Adam held Julie, his tiger soft toy, as we started to read more in
Edward Tulane. At this point I probably should mention that Julie got her name from a real-life tiger who, along with her brother Ron, made the journey from Canadian zoo to South African sanctuary where, it was hoped, they could be taught how to behave like wild animals, make a home on the continent--where tigers are not--and be the start of a long line of an African species who could help "restock" Asian tiger territory.
Julie the Second had come from the Anchorage Zoo on the same day Adam and I accompanied his pre-school class on a field trip to see the newly-arrived tigers there. From that day early last summer until now, Julie has held a very special place in Adam's heart, much as Edward Tulane does for Abilene. Adam is somewhat of a Build-a-Bear aficionado, and he often uses the clothes and accessories meant for Ariel, his pink leopard, to share with the smaller Julie. When he started kindergarten this year, Julie accompanied him for the first few days, and at night she occupies the area just below his chin and in between his arms.
And in his arms she rested as we prepared to settle back into our previous-night's reading, having just made our way through Circle Time and a book exploration. As the Tulanes prepared for their shipboard journey and Pellegrina stared at Edward, I thought about
how Julie, unlike Edward, loved nothing more than to be held close and even tight, and didn't seem to mind if her clothing became wrinkly. "Well," I thought as I turned the page, "different personalities."
As the shipboard journey gets underway, Edward's misfortune approaches in the form of Amos and Martin, who speak condescendingly to Abiline. "Edward, as usual, was disregarding the conversation."
"What do you think it means to
disregard?"
"Not really listening," Violet offered. I asked Adam what he thought.
"Um, 'not guarding.'" I was rather pleased with this answer for a couple of different reasons. First, he didn't merely copy Violet's answer as many children (Adam included) do in some instances. He had the courage--and dramatic as it may sound I do believe it takes a certain amount of courage to proffer a different answer, especially if the first child tends to be perceived, as Violet often is by Adam, to be more clever--he had the courage to say something different when he could easily have saved face by repeating his friend's answer.
I also knew exactly why he answered as he did. We'd been playing with words all his life, and about a year ago I started talking to him about Greek and Latin roots. I've confined it to simple prefixes and suffixes, such as
un and
less. "What does it mean to be penni
less" I would ask; he would answer, in the beginning after haven given it much thought, "You have no pennies!"
Unhappy he understood to mean "not happy." Over time he'd been more informally exposed to lots of other word parts and I tried to point out the root meanings as they came up.
So when he defined
disregard to mean "not guarding," I was rather impressed, although it did take me by pleasant surprise. Listening to myself on the tape I thought the jaw dropping was practically audible. He was not blurting out answers, rather he was taking the time to think through what was being discussed, and at this stage, for him at least, I thought this was much more important than the right answer.
"You are on the right track! Both of you are so clever! To
regard means to 'pay attention,' but to
disregard means to..."
"
Not pay attention," they chimed.
"I thought it was
guard like when someone does...I wasn't on the right track," Adam said, somewhat unhappily.
"You were actually," I assured him, simultaneously remembering those post-modern novels with word play involving spellings and meta-cognition. "You were using your thinking cap, you know why?"
"Why?"
"Because I know that you were thinking about the beginning of the word,
dis, and I know that you were breaking down the word and thinking what each part means." I hoped he heard the smile in my words as well as saw it on my face.
"Yeah and there was the
guard part."
"Yeah! There you go!"
I loved some of the words that followed:
billowed,
dashing ("He's thinking to himself, 'I look quite good,'" I said in an affected voice),
mortified. We talked about people who too often think very highly of themselves and how the pocket watch rolled toward Abilene.
"But, but it was vacuumed up!" Adam was really showing his prowess today with remembering other details, even if he had forgotten that it had been rescued from the new maid's negligence. But if he felt at all awkward it was relieved by articulation of the word
underwear, an utterance I've learned is hilariously scandalous to the kindergarten-first grade set. The children laughed uproariously.
They quietened down when Edward's mortification arrived, but only momentarily.
Edward was paying attention now. He was mortified."Awwwwwwweeeeesommme, underwear!" Adam crowed.
"Did his butt show?" Violet wanted to know.
"Probably, he's completely naked."
"Eeeeeewwwwwwww!" the pair of them cried out.
I tried to get back on track by joining in on their act. "'Give him to me!' screamed Abilene. 'He's mine.'" I semi-shouted out the words. The rabbit sailed, naked, through the air as Abilene protested his shameless treatment, tackling one boy as he tried to make a pass to the other.
So it was that Edward Tulane did not go flying back into the dirty hands of Martin. Instead... "What do you think happened?"
"He broke," Adam said sadly.
Violet agreed. "He broke."
We talked a little bit about techniques of using what one has read so far, including pictures and the title, to provide hints as to what they think might happen. I added in a bit about central characters and their importance to the story; since Edward Tulane's name was in the title...
Instead, Edward Tulane went overboard.
"Into the water?"
