I love reading because it is dangerous. The stories shake and dazzle me. The characters relentlessly inspire and change me. The information trips me and sets me flying, drifting, plummeting. The book. That doorway. I never could resist a doorway. I am going to delete Anokaberry Annotated tomorrow. I'd do it right now but I want to give this notice so if any one has me on a favorites, Blogroll, RSS feed, or bookmarks you can let me go. Thanks for having me there by the way. This is post #967. You can find me at Buttonhole, if you want to keep in touch. Or Facebook. For now anyway. I've loved so many parts of this exercise: the discipline finding and booktalking the books, the illustrating of the posts, the sharing in the community of the Kidlitosphere. It has been exhilarating some of the time. The rest of the time I wondered about my sanity. The internet and all its applications is a tyrant. I am in my essence a monk on the path. It has been a joy to connect. Peace.








To be fair, I asked him, to tell the story about the chickens. I remembered some about it and used my memory to help him remember. I call my elderly father (he lives in Michigan and will be 85 in June) every two weeks or so. Usually on a Sunday, and we talk until the batteries on my two cordless phones run out. This week I asked him about the chickens. This is what he told me. He and mom saw an ad in the paper that Little Brothers was giving away male chicks and they decided to go ahead take a box of 50 and raise them for chicken dinners. He built a coop on the back of the garage I remember a game we (there were only 3 of us then, my sister Janie, me and a baby boy, Timmy) had of running around and around the garage and climbing the coop and jumping off the roof, there were a couple of neighbor kids involved too - in the jumping off the roof game.... He made a little door into the garage so the chickens could go into a small partitioned area in there with a couple of light bulbs for warmth. He bought some chicken feed and fashioned a trough for the food. He put some water in a couple of bowls. And dumped the box of chicks in there. I asked him if any died. He said he didn't remember. He said he didn't remember to several of my questions. When they got big enough he began to kill them. I remember the foot-long, bloody piece of 2x4 and the hatchet. He just put their necks to the board and chopped off their heads. "They would run around the yard a bit", he said, "without their heads". He had a bucket of hot to boiling water ready, he plunged the body in there and then, holding it by the feet would pluck the feathers. "Took some effort but not too bad".














The Swamps of Sleethe: Poems From Beyond the Solar System by Jack Prelutsky, Jimmy Pickering (Illustrator)
Mighty Casey by James Preller, Matthew Cordell (Illustrator)







The Roar by Emma Clayton
