"Jas! It's a quarter to six."
"Hold on, will ya? Jeez. Can't you let me find my sneakers? It's not like Coach is going to start without me or anything."
I hop into the kitchen, trying to pull on a sneaker and then tie it standing up. My ten-month-old baby brother, Andrew, stands clinging to the seat of the kitchen chair. Every time I hop, he laughs.
Mom bends over and rubs her nose on his. "What's so funny? Huh? What's so funny?"
Andrew laughs harder. He has a great big belly laugh that my mom and I love to hear.
I collapse into a chair to put on my other size 91/2 sneaker. Beginning last year, in sixth grade, kids at school, egged on by Shawn Doucette, called me "Bigfoot." At first I didn't mind, but after a whole year of it, I'd had enough.
I tug at my white athletic socks. I'm wearing dark green shiny shorts and a baggy dull gray tank top that says "Alcatraz Federal Penitentiary" on it. The shirt belongs to my best friend, Danielle Roberge, but I borrowed it, maybe forever. I stand up and brush myself off.
"There. I'm ready. How do I look?"
"That shirt is awful," says Mom, sighing.
I look down at it. "Yeah." I grin. "I know."
"Your hair's a mess, too. Want me to braid it?"
"Nah. It's just a tryout for Pre-season League. No big deal, Mom. Relax."
"I am feeling nervous. Maybe there's a thunderstorm coming."
Thunderstorms are rare where we live, along the Maine coast. The cold Atlantic air breaks up the puffy white towers of thunderhead clouds that drift across the mountains from New Hampshire on late summer afternoons. Today, August 2, a stiff afternoon breeze has been blowing up from the cove. Mom steps out on the back deck, carrying Andrew on her hip.
"It's gusty, Jasmyn. Make sure you shut the back door tightly," she adds.
"Okay."
"I don't want it blowing open."
"I'm eleven, Mom. I think I can shut the door by myself."
I live with my mother and little brother and sometimes Mom's boyfriend, Jake, although he's in and out, in a coastal Maine town called Stroudwater. Stroudwater may be small, but there's nothing small about its dedication to schoolboy and schoolgirl basketball. Making the seventh-grade team is the first big step on the path to high school varsity. Everybody knows it. Half the town will probably show up at tonight's tryouts. Every girl's dad will be there, except mine.
We hop in the car, a slightly rusty beige 1985 Oldsmobile. Duct tape patches hold together a perfectly decent red vinyl interior that's ripped here and there.
The engine catches. Mom tromps quickly on the gas, but the engine stalls anyway. I smell gasoline. The engine has flooded. Ho-hum. The seconds are ticking by.
We watch the Parnells, the people next door, water their garden. Now Mrs. Parnell is cleaning their above-ground pool. One day, Danielle and I found a couple of frogs floating around in there. We couldn't figure out how they jumped thirty-six inches into the air to get over the side. The frogs were dead, because they can't live in chlorine.
If the Parnells weren't so grouchy, maybe Danielle and I could be floating around in the pool instead of frogs. We've asked them a couple of times, but they've never said yes. Just when you think you are their permanent enemies, however, they smile and act nice and give you zucchinis.
Now I'm nervous. It's much too late to walk. "Want me to take my bike?"
"Not yet. Hey," Mom says, "you think I'm a quitter? Huh? When the going gets tough —"
"No!" I yelp, and clap my hands over my ears. The saying is "When the going gets tough, the tough get going." I cannot tell you how many times I've heard that. It's one of those boot camp things.
My mom went through six weeks of basic training at Lackland Air Force Base in Texas. She is not a quitter. She stays in great shape, jogging, working out, lifting weights. She can do anything her country asks of her. Right now she's working for the army as a supply coordinator at an office in Portland.
My mom is tall. My dad, an air force pilot in Japan, is tall. I have tallness in me, waiting to come out. I am a big kid. Everyone says I will be huge because of my long legs and big feet. I can dribble between my knees. That's how I make my move, my under-the-basket, between-the-knees-dribble, turn, fake, and lay-up shot.