Adam let out a wail. "Aaaahhhhh, I'm heartbroken!" He was only partly play acting. "Oh noooooo," he cried softly as Edward began to sink.
And so we made our way through Edward's disaster and Adam's vow, "I'm going to find him!" along with his indignant reply, "He's
not a toy!" when the fisherman referred to Edward in this way.
"They think he's just a bunny rabbit," Violet explained.
*********
I am actually typing this about a week or so after the reading took place (and a day after the above segment), and went to get the book to make reference to the next section I was planning to type about. When Adam saw it he made a soft purring sound, the kind of sound a child makes when he cuddles something he loves or cares about. As I continue to type he is flipping through, looking at the pictures, making note of where we left off. Our bookmark actually had gotten replaced into the wrong spot, although I'm not sure if he knows this.
He turns to the picture of Rosie carelessly flipping Edward around in the Tulanes' dining room.
"There's the pee. The mommy should be more upset at what the dog did to him," he said in a low voice, pointing to the limp form of Edward Tulane, "because that's her child['s]."
Then he turns slowly, carefully, thoughtfully. His mouth is closed, he is unsmiling, concentrating.
"He's hiding." Edward is sitting, seemingly forgotten, on a shelf in the doll shop, and Adam is sad.Then he closes the book and points to the cover.
"He's walking," he says in a whisper. "Because the house of the outside, and a bush right there and the sky and a road." I've read the part of the book in which this scene takes place, but Adam has not, and I am so curious as to what he will say when he gets to that part, given the way his emotions have responded thus far.
Flipping through the book, Adam appears to be looking for something. "This is where we left off." Perched on a post is a crow, the sort that, unbeknown to Adam and Edward both, soon will be cackling at the abused rabbit, who would be trying to talk himself out of the depths of despair by remembering, "I have been loved."
Adam hasn't yet articulated any sort of horrific or happy ending for Edward Tulane, at least not that I recall. This, of course, is why teachers record things--we haven't the memories of children, who know what they know, even when they can't remember it.
"And then his heart talked and it said the names of the stars. Because he really did say the names in his heart." Of course. He must be looking for the part when the rabbit spent time on Lawrence's shoulders, gazing at the stars. But in there also is another memory, I suspect, perhaps the one that even echoes in my own heart. I think this because he is examining the colored picture of Pelligrina reading to Abilene, and I recall that somewhere in this time, Edward had lain in his bed looking at the stars, repeating to himself,
as bright as the stars on a moonless night, words that had brought him comfort. Does Adam remember this? He is feeling sad for the rabbit, and I wonder if on some level he turns to this page because he remembers the repetition and how it had made Edward feel comforted, something he so desperately needs now.
"Can you read this part to me, please? Then I will tell you if I remember it. The stars." I read a few lines from the page before chapter twenty three, but he falls into disinterest. It is not the section with the stars. He explains that Edward had lain on his back said the names of the stars in his heart, to console himself.
"Big Dipper, Milky Way, Northern Star." He has positioned himself on his back, on my bed, and I am impressed with his memory. He had asked about the stars several times when we'd been driving. I recall this and wonder how often he thinks of Edward Tulane; it's been awhile since we read it.
"Maybe there's a wolf round that corner," he ventures, pointing to the cover again, drawing Julie close. Wolves exist in Adam's shadow world, the world that exists for all children, I suppose, where scary things lurk. "If he's not real, then why is he walking?"
And my heart melts because in my memory I carry also images and words of his from another discussion we had following the last time we read about Edward. The tape had been full and I hadn't made the blog entries for them yet, so I tried to type as fast as I could after leaving Adam to his sleep. We must have read the part when Edward is kicked from the train; I don't recall all the details, but I do know that after Lucy's howl, I had told him this is what dogs do when they are grieving. And strangely enough I remember my mother, when I was very, very young, telling a friend that she knew So and So (who had been ill) had died during the night, because the woman's dog kept up the same sort of howling until morning. In the passages of my mind her words are almost whispers, to denote their mysterious or even hallowed nature. She often discussed things such as the psyches of dogs and personalities of angels, and now, watching my own child, I wondered what whispers are in his mind. I have this memory from my mother's conversation; how will he remember this book? Domestic dogs are also part of his shadow world, and the way he repeatedly returns to Rosie fascinates me. He fears him, he is upset with him for what he has done to Edward, but seems intrigued by him as well. I was to wonder later, does he want to the dog do be good? Is he trying in his imagination to eliminate his own fears?
And then someone must have commented on Edward's non-status, or referred to him as a toy, and we mentioned it in our post-reading conversation, because Adam had then insisted, "He’s REAL." His voice a combination of indignation and mournfulness, and I can still recall the way it then wavered as he spoke.
"The dog will take him and say ruff ruff and, 'Is this your house?' and Edward will say from his heart, 'Yes’.""He is walking back to a house on the cover….he is going back to the house where the one was that had him first."
His voice trailed off there, and the ellipses in his voice, with the subsequent silence, marked the words perfectly.
