The Three Billy Goats Gruff

I’ve been wanting to write this up for a long time but my poor tired brain has been slow as a troll in direct sunlight and I’m focusing all intellectual space on the Changeling. But said Changeling and I just finished reading one book that heavily features a troll (The Boy Who Lost Fairyland by Catherynne M. Valente, you absolutely must read it but start with the first book first, I’ve told you this before, but you never listen, I know you, so just go for the full boxed set and find it out) and I’ve noticed myself thinking “I bet there’s a troll hidden there” every time I see an illustration of a bridge, or, well… Any bridge in real life, honestly. Or in illustrations. Bridges and trolls go together like waterfalls and bears in canoes full of blueberries. They just fit. I was singing this to the Spriggan, and couldn’t stop thinking: “I bet there’s a troll just to the left, I know it.”

And when my kids started playing “troll under the bridge” over and under the little slide, I knew the time was right. And when I saw the preorder campaign… But I’m ahead of myself. What is the book? The Three Billy Goats Gruff retold by Mac Barnett (he did the words) and Jon Klassen (he did the art). When does it come out? October 18? How on earth did you get to see it early, Deborah? Well, I’m chopped troll food compared to my super cool daughter, who has been sending Mac Barnett letters and even occasionally copies of her awesome newspaper, The Weekly Animal Post. Mac Barnett, if I speak plainly, is simply one of our family heroes, and Jon Klassen no less so. But Mac Barnett more so at the moment because he, very kindly and equally unexpectedly, sent an advance copy of The Three Billy Goats Gruff signed and personalized to the Changeling. I may have gasped and flailed in excitement. She, cool and calm, said, in an nutshell, “Oh how lovely. I’ll have to send him a thank you note and a few more newspapers. I should write another joke for him, too.” But this exchange enabled me to get a look and give the book a trial run as what it needs to be: an active read aloud.

That should be said three times: once small, then more clearly and firmly, and then GIGANTICALLY UNDERLINED.

This book will seem nice in the hand, but it is only truly to be fully enjoyed when read aloud.

I’m going to digress briefly. [Ed.: Your digression, dear author, was not brief.] I have a long-held, deep and rich, profound and passionate love for hardback picture book retellings of fairy tales and folklore. Just take one story, rooted in some form of tradition going back centuries or, perhaps, millennia, and tell it over 30-odd pages with fabulous art… I will always take a look, and probably buy it. My curated collection of these goes back to my first babysitting gig in my early teens. I was paid, and I went to the book shop and had to choose between Paul O. Zelinsky’s Rapunzel and Rumpelstiltskin. (I wasn’t unionized and didn’t have enough for both.) I don’t remember which I got first because I changed my mind ten times in a minute but I do remember I got the other one the next time. My collection has grown and altered and curated itself until it’s quite a beautiful set. I do not keep every book because while I have strong opinions about any fairy tale retelling you can name, my standards for a fairy tale or folk tale in picture book form with full art, and I really think endpapers, borders, and design count, ok?, are extremely high and extremely refined and extremely hard to get across succinctly. [Ed.: I’m noticing that last word. Rethink “briefly” above.]

Let’s talk about the process of getting this particular form right, shall we? The story, first of all, is not yours, as the author. At least, not initially. You have to live with it enough to make it yours. Twisted fairy tales are a way of doing this in a faster fashion: you can take a story, mull it over, and give it a tweak right there that’s personal and amusing (and can really work or really flop) and suddenly the story belongs to you. I’ve done this, and it’s very fun. A straight retelling is even harder, in my view. At least, I’ve never been happy with a single attempt I’ve made, not enough to even show it to a friend, and I’ve only given up in frustration. Those who have done it well, Joseph Jacobs being one of the best in my not at all humble opinion, have a strong but flexible voice. Here, I’m not talking of picture books. I’m speaking of any folk or fairy tale. So if you look at Jacobs’s English Fairy Tales, for example, if a story calls for a more narrative, literary style, he can do that. If it’s lighter in atmosphere and heavier on dialogue, he excels at that, as well. But the point is that his voice, while distinctive, serves the needs of the original story. He is not appropriating it; he is telling it faithfully. There are brilliant authors, truly fantastic storytellers in their own right, who are utterly incapable of good retellings of fairy tales because they do not own or serve the existing, independent narrative, and they just end up as a dull sequence of events rather than a lively and captivating retelling.

Side note of an academic nature: the process of retelling is old, old, old. I believe it to be harder to accomplish now that we have a more sacred view of authorship. My first surprise as a medievalist was seeing how cheerfully stories were taken and retold. NB: Mac Barnett, who retold The Three Billy Goats Gruff which I will review before this post is through, was a medievalist before he was a children’s book author. I can’t help but sometimes think how he’d have enjoyed getting a whack at adding a tale or two to the Roman de renart… (I’m not dropping hints, that would be crass.)

