Three generations of Hannahs rarely traveled far from their rural home in Oktibbeha County, Mississippi, officially homesteaded with the deed signed by President Buchanan. There were cows to be milked morning and evening – couldn’t get too far away.

If you raise your only daughter to be a reader without banning what she reads and she grows up to be a librarian, you can never tell what kind of books she is going to recommend that you add to your reading list.

The May/June issue of The Horn Book Magazine turned my thoughts to the Newbery Award given by the American Library Association annually for the most distinguished contribution to American literature for children published in the previous year.

My first memory of a dragonfly came when I was about six years old. As the oldest grandchild, I accompanied my uncle, who was nine years older, when he took the wheelbarrow down to the artesian spring to retrieve the watermelons Papaw had placed there for the ritual afternoon cutting on the long front porch.

Another writer once compared memories of someone you loved to a recording of a beautiful concert. She said the recording could never be as good as the concert, but it was the next best thing.

I’ve known Calliope Kate since she was just a puppet, born on the Mississippi River and swimming like a catfish.

I heard the old adage in my title a while ago, but this week turned out to be a perfect example. My project editor at University Press of Mississippi (UPM) for Becoming Ezra Jack Keats had alerted me that the copy editor would be finished with her work on the manuscript-in-progress and have it to me by June 16.

I first met Frances O'Roark Dowell’s writing with Dovey Coe, which I loved, so an offering of an ARC of her newest work by Net Galley was an automatic answer. Hazard, her latest offering is very different but equally outstanding.

Feeling comfortable wandering around in my local library has been one of the perks of being well-vaccinated with coronavirus numbers going down. This week after two years of ordering ahead and picking up at the window, I was really pleased to go inside and see that Oak Grove Public Library is getting things right.

A book set in a bookstore for new and rare books in 1950 sounded good even before I opened it and saw a list of the books’ characters with a brief description.

The road to getting a book published may have many potholes and twists. Sometimes it has a complete U-turn. It helps to have directions when you hit the road.

Jennifer Chan Is Not Alone, a new novel by Newbery Medal winner Tae Keller, exemplifies the angst of middle school with an unexpected twist.

The March 2022 issue of Smithsonian Magazine, with an article on the whooping cough vaccine, brought back a couple of memories for me, one that seems incompatible with the scholarly reputation of the publication.

It might seem impossible for an author/illustrator to write a humorous account of growing up during the Cold War in Russia, but that is just what Eugene Yelchin has done in The Genius Under the Table: Growing Up Behind the Iron Curtain.

I noticed a pattern in the books I have enjoyed most lately – Barefoot Dreams of Petra Luna by Alda P. Dobbs, View from Pagoda Hill by Michaela Maccoll, and Red, White, and Whole by Rajani Larocca. Each of these took the skeleton of a true family story and filled in the rest with fiction.

The Book Woman’s Daughter by Kim Michele Richardson, which goes on sale May 6, is a sequel to The Book Woman of Troublesome Creek. While it is a stand-alone, I would recommend reading the two books in order.

The days grow short for the Johnny Jump-Ups – also known as violas, but I like the common name better. You can keep your pansies, though they are lovely.

Unlikely Animals by Annie Hartnett begins with an implausible start. The protagonist Emma Starling is born with the gift of healing which seems strange enough. Then the reader realizes that the narrator tells this tale from her allotted space in the graveyard, having died and been buried some time ago.

I’ve been asked the question more than once since I started this journey to become an Ezra Jack Keats biographer. Most recently it was by our oldest grandson’s girlfriend when he brought her home to introduce her to the family. “When did you start this?”

Rachel had come to New York City with her Uncle Fritz as displaced Jews from Berlin who had somehow managed to escape the Nazis. Her husband Aaron, who labels himself “a Jew from Flatbush” tries to understand but can’t fathom the trauma she brings with her.