2011, ISBN: 9780061873256

Speak. Good. 8.26 x 5.72 x 0.69 inches. Paperback. 2009. 247 pages. remainder.<br>Hildy Biddle wants something monumental to happen so she can finally prove herself to be more than… More...

Speak. Good. 8.26 x 5.72 x 0.69 inches. Paperback. 2009. 247 pages. remainder.<br>Hildy Biddle wants something monumental to happen so she can finally prove herself to be more than a high school journalist. The problem? Her town?s biggest story stars a ghost, which is not an easy interview. But while the local paper is playing up people?s fears with shocking headlines of creepy h appenings, Hildy is determined to discover what?s really going on . Unfortunately, her desire to uncover the truth is starting to c ause a stir. With rumors swirling and tensions high, can Hildy pu sh past all the hype and find out the real truth? Editorial Revi ews Review A-peeling all around! School Library Journal Sharp p acing and an intriguing premise....She stocks her work with stron g, sage women, the elements for a budding romance and plenty of f unny moments. ùPublishers Weekly, starred review About the Autho r July 12, 1951 - I was born at eleven A.M., a most reasonable ti me, my mother often said, and when the nurse put me in my mother' s arms for the first time I had both a nasty case of the hiccups and no discernible forehead (it's since grown in). I've always be lieved in comic entrances. As I grew up in River Forest, Illinoi s in the 1950's I seem to remember an early fascination with thin gs that were funny. I thought that people who could make other pe ople laugh were terribly fortunate. While my friends made their c areer plans, declaring they would become doctors, nurses, and law yers, inwardly, I knew that I wanted to be involved somehow in co medy. This, however, was a difficult concept to get across in fir st grade. But I had a mother with a great comic sense (she was a high school English teacher) and a grandmother who was a funny pr ofessional storyteller--so I figured the right genes were in ther e somewhere, although I didn't always laugh at what my friends la ughed at and they rarely giggled at my jokes. That, and the fact that I was overweight and very tall, all made me feel quite diffe rent when I was growing up--a bit like a water buffalo at a tea p arty. My grandmother, who I called Nana, had the biggest influen ce on me creatively. She taught me the importance of stories and laughter. She never said, 'Now I'm going to tell you a funny stor y', she'd just tell a story, and the humor would naturally flow f rom it because of who she was and how she and her characters saw the world. She showed me the difference between derisive laughter that hurts others and laughter that comes from the heart. She sh owed me, too, that stories help us understand ourselves at a deep level. She was a keen observer of people. I kept a diary as a c hild, was always penning stories and poems. I played the flute he artily, taught myself the guitar, and wrote folk songs. For years I wanted to be a comedienne, then a comedy writer. I was a vorac ious reader, too, and can still remember the dark wood and the gr een leather chairs of the River Forest Public Library, can hear m y shoes tapping on the stairs going down to the children's room, can feel my fingers sliding across rows and rows of books, lookin g through the card catalogues that seemed to house everything tha t anyone would ever need to know about in the entire world. My pa rents divorced when I was eight years old, and I was devastated a t the loss of my father. I pull from that memory regularly as a w riter. Every book I have written so far has dealt with complex fa ther issues of one kind or another. My father was an alcoholic an d the pain of that was a shadow that followed me for years. I att empted to address that pain in Rules of the Road. It was a very h ealing book for me. I didn't understand it at the time, but I was living out the theme that I try to carry into all of my writing: adversity, if we let it, will make us stronger. In my twenties, I had a successful career in sales and advertising with the Chic ago Tribune, McGraw-Hill, and Parade Magazine. I met my husband E van, a computer engineer, while I was on vacation. Our courtship was simple. He asked me to dance; I said no. We got married five months later in August, 1981. But I was not happy in advertising sales, and I had a few ulcers to prove it. With Evan's loving sup port, I decided to try my hand at professional writing. I wish I could say that everything started falling into place, but it was a slow, slow build--writing newspaper and magazine articles for n ot much money. My daughter Jean was born in July of 82. She had t he soul of a writer even as a baby. I can remember sitting at my typewriter (I didn't have a computer back then) writing away with Jean on a blanket on the floor next to me. If my writing was bad that day, I'd tear that page out of the typewriter and hand it t o her. 