Fine, so you’ve got your medievalist retelling a story with the correct balance of absolute reverence and complete independence, using their personal voice in service of a story they acknowledge is not theirs at all, no big issue there, and then, after all that, you have another problem. Almost all of these stories are accustomed to being told or read aloud. To return to Jacobs, of whom I spoke above– when I mentioned his voice, I wasn’t just thinking of it in literary terms; I have been known to read those stories to myself in an undertone because they do strongly desire to be spoken. I clearly recall that once upon a time I referenced the story of Mr. Fox to a friend, who said she didn’t know it. I didn’t have the book to hand, but I could still tell her the story as Joseph Jacobs had written it, not word-perfect, and not because I’d memorized it, but because his narrative was so perfect that I was able to entirely call his retelling to mind. (I think that would make a great picture book.) Now, is your fairy tale or folk tale going to be a picture book? The need to be a good read aloud has gone from “necessary” to “compulsory.” But you’re still not done.

You have retold the story with an eye to spreading it across 30-odd pages, it is ready for art, and all of the needs of a picture book in terms of the integral relationship between art and text remain. I’m not pushing this one farther; we all know how hard that is. Of course, the process will depend on whether you’re the artist as well as author, in which case your brain is exploding by this point because you know your job and realize that you’ve created a scenario where even though you don’t like drawing structures, you have to draw a bridge on every page, or you, the author doing that perfect retelling described above, are handing over your carefully written, rewritten, edited, read-aloud-to-check-it-works narrative to an artist and have to have faith they’ll take it to the next level. The artist, you or someone else, has the simple task of representing the text with accuracy, but not replicating it in extreme detail, which is to say: all the artist has to do is make sure they represent the narrative without exactly reproducing the words boringly; the text, I forgot to mention above, has to have left room for the art and the art has to seize on that and go beyond the text. Without either impinging on the ground of the other. Easy. The two are halves of more than a whole. But, beyond the needs of the usual picture book, in folk and fairy tales the need is both narrative (stories in fairy tales tend to be real arcs) and psychological and emotional (these stories are likewise deep and powerful and live on for a reason). So the art has to work with that.

All of this has to be inconspicuous and seamless and come across with smooth delight.

And I wish publishers used better paper for these sorts of books since the slick, lightweight shiny stuff normally used just doesn’t suit a book of that caliber. They should have hefty, creamy paper that takes the colour and print to the next level.

Also I want a cottage in the woods on hens’ legs, while we’re at it, and whatever story Mac Barnett would add to the Roman de renart. (I’m just joking, I’m not really asking you to write that story!) (But wouldn’t you enjoy it?)

Look, there’s a real reason I don’t often review these sorts of books. First, not many are being produced now. Second, when they are, they rarely meet my exacting standards (and I bet you, reading this, are thinking “those poor people, Deborah is viciously picky” and, thank you, yes, I am– I just checked and I’m at over 1700 words and haven’t gotten to the book; I’m not only stupidly picky and obsessive, I’m proud of it). Third, when a book is that good it can be hard to review.

But [Ed. This is where the “brief” digression ends, you can come back now.] I’m doing it for this because, first of all, to my delight The Three Billy Goats Gruff went beyond everything I described and is faithful and original, funny and tender, slightly creepy and incredibly robust, beautiful and gruesome, all while smoothly retelling the old story. Being a world away from the usual fairy tale book retellings (Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, etc) it has room to develop itself without contending with endless predecessory– and being very short in most collections, being given room to breathe across several pages reveals its enormous narrative potential.

It is, in a word, a new type of old retelling.

I do not wish to suggest that Mac Barnett and Jon Klassen– and both names have to be given in tandem, you can see how they work as a team– are in any way ignoring prior work; on the contrary, they really pay attention to patterning a story across page turns, for example, with equivalent attention to earlier masters of the form: Paul O. Zelinsky, for sure, but also Trina Schart Hyman, Marianna Mayer, and so on. The Three Billy Goats Gruff is in many ways very, very traditional. While the voice is uncompromisingly Mac Barnett Telling a Story, he doesn’t twist the story, it’s not “set” in any time or place, and it has the combination of specificity (you can reach through the words and images to touch the core) and universality (it’s in fairy tale time and space, which is “always and forever”) of any old, true story.

