by Helen Frost
and
do.
I’m
almost finished
sanding and polishing my
diamond willow stick. Dad sits down
with me and asks what I want to use it for.
He shows me a picture of a diamond willow lamp.
I love that idea! Dad helps me measure and plan it, and
then he starts talking about Roxy. Do you think she’s well
enough to go back outside? It makes sense to move her back
before she gets used to being indoors. Me? Dad is asking me
what I think about Roxy? No one is going to laugh at what I
have to say, or pretend to listen and then ignore me? I say,
Roxy should stay inside. Dad doesn’t argue, but he seems
a little doubtful. And then, as if someone planned this,
just at that moment, a mouse runs across the room.
Squeak, squeak! it says, and Roxy goes, Arf, Arf!
and the mouse runs back into its little hole,
and Dad says, Come to think of it, that’s
the first mouse I’ve seen in here since
Roxy’s been inside. So just like that
it’s all settled: Roxy is our new
mouser. I go over to her and
stroke her ears, smiling.
No one else is looking,
so Roxy opens both
her eyes and
laughs.
A
perfect
trail, a perfect
day: new snow—quiet,
dry, and sparkling, the kind
that doesn’t hurt the dogs’ feet.
The days are getting longer, warmer,
twenty above zero instead of twenty below.
I’m running all six dogs, with Cora and Roxy
leading the team like two wings of a swan.
I feel like I am flying with them, like my
twin sister Diamond is alive inside me
saying, Willow, this is happiness.
Me, these dogs, this snow, the
spruce hen flying just
ahead of us: This is
happiness. I
see.
Jean, Willow’s great-great-great grandmother (Spruce Hen)
Almost every day now, Willow is out here with her dogs. Up and down the old trails and the new ones. She knows her way around about as well as I do.
Sometimes Willow gives someone a ride—Zanna, or Kaylie and Richard, or Jon.
It’s not so dark now, these late afternoons when she comes home and melts snow for the dogs.
Today, after all the dogs are fed and watered, Willow turns to Roxy: Come on, let’s go inside.
Later, when the sun goes down, a light comes on in Willow’s room, shining from the lamp that Willow and her father made. In the circle of its light, Willow sits cross-legged on the bed with Roxy.
It looks for all the world like the two of them are deep in conversation.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I thank—
Everyone at Farrar, Straus and Giroux for all they do. Special thanks to Frances Foster for her vision, wisdom, and friendship, and to Janine O’Malley for her countless manifestations of thoughtful support.
The people of Telida, Nikolai, and McGrath, Alaska; special thanks to Agnes Eluska Marker, who read the manuscript and answered my questions.
Dr. Eliza Jones, Athabascan elder, scholar, and trusted friend, for careful reading and thoughtful suggestions.
Jeff King, Iditarod champion, for help with dog-mushing questions; Louise Magoon for medical knowledge; Bob Gander and Ken Laninga for information about diamond willow.
Good readers Danae DeJournett; Mary Clare DuRocher; Ana, Cara, and Gretchen Liuzzi; Ingrid Wendt; Claire Ewart; and members of the Indiana Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators.
My family and the animals who live with us and around us. Special love and thanks to the Bartlett family; to Glen; and to Lloyd, Penny, Cameron, and Jordan, and their dog, Roxanne. As always, thanks to Chad—and a quick smile to the mouse who ran through our house and blinked at us.
HELEN FROST
Answers Questions from Her Readers
Have you ever ridden a dog sled? Did you go very fast? Have you ever crashed?
Yes, I’ve ridden several dog sleds, not too fast. I’ve never crashed. My experience in crashing has been on bikes, cross-country skis, and one time running down a sand dune, knowing I was going too fast and about to lose my balance, and then I did. The worst part was that my father had a movie camera going, and recorded my face-down-splat-in-the-sand for everyone to watch over and over again.
Why were you in Alaska?
My aunt lived in Alaska when I was a child. When she came to visit, she showed slides and told stories about living there; that was when I first wanted to go to Alaska.
Later, I became a teacher and taught for three years in a one-teacher school in Telida, a small (25 people) Athabascan community in the interior part of the state. The people who lived there became like family to me.
At other times, I worked at Denali National Park, raised small children in Fairbanks, and taught fifth grade in Ketchikan.
Do you follow the Iditarod?