'Bad paper,' I'd say and Jean would rip the paper in shred s with her little hands. I had moved from journalism to screenwr iting when one of the biggest challenges of my life occurred. I w as in a serious auto accident which injured my neck and back seve rely and required neurosurgery. It was a long road back to wholen ess, but during that time I wrote Squashed, my first young adult novel. The humor in that story kept me going. Over the years, I h ave come to understand how deeply I need to laugh. It's like oxyg en to me. My best times as a writer are when I'm working on a boo k and laughing while I'm writing. Then I know I've got something. Joan's first novel, Squashed, won the Delacorte Prize for a Fir st Young Adult Novel. Five novels for young adult readers have fo llowed: Thwonk, Sticks, Rules of the Road (LA Times Book Prize an d Golden Kite), Backwater and Hope was Here (Newbery Honor Medal) . Joan lives in Darien, CT with her husband and daughter. Copyr ight © 2000 by Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers. All rights reserved. Excerpt. ® Reprinted by permission. All rights reser ved. DATELINE: Banesville, New York. May 3. Bonnie Sue Bomgartn er, Banesville's soon-to-be 67th Apple Blossom Queen, let loose a stream of projectile vomiting in the high school cafeteria. It was the tuna fish, she gasped miserably, and proceeded to upchuc k again. I wrote that down on my notepad as Darrell Jennings an d I took a big step back. The crowning of the queen was tomorro w at 10:00 A.M. in the Happy Apple Tent--a major moment in my sma ll town of Banesville, an orchard-growing community in Upstate Ne w York where apples are our livelihood and the core of our existe nce. The nurse rushed in. Darrell, the editor of The Core, the high school paper where I worked as a reporter, said, It's a clif fhanger, Hildy. The festival law says if the queen is sick and ca n't appear, the runner-up gets crowned. I didn't know that. H e pushed his glasses onto his head and grinned. That's why I'm th e editor. I jabbed him in the arm for that comment. Darrell has been editing my copy for close to forever. Bonnie Sue heaved a gain and the nurse mentioned something about food poisoning. My brother had food poisoning and it kept coming up all weekend, Da rrell whispered ominously. Stay on this, Hildy. This could be big . Bigger than big. I want the story behind the story. He always says that. Mrs. Perth, the festival coordinator, who also work ed in the school office, ran in. She'll be fine, everyone. Bonn ie Sue looked close to apple green. I felt for her, honestly, eve n though she was the kind of gorgeous girl who acted like she was personally responsible for her looks. Mrs. Perth handed Bonnie Sue a tub of lip gloss. Bonnie Sue glossed and stuck her head ba ck in the bucket. Everything, Mrs. Perth said fiercely, will be fine. She shooed us out of the cafeteria, but not before she s aid to me, Hildy, of course we don't want to mention this inciden t in our paper. I looked at my notes. Why not? Hildy, the App le Blossom Festival is about the hope of the harvest yet to come. Banesville needed a good harvest. We were still -reeling from two bad harvests in a row. This was a make-or-break year for the orchards. I understand about the hope, Mrs. Perth, but a queen with food poisoning is kind of interesting and-- Mrs. Perth forc ed out a smile. The Apple Blossom Queen is the symbol of unbridle d joy and farm-fresh produce. Her plump hand covered mine. And we wouldn't want that symbol to be tarnished in any way. Would we? But Bonnie Sue has food poisoning. That's the truth. The trut h, she snarled, is that we've had quite enough problems in Banesv ille! This festival is committed to being happy and positive from beginning to end! Her eyes turned to slits. You're just like you r father, Hildy Biddle. Thank you, I said quietly. She shut the cafeteria door in my face. From behind the door, I heard Bonni e Sue bellow, I'm not giving up my crown! I earned it! It's mine! I wrote that down, too. I was standing in front of Frankie's Funny Fun Mirrors, watching them stretch my legs and elongate my neck and head as the Apple Blossom Festival pulsated around me. Two little boys ran up, snickering. What's worse than finding a worm in an apple you're eating? the bigger one asked me. Wha t? Finding half a worm! They grabbed their throats, shrieked, Eeeewwww! and ran off. I made a face in the mirror, stuck out my tongue. Hildy Biddle, reporter at large. I headed across t he midway that was actually Banesville High's football field. I w alked under the great arch of blossoms, passing men dressed like Johnny Appleseed. I turned left at the storytelling tent where Gr anny Smith, our local storyteller, was holding forth; did a twirl and a two-step past Bad Apple Bob and the Orchard Boys playing t heir foot-stomping regional hit, You Dropped Me Like an Apple Pee l on the Ground. Oh, baby, I sang along with them, why'd you ha ve to go? You're just like your father, Hildy Biddle. I guess that meant obstinate, unbending, always searching for truth. I can live with that. I remembered being with Dad at the festiva l when I was little, riding the Haunted Cider Mill roller coaster , hiding behind him when the wicked queen from Snow White walked by with her poisoned apple. We'd eat fat caramel apples, drink ci der till our stomachs would groan. Everywhere I looked, there see med to be a memory