As we wait for the gasoline to calm down inside the carburetor, Mom sighs and says something really strange. "Don't ever think you're more special than other people, that you don't have to work as hard or suffer as much."
"Huh?" I look at her. What's that supposed to mean? Suddenly I feel desperate to get to tryouts.
Mom's still staring at Mr. Parnell. He's digging up potatoes. Now Mrs. Parnell is bringing over the wheel-barrow. From a distance, they look cuddly and cute, like the apple dolls at the church craft fair.
They live to our east, right at the top of the cliff above Spar Cove, in a big old farmhouse they can't take proper care of anymore. On the other side, the house faces the channel and Moorhead Island.
"Oh, I don't know. Don't take being in Pre-season for granted, I guess. Remember to work at it every day."
"Yeah. Well, yeah. I will. Besides, if I don't, you'll remind me, right?"
She doesn't answer. Just looks down at her lap. Something is up. This is absolutely not normal.
"Right?" I ask again.
Mr. Parnell is standing up now, staring at his tomato plants.
"Come on, Mom. Let's go. Please? We'll be late. Danielle thinks Coach is going to pick me for captain. If you're team captain, you have to help set up and put equipment away at the end."
Mom turns the key again. The engine starts. We back slowly out of the driveway. As we start forward, the car gives two big lurches, but then, thank God, the engine catches for real. "Mom, hurry, okay?"
"Quiet!" she snaps at me. "Just be quiet!"
I shrink down in my seat. Wow. It's not like her at all to lose her temper like that. She usually warns me first. What on earth is up?
CHAPTER 2
Mom says in a calmer voice, "I'm sorry, Jas, for yelling at you."
"That's okay."
Thinking back, I realize Mom started acting weird during the five o'clock news. Was it the weather? I try to remember what the weatherman said. Nothing. No clouds today, sunshine all the way to Idaho. How could Mom even think about a thunderstorm?
"I know. Are you having PMS?"
She bursts out laughing. "No. That's enough, okay? I'm fine."
From his car seat in back, Andrew lets out a holler.
"Jas, can you see what he wants?"
I whip around. "What, Andrew?"
He points. There, on the floor, is his favorite blanket, Binky.
I unlatch my seat belt and lean over the seat to reach for it.
"Jas!" Mom yells. "What are you doing?"
"Getting his blanket. You just told me to."
I hand Binky to Andrew, and he grins and clasps it to his chest.
"So I did," Mom mutters.
"Come on, Mom, you can tell me," I say. "Did you have a fight with Jake?"
My mom and I talk to each other this way. Straight out. No secrets. Jake is Mom's boyfriend and Andrew's dad. They've been engaged for two years, but still aren't married. My mom keeps getting cold feet. Whatever they decide is fine. Jake has nothing to do with me.
"No, I didn't have a fight with Jake," Mom says.
"Then you think I won't make the team? I will. I promise I'll do a good job out there. I'll hustle, okay?"
"Remember on the five o'clock news tonight, when they showed a tiny country called Kuwait?" she asks.
"No."
"They showed some camels and oil wells and then tanks?"
"Not really."
Mom sighs.
We park the big, old car. Mom gets out and reaches into the back to drag Andrew from his car seat. He weighs a ton.
"Yeah, so what was it about camels?" I ask.
Mom smiles at me. "Nothing. Good luck at tryouts. Come on. I'll race you."
With Andrew on her hip, Mom takes off running across the parking lot. Andrew is laughing in his usual great big chuckling way. And that makes me laugh, slowing me down. Besides, I'm a little worried about getting a cramp in my side before tryouts. So Mom and Andrew win.
She turns at the door and yells, "I win! I win!"
I yell back, "I let you! I let you!"
Inside, the hallway is cool and dark, but it's also humid, from being closed up all summer. Everything smells like floor polish and fresh paint. That's about all our school gets — cleaned and patched up, never anything new.
There is one exception to our school's worn-out condition. The gym floor is almost brand-new.