When I lived in Telida, the Iditarod came through the nearby towns of Nikolai, McGrath, and Takotna, so I followed it closely during those years. One year, one of the mushers, Miki Collins, was from a town near Telida, and the whole school went to Nikolai to cheer her on (remember this was a small school, nine students that year). Miki later mentioned us in a book she wrote, Trapline Twins, describing how we met her and gave her grape juice when she arrived in Nikolai after midnight.
I’ve known several other mushers, too—I met Herbie Nayokpuk in Shishmaref before I knew anything about the Iditarod, and later found out that he was very well-known and much loved by Iditarod mushers and fans. I met Jeff King just as he was beginning his racing career, and now he’s won the Iditarod four times. When I was writing Diamond Willow, Jeff read the manuscript and answered my questions about sled dogs.
How many times do you have to rewrite a poem to get it to fit in your shape?
It used to be possible to answer this question. When I wrote poems mostly on paper, I could just count the number of different pages, and that would be how many times I rewrote the poem. For Diamond Willow, I wrote each poem in a rough shape on paper, and then worked on the computer to finish it. The changes were ongoing, so I can’t count the drafts. I can only answer “lots.”
Do you ever get sick of following your own rules when you write poems?
When it’s working, as it did in this final form of Diamond Willow, it’s fun, and I don’t get sick of it. But sometimes before I find the form for a new book, I work with my own rules for several months before admitting to myself that it’s not working. That’s not fun. If it happens, I take a break and then come back and try something new. When I eventually do find the form that moves the story forward, it’s exciting to see it all fall into place.
Have you ever met Gary Paulsen?
I’ve met him the way you’ve met me—by reading his books. Once I heard him speak, but I didn’t have a chance to talk with him personally.
How cold does it get in Alaska?
Alaskans like to say things like, “It’s so cold that you can spit and hear it crackle before it hits the ground.” But when it really is that cold (40–60 degrees below zero), you’re too busy keeping a birch fire going in the woodstove, and trying to keep your boot liners dry, and cooking big pots of moose soup, to ever remember to spit in order to find out if that saying is true.
One thing I love is on a day when it gets warmer after it has been cold for a long time, there are patches of warmer air, like someone is stirring the air, and you can walk from bitter cold into a warmer place. It might still be very cold—maybe 20 below instead of 40 below—but you can feel the difference as you walk along.
Another thing I love is the Northern Lights.
<
br /> Did you know that you can hear things from farther away on a cold day?
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
Note: None of these questions has a “right answer.” They are suggestions of things you might think about or talk over with someone else who has read Diamond Willow.
1. Do you think Willow is lonely? Is being lonely the same as being alone?
2. Is having a pet just as good as having a person-friend?
3. What does Willow discover that makes it easier for her to make new friends?
4. Have you ever experienced the death of someone who loves you? If so, do you sometimes feel like their love for you is still somewhere in the world, as expressed by the animals in Diamond Willow?
WRITING IDEAS
1. Try writing a diamond-shaped poem of your own. Can you put a “hidden message” inside it?
2. Observe an animal without writing anything down. Pay close attention to what sounds it makes, how it moves, what it eats, how it relates to other animals, and how it relates to people. Then write a story or poem from the point of view of the animal. Give it to someone to read, without naming the animal, and see if they can figure out “who” is speaking.?
3. Make your own rules for a poem and see how hard it is to follow them. If it doesn’t lead you to discover something fun or interesting, try a different rule.
Examples:
• A poem of three stanzas, four lines each, that has a different color in each stanza.
• A poem shaped like a circle, square, triangle, or rectangle.
• A poem, at least ten lines long, that doesn’t say anything true.
THINGS YOU MIGHT LIKE
Please note that some of the links referenced in this work are no longer active.
Spinning Through the Universe by Helen Frost
If you enjoy trying to write in the voices of different people, or using different forms (rules) for your poems, this book will give you a lot of new ideas.
Websites
http://iditarodblogs.com/zuma
Zuma’s Paw Prints, using the Iditarod in the classroom
www.iditarod.com
the official Iditarod website
www.helenfrost.net
Helen Frost’s website
An accidental kidnapping leaves unanswered questions. Years later, the truth is revealed.
Keep reading for an excerpt from
by Helen Frost
1
I was a happy little girl wearing a pink dress,
sitting in our gold minivan,
dancing with my doll, Kamara.
I’ll be right back, Mom promised.
Leave the music on, I begged,
so she left her keys
dangling
while she
ran in to pay for gas
and buy a Diet Coke.
2
I think about that little girl
the way you might remember your best friend
who moved away.