of him. He died three years ago from a heart attack. I still can't imagine what God was thinking when he le t that happen. I looked up in the sky and saw Luss Lustrom's tw o-seater prop plane flying overhead. I waved even though he could n't see me. Luss gave air tours of the apple valley. I rode with him last year. I'll never forget the experience--flying low over the apple trees that were in full blossom. The sky seemed bluer t han it did when I was standing on the ground; the valley seemed s weeter; the promise of good soil that people would fight for and cry over seemed real to me. Luss did his best cackling ghost la ugh as we flew over the old Ludlow property, a place some people in town thought was haunted. The ghost of old man Ludlow, Luss shouted darkly. Will we see him? I hoped not. I had wanted to keep flying in the sky with Luss and not come down, but when you r family owns an orchard, coming down to earth isn't optional. I headed to the Happy Apple Tent, where the queen would be crowne d. Bonnie Sue Bomgartner wasn't anywhere to be seen. She had miss ed the filling of the giant grinning apple balloon. She'd missed Mayor Frank T. Fudd's annual declaration: I can feel it in my bon es; this is going to be the best festival ever! The tent was cram med with people. Tanisha Bass, my best friend and The Core's phot ographer, was stationed by the entrance. A group of small childre n dressed like honeybees held hands and wove through the crowd. My cousin Elizabeth, The Core's graphic artist, who wrote for th e paper only when we were desperate for copy, whispered, I heard Bonnie Sue is still at home. Darrell, our editor, shook his hea d. She made it to the convertible in her pink dress. And puked on the dress, I heard. That was Lev Radner, my second former boyf riend and The Core's marketing manager. I looked at Lev's thick , curly dark hair, his blue eyes, his chiseled jaw. He was seriou sly cute, but I'm sorry, when a guy cheats on me--and this does h appen with disturbing regularity--I'm gone. T. R. Dobbs, our sp ortswriter, marched up. This just in--the convertible turned back . How do you know this? I demanded. I never divulge my source s, T.R. said, smiling. Big woman approaching. Tanisha pointed t o Mrs. Perth, who was chugging toward the tent, apple blossoms bo uncing on her straw hat, not a happy camper. I stepped into her path. Mrs. Perth, could you-- She almost ran me over! Are you c oming? she barked, looking behind her. I looked to see Lacey Ho rton, the Apple Blossom Queen runner-up, walking hesitantly towar d the tent, not in the traditional pink dress with pink heels, bu t in jeans, boots, and a work shirt. Lacey was president of the H orticulture Club and, like me, the child of family orchard owners . She caught up with Mrs. Perth, who snapped, How you think you can represent the growers of Banesville dressed like that, Miss Horton, I will never know. Lacey smiled sweetly. All I know how to be is -myself. Mrs. Perth harrumphed and handed Lacey a tub of lip gloss. Lacey handed it back. I took notes like mad. Tan isha snapped shots. Suddenly another photographer elbowed his way past Tanisha and started photographing Lacey. Tanisha tapped h im on the shoulder. Excuse me. The guy ignored her. His cap rea d Catch the buzz in Banesville . . . Read THE BEE. The Bee is our local newspaper. Mrs. Perth hissed, Let's get this over with. Lacey looked down. She wasn't gorgeous like Bonnie Sue, but she was pretty enough, with dark brown hair and green eyes. Congra tulations, Lacey, I said, grinning. How's it feel to be queen? Weird, she whispered. We've had so many challenges in town, I c ontinued. What's it mean to you to be queen of this year's festiv al? Mrs. Perth interrupted, We don't have time for-- I'd like to answer Hildy's question, Mrs. Perth. Lacey smiled at me. It me ans that maybe I can help people understand what it's like to be a small farmer. I felt like cheering. Lacey wasted no time re defining her role. She stood on the stage, one hand steadying her crown, the other holding the microphone. We all know in Banesv ille how things can change suddenly, like the weather, she began. People chuckled. That, Speak, 2009, 2.5, HarperCollins. Good. 203mm / 136mm. Paperback. 2011. 288 pages. Top text block is tanned. <br>The honey bee is a willi ng conscript, a working wonder, an unseen and crucial link in Ame rica's agricultural industry. But never before has its survival b een so unclear-and the future of our food supply so acutely chall enged. Enter beekeeper John Miller, who trucks his hives around the country, bringing millions of bees to farmers otherwise bere ft of natural pollinators. Even as the mysterious and deadly epid emic known as Colony Collapse Disorder devastates bee populations across the globe, Miller forges ahead with the determination and wry humor of a true homespun hero. The Beekeeper's Lament tells his story and that of his bees, making for a complex, moving, and unforgettable portrait of man in the new natural world. ., HarperCollins, 2011, 2.5<

ISBN: 9780061873256

Harper Perennial. Used - Good. A sound copy with only light wear. Overall a solid copy at a great price!, Harper Perennial, 2.5