But it’s not the kind of story I’m used to adding to my folk and fairy tale shelf. It’s the story they chose that is so distinctive. Think about the stories I’ve collected in perfect editions: Snow White, Rapunzel, Cinderella, Beauty and the Beast, Dear As Salt, Little Red Riding Hood, Rumpelstiltskin, The Twelve Dancing Princesses… Most of these are more fairy than folk tale. Most of these are beautiful and get exquisite, intricate borders, and glowing colours. Most of these have genteel humour and subtle horror. Most of these are also for older readers.

I love them. I truly believe they made me an academic. I will always love them. I would not be who I am without them.

And I am just crazy with joy to see an equally attentive, traditionally perfect retelling of an old story with faith and trust in the actual narrative, perfect artistic pairing, and perfect editing including brilliant endpapers that will make younger kids laugh at the distinctive narrative voice telling them a story from years gone by. This retelling is fun to read with a kid bouncing on your knee. I’m desperate for a chance to read it to a crowd: are you a kindergarten or Grade 1 teacher? This is for you. A librarian? For you. A grandparent or parent with (grand)kids of the younger age and some who claim to be too old but will inevitably be drawn in? Welcome, here’s a book for you!

The story has a tinge of the creepy and spooky and a heaping dose of gruesome as the troll fantasizes about goatish meals– please recall that Hallowe’en is around the corner. Jon Klassen’s gloriously dingy art highlights the danger and gruesome nature of the story while unexpectedly adding tenderness as the largest goat shelters the smaller brothers at the end (did I mention this is the art for the poster that Scholastic is giving away with preorders?). And because the humour of the telling is never made evident in the art, the straightforwardness of the art simply highlights the exaggerated absurdity of the story as the troll disappears.

The very oddest bit to me, though, is that I retain that twinge of sympathy for the hungry troll. I would never wish harm on those billy goats! But farewell, troll. Until I read your story again.

I want more of this.

Oh, I will always want new editions of my beloved Beauty and the Beast (though it’s hard to beat Marianna Meyer), Snow White (though who could do better than Trina Schart Hyman?), and so on. But imagine a Mr. Fox or a King of the Cats in picture book form! Why not? I want more of this, I want more stories that mine the richness of the old and bring them into a full hardback form with perfect art. I hope that Mac Barnett and Jon Klassen are at the leading edge of a trend. This is an area with so much to offer.

I’m greedy as a troll: I want more of this.

Did you lose the purchase link? Though don’t forget your own local shop! And should I remind you where to submit for the pre-order campaign for the beautiful poster?

Unspeakably Angry

I haven’t entered in on the current rising wave of book bannings and challenges in the USA for a few reasons. First, I’m hardly the best person to speak about it, and I’m learning enormously from those who are, including excellent (though sobering and infuriating) speeches recorded in The Horn Book in their recent awards issues. Second, I’m still being slow to write while my brain continues to recover from the aftermath of Covid. The cognitive effects are no joke, and it’s taking me longer periods of time to write cogently.

But one very recent case struck me with inescapable force and I wanted to tell you why.

Recently, I’ve written about a few classics of the American picture book world, both of which were challenging books for adults to grasp, and, indeed, Sendak continues to be hard for adults of my acquaintance to stomach, while Margaret Wise Brown is often profoundly misunderstood. What I attempted to highlight in writing about them, though whether I succeeded was another story, was their profound trust for the children they addressed. Adults, seeing Mickey pop out and cheerfully challenge the adult bakers by proudly announcing and then experimenting with his own identity, got fits of the vapours.

That wasn’t the first time and they’ve never stopped, often with greater precision and nastiness, as this recent wave highlights all too bitterly.

The most recent story was that certain school libraries in San Antonio, Texas have refused to add Unspeakable: The Tulsa Race Massacre by Carole Boston Weatherford with art by Floyd Cooper, which is a Texas Bluebonnet Award nominee, to their holdings, even when free copies were offered by a local shop (link to account on Twitter by Nowhere Bookshop). So what we are observing in this case is a deliberate obfuscation of the book which, in itself, was a forthright attempt to uncover a story which had been deliberately obscured. And this all broke during Banned Books Week. (My purchase link is to Nowhere Bookshop which is donating copies of the book to classes in their school district.)

One further aspect, to my mind, takes this story from grim to offensive and hurtful: Floyd Cooper died on July 15, 2021 at age 65, too early to see the accolades Unspeakable received, but not too early to explain, as quoted in the linked article, how important this project was to him in that it communicated a story and told children the truth about a piece of history rarely communicated in schools, and which he only knew about from his grandfather, who lived through it. The accolades, nominations, and awards mean only so much while schools and libraries remove it from lists and ban it from shelves, refusing to trust children with what Carole Boston Weatherford and Floyd Cooper trust them enough to tell them.

I focused initially on Floyd Cooper for the simple reasons that a) this feels like a slap to his memory, and I’m furious about that, and b) you may remember I’ve talked about Carole Boston Weatherford before already, though I welcome any chance to do so again.