"Jas!"
"Hey, Mr. Campbell!"
"Call me Coach."
"Oh, yeah. Hi, Coach."
Coach Campbell is paunchier than you might think would be good for a basketball coach. He is mostly bald. And he has a slight limp from too much knee surgery. He always wears a whistle.
Most of the girls are already there, including Bridget O'Donnell and Amy Forest, the little sheep who follows her everywhere. Bridget and Amy have the newest ball and have claimed one of the baskets for their own; they spend most of the warm-up time telling the other seven girls they can't use it. Bridget is wearing a brand-new Red Star Hoop Camp T-shirt with "MVP" stenciled on the back. What a show-off! Red Star costs a ton of money. There's no way Mom could afford to send me.
"It's ten after six, folks. Start some warm-up laps, everybody. Let's go!" Coach claps his hands together.
I hop right up and get going. My mom taught me not to skimp on the small stuff, but to go all out, big or small. And soon I'm in the lead, even though I'm not running fast. I'm concentrating.
As I pass the gym lobby doors for the third time, I notice that a large group of grown-ups is talking with my mom. The junior high social studies teacher, Mr. Arthur, is there. So are lots of the parents of the girls who are here.
Mr. Arthur looks very serious. His head is tipped to one side, like a bird looking at a pebble. He's rattling the coins in his pocket and staring at the shiny yellow floor.
"Let's pick up the pace, Jas!" Coach calls out. "Come on, girls. Sprint!"
I can hear Bridget behind me. "Did you see how he singled her out already? He plays such favorites. Besides, it's too hot for sprints," Bridget says to Amy. "I'm going to have my dad tell him we shouldn't have to do sprints if we don't want to."
I suddenly notice she's much too close. Then her foot grazes the heel of my sneaker, so that I stumble forward and nearly fall flat on my face.
"Cut it out, Bridget," I yell, whirling around.
"Ooops, Bigfoot nearly fell!" She laughs. "Maybe you can't run this far 'cause your feet are too heavy."
"Drop dead."
"Is there a problem, girls?" Coach asks.
"No. No problem." We both smile at him.
"Good."
"And by the way, Bridget, don't call me Bigfoot."
If I were the coach, I'd cut Bridget for her attitude. Mom says the most important thing she learned in boot camp was you can do almost anything, no matter how hard. You think you'll never make it, carrying seventy pounds on your back, not getting any sleep, fighting mosquitoes the size of helicopters. You think you're not strong enough and never will be. But you keep trying and trying, and one day, if you keep your mind on it, you'll find you're there.
"Okay, break. Line up on the center line for some passing drills."
"I'll get the balls, Coach." Bridget runs over to the closet and pulls out a big mesh bag of ancient basketballs. The nubbles are worn off.
Suddenly Danielle comes running in. Sorry, she mouths to me from across the gym. Stevie. Again.
Stevie is her younger brother. He's eight and isn't totally normal. He's difficult. He has terrible tantrums and arches his back until you think it'll break.
Danielle has been my best friend since first grade. We are like sisters. Only we look totally different. I have light brown hair and gray eyes. She has dark wavy hair and dark brown eyes. She is part French Canadian and part Greek, and I am nothing interesting.
My hair is long and almost always in a braid, and hers is short and wild. She's great at crouching down low and stealing the ball. And I'm the jumper, the leaper.
Her dad strolls over, his hands in his pockets, to the circle around my mom.
"Jas!" barks Coach. "You with us or against us?"
"With!"
"Let's go, then."
I fall into a rhythm on the court. My feet, my great big bongo Bigfoot feet, are a musical instrument on this wonderful bouncy gym floor. It feels great to run on it. I think there's a layer of rubber under the wood. Or maybe air!
Here to there, here to there. Divide the distance into the right number of steps, get the rhythm. Cross the shiny, silky yellow boards, glossy as a horse in sun-light.
Bounce passes. Kids never look for them. So easy. Bounce past your opponent's foot. Pass to your teammate. Bounce and pass.
