Remember Max?
Grandpa studies him a moment
and then nods
and releases the baby
to my open arms.
As I offer the baby to Max
he takes one step backward
but I nudge the baby into Max’s arms.
To my surprise
Max takes the baby gently
and cradles him in his arms
as if he has been holding babies
all his life.
He strokes baby Joey’s cheek
and then glances round the room.
He spies the photograph of Grandpa
with his trophy.
It is the photograph which Grandpa
had asked me to take away
but which, I see, he has retrieved.
Max asks Grandpa about the photograph
and they talk of races and running
and I leave them alone
while I shower and change
and when I return
Grandpa has baby Joey again
and Max is holding a box
and thanking my grandpa.
Outside, Max says that Grandpa
gave him a gift
and told him a secret about running.
He opens the box and shows me the gift:
Grandpa’s running shoes
sixty years old.
Lucky shoes! Max says.
They are worn and stained
and they look nothing like
the new shoes that Max bought.
I feel a little jealous that Grandpa
has given these shoes to Max
and not to me.
I ask Max what the secret was
and Max says
I can’t tell you, can I?
It’s a secret.
But he smiles and his black mood is gone
and he waves as he trots off down the road
cradling his lucky shoes
and his secret.
Upstairs, I take baby Joey from Grandpa
and press the warm bundle to me
and Grandpa says
You’re wondering why I gave him the shoes,
aren’t you?
Yes.
Honey, you like to run barefoot
he says
and you don’t need those old smelly shoes.
I ask him about the secret he told Max.
Honey, he says, you already know the secret.
Baby Joey wakes, squirms, cries
and Grandpa whispers to him:
Run for the pleasure of running.
It’s a secret, baby.
THE PACKAGE
Tied to my locker is a plastic bag
and taped to the bag is a yellow card
with my name scrawled in awkward letters
like a child’s printing.
Inside the bag:
a dozen colored pencils
and
smooth, thick, white paper.
A gift!
An anonymous gift!
But I know who it’s from.
After school, I run run run—
Hey, Annie!
Hey, Max!
And on we go
as we always do
up and down the hills
o-v-e-r the creek
and at the bench I mention25
the extraordinary gift
the anonymous gift
and I turn to Max
who turns to me
and
we do not blink
until he says
Ready to run back?
And I say
Ready.
And off we go
breathing in
breathing out
thump-thump, thump-thump
and I think it odd
but right
that this is the way we talk
run run run
thump-thump, thump-thump.
YUM BOY
On the last day of school
as Kaylee and I are cleaning out our lockers
we overhear two older girls
talking about Max:
He’s so, I don’t know, like,26 mysterious!
Yeah,27 and so cute, so yum!
I laugh, not sure why.
Kaylee asks me if I like Max.
Sure, I say.
But, like, ya know28
Kaylee persists
like,29 do you really like him?
I shrug
just like Max does
and I think about moody Max
and running Max
and the Max who removes a leaf
from my hair
and the Max who pesters me
and the Max who holds Joey
and the Max who wants secrets
and lucky shoes
and who has big dreams
and I don’t know how to answer Kaylee
because I do like Max
all of Max
even the moods and the pestering
but I am not ready
yet
to think of him
the way the other girls
are thinking of him
and I want him to stay Max
my same moody Max
and I want him to run with me
for a little longer.
ONE HUNDRED APPLES
Grandpa and baby Joey and I
are looking through my apple folder.
Grandpa points out his favorites
as Joey gazes wisely
as if he understands
what he is seeing.
Grandpa reaches the ninety-ninth apple:
a slim core
eaten away
a narrow indented column
with a dignified but bent stem
and pale flesh
browning at the edges.
As Grandpa turns the page
to the one hundredth apple
I hear a small intake of breath.
He takes the baby’s finger
and together they trace
the drawing:
a small shiny brown seed
tear shaped
elegant
both old and new
silent
and
full
of
secrets.
Heartbeat
* * *
Sharon’s Story in Her Own Words
* * *
Just How Alike Are Sharon and Annie?
* * *
Hear from Sharon About Heartbeat and More
* * *
Try Out Heartbeat Reader’s Theatre
* * *
Read an Excerpt from Sharon Creech’s Novel The Great Unexpected
* * *
Sharon’s Story in Her Own Words
Lyle Rigg
I was born in South Euclid, Ohio, a suburb of Cleveland, and grew up there with my noisy and rowdy family: my parents (Ann and Arvel), my sister (Sandy), and my three brothers (Dennis, Doug, and Tom).