Sitting in the middle seat
beside an open window,
her seatbelt fastened,
she looked out at the world.
3
And then she heard
a gunshot
from inside the store.
That’s when she—when I—
stopped breathing.
I clicked my seatbelt off,
dived into the back, and
ducked down on the floor
to hide
under a blanket
until Mom
came back out.
I heard the car door open, heard it close.
The music stopped.
Why? Mom liked that song.
I breathed again. (Mom smelled like cigarettes.)
I pushed the blanket off my face,
opened my mouth
to ask,
What happened in there?
But then I heard a word Mom wouldn’t say.
A man’s voice.
C’mon! Start! He was yelling at our car—
and the car
obeyed him.
It started up
just like it thought
Mom was driving.
4
Who was driving?
Had this man just shot someone? Had he
shot … Mom?
If he found out I was back there
what would he do to me?
I pulled the blanket back over my face.
(Pretend you’re Kamara.
Don’t breathe. Don’t move.
Be as small as you can—smaller.)
Sand on the floor of the car. I pressed hard.
It stuck to my skin.
I pressed harder.
(Breathe
if you have to,
but don’t move a muscle.)
Like a small rabbit
that knows a cat is close by,
I paid attention. I didn’t
twitch.
5
I could tell which way we were headed—
we stopped at the King Street stoplight.
Left turn … right turn … left …
He sped up.
Was he trying to throw the police off our trail?
He stopped, got out of the car.
Where were we?
He got back in,
drove off faster.
Sirens?
Yes—coming closer!
One time in first grade,
a police officer came to our class.
“If someone tries to grab you,” she said,
“wave your arms, kick your legs.
Yell at the top of your lungs,
THIS MAN IS NOT MY FATHER.”
The sirens meant
someone might stop us—
I could jump up.
I could wave.
I could yell.
But it didn’t happen.
We drove faster, farther.
The sirens
faded away in the distance.
Long straight road … curvy road …
Fast for a while. No stops.
Right turn.
Left turn.
Stop. Go. Turn …
I swallowed the panic that rose.
I didn’t throw up.
6
Sound of gravel. Dust in my throat.
(Don’t cough!)
Bumping along that dusty road,
screaming inside.
(Dad, where are you? Mom?)
A phone rang—Dad’s ring on Mom’s phone!
Mom must have left her phone in the car.
Her whole purse, down on the floor?
(Do not—do not!—jump up and grab it.)
I clenched my hands together.
GPS, the man snarled—I heard him dump
Mom’s purse upside down.
He opened a window.
He closed it.
(Did he just toss Mom’s phone out the window?)
7
I put my thumb in my mouth
like a little baby. I pulled my knees
to my chin, and closed my eyes tight.
Where were we going?
What would happen to me when we got there?
After a long time—
it felt like hours—
the car slowed down.
We made a sharp turn.
We stopped.
He got out.
I heard a garage door open.
He got back in the car.
Forward.
Stop.
The garage door came down.
The car door opened, slammed shut.
I heard a dog.
Barking or growling?
In the garage or outside?
Another door opened
and closed.
Had the man gone somewhere?
8
Carefully, I pushed back the blanket
and looked around.
I was alone
in a very da
rk place.
I might have been wrong about Mom’s phone.
I kept my head low,
climbed into the middle seat,
leaned far enough forward
so I could see into the front.
Mom’s water bottle—not quite empty.
A chocolate chip granola bar.
Kleenex.
ChapStick.
Checkbook.
Calendar.
Her little album of pictures—
me and Alex, her and Dad.
No wallet—she took that into the store.
No phone.
9
Where was I?
A messy garage—rakes and shovels,
gas cans and broken-down boxes.
In the garage door,
higher than I could reach,
three small windows,
a few rays of sun shining through them.
Behind an old freezer—
a door—to outside?
A red-and-white boat
on a trailer
right next to the car.
If I could get out fast enough, he’d never know I was there.
I told myself what to do, and I did it:
Quietly—get out of the car with Kamara.
Take the granola bar. Leave the water—
if I take that, he might notice it’s gone.
Carefully tiptoe across the floor.
(The dog—outside—still growl-barking.)
Squeeze behind the freezer.
Try to open the side door.
Locked
with a padlock
the size of my fist.
10
The freezer was empty, unplugged—it wouldn’t be cold.
Could I get inside, and hide there?
No. A boy on the news
got stuck inside an old freezer—