And layups. Step, step. Lift and arch your wrist like a piano player lifting music from the flatness of the lying-down keys. That's how I do it. Arch and follow through.
I dribble past the other kids, around them, through them, to make my song. I must make my song. My bongo Bigfoot song. No one can stop me.
I wipe my forehead with a corner of the Alcatraz shirt. I happen to glance up in the bleachers, and I seeShawn Doucette, sitting in the top row. He waves and yells, "Hi, Jas!"
Then Coach's hand clasps my sweaty shoulder and gives me a little shake. "You're getting better, kid. All the time, you're getting better. You practice a lot this summer?"
Danielle comes over and slides her arm around my waist. The truth is no. I meant to, but I never got around to it. I know he wants me to say yes. To say, "Every day, Coach." It's one of those grown-up questions that come complete with answers. If I say no, he'll be mad. If I say yes, I'm a liar.
"Yes."
"Atta girl."
Danielle looks at me and rolls her eyes, freeing me from my lie. I glance around for my mom. There she is with half the town, it seems. They're all looking at me, and nobody's smiling.
I don't get it. What's wrong?
Shawn comes bounding down the bleachers. "Hey, Bigfoot. You were awesome."
"Yeah? Thanks. Don't call me that," I add automatically. "Shawn, look at the grown-ups. Why are they staring at me?"
"That's weird. I don't know. Maybe they've got the flu. Maybe their underwear is too tight. I find that accounts for a lot of the weirdness typical of grown-ups. Half of 'em have wedgies."
I glare at him.
"Come on. Laugh, Williams. You know you want to."
I'm hot and thirsty, and he's directly in my path to the water fountain. He's intentionally blocking my way.
"Move! I want a drink, you idiot!"
I jog over to the water fountain. Coach is already calling us back to center circle, but everyone's milling around, not paying attention.
Coach gives a shrill blast on his whistle. All the girls run over. Since there are only ten of us here, it doesn't look as if anyone will get cut tonight.
"All right. Listen up. No cuts. During Pre-season I'm gonna be using everybody to see who will play the most in November. Everybody plays for now — the good and the bad. That means bench time for some of you hot-shots. You got that, ladies?" He looks at Bridget, and she blushes a little.
"I don't want anybody's parents showing up here, telling me how to coach the team. You miss a practice, you sit out at least half the next game. We have one full week of practice, every afternoon from three till five. The following week, games start: Tuesdays and Thurs-days. Three weeks. Don't forget to pick up two jerseys on your way out — one maroon and one white. And I'll see you Monday."
"What a jerk he is," Bridget mutters to Amy. "I told you he hates me. Did you see the way he said that about parents? Next thing you know, he'll make Jas team captain, when I'm the one who went to Red Star, not her."
As we pull our jerseys from the box, Coach yells out. "Oh, and one more thing. Jasmyn Williams is team captain for Pre-season."
"You see?" Bridget says, loud enough for everyone to hear. "What did I tell you?"
CHAPTER 3
As soon as we get in the car, I ask, "So what was that huddle all about? Did it have anything to do with a tiny country with camels?"
"Yes, Jas." Mom sighs. "I'll tell you about it when we get home."
That won't take long. Stroudwater is small. Our street is a little over a mile north of the junior high parking lot, a short bike ride. And Andrew's day care is a bit farther down Main, south of the school.
The town center is a crossroads with an old cemetery dating from the Revolutionary War and a Congregational church. Then there's a gas station, a day-care center, post office, two tacky tourist shops, Golly Polly's ice cream, and Ken's Hardware and Handy store. And the schools, of course.
Stroudwater is half on the ocean. Route 1 runs north-south up the middle, and that cuts the whole town in half. Route 1 is for the tourists. The inland half has a smelly paper factory, where Jake works, and a couple of huge sand and gravel pits. And the northern edge still has a few old dairy farms left. That's where Shawn Doucette lives.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Soldier Mom"
by .
Copyright © 1999 Alice Mead.
Excerpted by permission of Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.