When I was young, I wanted to be many things when I grew up: a painter, an ice skater, a singer, a teacher, and a reporter. It soon became apparent that I had little drawing talent, very limited tolerance for falling on ice, and absolutely no ability to stay on key while singing. I also soon learned that I would make a terrible reporter because when I didn’t like the facts, I changed them. It was in college, when I took literature and writing courses, that I became intrigued by storytelling. Later, I was a teacher (high school English and writing) in England and in Switzerland. While teaching great literature, I learned so much about writing: about what makes a story interesting and about techniques of plot and characterization and point of view. I started out writing novels for adults: The Recital and Nickel Malley were both written and published while I was living in England (these books were published in England only and are now out of print). But the next book was Absolutely Normal Chaos, and ever since that book I have written mainly
about young people. Walk Two Moons was the first of my books to be published in America. When it received the Newbery Medal, no one was more surprised than I was. I’m still a little bit in shock.
After Walk Two Moons came Chasing Redbird, Pleasing the Ghost, Bloomability, The Wanderer, Fishing in the Air, Love That Dog, Ruby Holler, Granny Torrelli Makes Soup, Heartbeat, and now Replay. I hope to be writing stories for a long, long time.
I am married to Lyle Rigg, who is the headmaster of the Pennington School in Pennington, New Jersey, and have two grown children, Rob and Karin. Being with my family is what I enjoy most. The next-best thing is writing stories.
Just How Alike Are Sharon and Annie?
As I was writing this book, I felt as if I were taking the pulse of this young girl, Annie, who is trying to place herself on this spectrum of life. Where does she fit in? She wonders what it would be like to be old, and what it would be like to be an infant, and how she became who she is, and who exactly is she, and why is she here.
These are questions I had when I was Annie’s age, when my grandparents were aging, and when my mother was expecting my youngest brother. I felt as if I were balancing on the cusp of some important life thread, and it was essential to try to understand where I was, in the larger scheme of things.
I had the image in my mind of Annie. I could see her running down a hill. And immediately the rhythm of her running dictated, I think, the rhythm of her speech. That was a much more lyrical thing than prose. And so it arranged itself on the page and I thought, Okay, well we have another novel in verse, let’s see how this works. There’s the running, there’s the thump-thump, thump-thump. But there’s also that repetition of three words that happens in this book quite a lot. She says “running running running” … and “I’ll fly fly fly” … la la la.
Like Annie, I used to run for the pure pleasure of running. It made me feel free, and it calmed my mind. I no longer run very much, but I take long walks, and it is often during these walks that an idea for a scene or a whole book will arise.
And lastly, you know how Annie’s art teacher gives an assignment to draw one apple a hundred times? My daughter was given this assignment in school. She said she learned more about drawing from that one assignment than from anything else!
Hear from Sharon About Heartbeat and More
Heartbeat is another story of relationships: between Annie and her grandfather, between Annie and her friend Max, and between Annie and her about-to-be-born sibling. Why do you find these kinds of relationships so important to write about?
Relationships with parents, grandparents, friends, and siblings were important to me when I was young and have remained so throughout my life. Our relationships with other people both shape and reflect who we are. These relationships are infinitely fascinating to explore!
Now that you are a grandmother, what life lessons do you hope to pass on to your own granddaughter?
Perhaps I am hoping to emulate Annie’s grandfather (in Heartbeat): to be able to listen, to commiserate, and to laugh with my granddaughter. Maybe the lessons I can pass on are similar: appreciate one’s friends, take time for family and simple pleasures, be able to laugh at oneself, and be able to step outside oneself to see the larger world. I also hope to pass on my love of reading to her! I’ve been reading to Pearl since she was born, and she has become a little bookworm. When we walked into a bookstore last week, she said, “Books, books, books! Let’s read books!”
In Heartbeat, Annie asks, “Why are we here on this earth?” What would you tell your granddaughter if she asked you the same question?
I hope it’s many years before I’m asked that question so that I have time to come up with a good answer! If I had to answer now, I’d probably say this: Each child brings so much joy and hope into the world, and that is reason enough for being here. As you grow older, you will contribute something else to this world, and only you can discover what that is.
What were some of your favorite books when you were growing up?
At home, we five siblings were usually urged to “go outside and play!” This was fine with me. The only books I remember being in our house were a set of the Great Books. These included the works of Sophocles, Plato, etc.—not exactly light reading. I remember pulling one of the volumes out one day, determined to read Plato, and as I did so, a centipede scurried across the cover and onto my leg. I didn’t go anywhere near those Great Books for a long, long time. The only book I have a distinct fond memory of is The Timbertoes, probably my first chapter book, which I read at school. I was hypnotized by it and by the colorful illustrations that accompanied it. I think this was my first sense of being immersed in a story that I could read by myself.
What’s your recipe for success as a writer?
Read a lot, live your life, and listen and watch, so that your mind fills up with millions of images. Shake it. See what floats to the top. Transfer floating images to page, word by word. Repeat. When it is all done, remove clunky bits. Sounds simple, yes? And it is, if you stay loose and open, and if you have the patience to transfer those images, word by word, from your mind to the paper.
Why do you write for children?
I don’t think of myself writing so much for children as about children. But in any case I can’t think of a better audience. They’re so enthusiastic, so receptive to the stories, and they seem in some ways molded by the stories. I feel honored to have a part in that.
But primarily I write because I’m really, really interested in young people. And particularly I’m interested in those pivotal ages between nine and fourteen, where a child is no longer a child and not yet an adult, just beginning to question, “Who am I?”; “What will I be?”; “What will I do?”
Try Out Heartbeat Reader’s Theatre
When I go on tour and give presentations, I often ask readers to help me act out scenes that I’ve adapted from my books. Following are two scenes from Heartbeat that I’ve adapted. (And you can act them out if you’d like!)
Shoeless
ANNIE: (narrating) After school I see Max at the track being scolded by his coach …. Max stands with his arms crossed, defiant, scowling, and I am thinking he should not be so proud, when I see the girls’ coach coming toward me.
COACH: I saw you run yesterday, Annie, up near the stone church—that was you, wasn’t it?
ANNIE: Maybe.
COACH: You have a fine stride—
ANNIE: (to audience) I cross my arms like Max.
COACH: What is it you’re afraid of?
ANNIE: (to audience) I do so want to punch her (very, very, very much) because there is something about her, some poking, prying, pushy thing that engulfs me, but I do not punch her. Instead I say:
(to coach) I am not afraid. I love to run, but I love to run by myself.
(to audience) She studies me, disbelieving, a little scornful, as if I am hiding something or lying to her, and then she smiles a thin little smile and says:
COACH: You might enjoy being part of a team.
ANNIE: (to audience) And now I really want to slug her (I want to slug her very, very much) because I have heard this before from other coaches who think that if you don’t want to be part of a team, there is something wrong with you—perhaps you are a future ax murderer … and so I know I have to find some little thing to let her win, and so I say:
(to coach) Yes, ma’am, maybe I would enjoy being part of a team—some day.
(to audience) And maybe I wouldn’t.
COACH: Well, you think about it and let me know when you’re ready.
ANNIE: Yes, ma’am, I will.
COACH: Because, ya know, you shouldn’t waste a gift.
ANNIE: Yes, ma’am.
(to audience) And when I get home, I fling off my shoes and flee for the path, and I run run run run run, hard and fast, on the soft spring ground.
The Stranger
GRANDPA: (frightened) Annie! Annie!
ANNIE: What is it, Grandpa? What’s wrong?
&nb
sp; GRANDPA: (pointing to photo on the wall) Who is that boy? He’s staring at me!
ANNIE: Grandpa, that’s you.
GRANDPA: Well, he’s bothering me!
ANNIE: Do you want me to take him away?
GRANDPA: Yes.
(Annie removes photo and sets it aside.)
ANNIE: Is that better?
GRANDPA: Yes. He was bothering me so much.
ANNIE: Why? What was he doing?
GRANDPA: He wouldn’t stop staring at me! Ask him why he was staring at me.
ANNIE: (to photo) Why were you staring at my grandpa?
(Annie pretends to listen to photo’s response.)
ANNIE: (to Grandpa) He was staring at you because he likes you.
GRANDPA: Pff!
ANNIE: Do you want me to put him back on the wall?
GRANDPA: No. Not right now. Maybe tomorrow.
PROLOGUE
My name is Naomi Deane and I grew up in Blackbird Tree, in the home of my guardians, Joe and Nula. Among the tales that Joe often told was that of a poor man who, while gambling, lost his house but won a donkey.
“A donkey?” the poor man wailed. “What do I want with a donkey? I cannot even feed a donkey.”
“No matter,” replied the donkey. “Reach into my left ear.”
The poor man, though shocked that the donkey could talk, nonetheless reached into the donkey’s ear and pulled out a sack of feed.
“Well, now,” the poor man said. “That’s a mighty handy ear. I wish it had food for me as well.”
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