And, in fact, my experiences sharing her work with students in a school library are a key reason I’m writing this at all. When I was so briefly working in a school library as the sole librarian with barely any hours to assist kids and next to no budget for books, one of the books I made absolutely sure I catalogued immediately was Box, which I reviewed a while ago. I had a spare copy since I’d been sent a review copy, and I knew the students needed it, so I brought it in and catalogued it right away.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it as often as is necessary: much of the best poetry being written in the 21st century is being written for children. Carole Boston Weatherford is one of the most direct and powerful of these poets today. She has the skill of writing completely unpretentious yet beautiful poems which are direct and clear to read (or be read by) children without pandering to them, but in language which is both accessible (not flauntingly high and hard) and juicy (she knows to trust and challenge them to pay attention).

That last point is hard and not to be underestimated. Sometimes I trust a teacher’s knowledge of what will be good for a class, sometimes not. I absolutely had a teacher who glanced at a book I was reading and talking to the kids about and she chuckled: “you’ll lose them, they’ll never get that.” They loved it. Other times, I wasn’t so lucky. You have to have the knack to know, and you have to choose the day and time.

But Carole Boston Weatherford never failed me.

Her book Schomburg: The Man Who Built a Library was one of the most meaningful experiences I had reading to one of my hardest classes. I carefully pre-selected poems, expecting only to get through maybe two. I got through all five I’d bookmarked, I remember, with conversation that built from poem to poem. For each one, I would pause and say “Imagine…” and relate it to these Jewish kids’ backgrounds. “Imagine you were in a class and a teacher straight-up told you that there was no Jewish culture, no contribution to culture by Jews. You were little in that room, she was big, and she told you there was nothing, it didn’t happen.” There was a susurration of anger. “Well, listen.” They did. I read about Schomburg at school, belittled not just personally– his whole heritage insulted. One of the girls fired up, angry, “The teacher was lying and mean! She shouldn’t have been a teacher if she didn’t say it right!” She was, of course, correct– it was bad teaching.

Sort of like how if you’re, for example, getting holdings for your library and have a list of award nominees and deliberately refuse to get one book for teaching history you don’t want kids to know…

You’re lying to them. You’re omitting information. You’re withholding truth, and you’re not trusting children to grow and do better than you’re doing.

Carole Boston Weatherford and Floyd Cooper did their parts. They shared the truth, beautifully.

It’s time we did our part. I encourage you to buy a copy of Unspeakable, or Box or Schomburg, or maybe Floyd Cooper’s Juneteenth for Mazie, from Nowhere Bookshop (they ship!).

On Sendak and Truthfulness

As faithful readers must surely be aware by now, I am a person of many fine qualities. Upon judicious reflection, I must humbly state that one of my most notable virtues must be a staggering ability to maintain friendships with a diverse group of people, even those who think I am wrong about things (they, of course, are incorrect). I am so truly remarkable in this virtue that I even have friends who don’t like Maurice Sendak. While I understand that some may consider this a bridge too far, I must firmly ask that you respect my choice in this matter; these are my true friends, and nothing will change that– even though they are absolutely wrong.

On reflection, though, it’s time I articulate to the world what these poor, misguided souls consider to be flaws in the flawless work of Sendak, and then explain in full why Sendak is the pinnacle of picture book creators. True, this has been done before, but clearly not enough, or I wouldn’t be meeting anyone who thinks Sendak is anything less than a master of the craft.

In fairness, I should be writing a review of a new book. I have one right here. Several, in fact. But a discussion on Shabbat which culminated in my friend saying in less than perfectly calm tones that “childhood is innocence and roses!” while I replied in a volume which wouldn’t be considered acceptable in a library that “You have children!” while my Spriggan was beside me pointing at Outside Over There and saying “dog? dog?” has prompted a deeper exploration of the brilliance of Sendak, and I feel it a deep obligation to share my views.

Because the chief, uncompromising principle in Maurice Sendak’s works is their absolute dedication to truth. We might be so used to lies by the time we’re adults that we don’t see this initially, but, fortunately, Sendak isn’t talking to us; he’s talking to our unflinching children who boop Mickey’s bellybutton in In the Night Kitchen and, I am not making this up, lick the milk he’s pouring out of the bottle of milk. (I did ask the Spriggan to please not lick the book– it can be hard to find a hardcover edition these days, honestly.)

And yet Sendak has always met with resistance: Ursula Nordstrom, his editor, wrote a firm letter in his defense when librarians were cutting out little diapers to paste on the, ahem, naked (titter) Mickey in In the Night Kitchen. (As I said: the Spriggan neither noticed nor cared that he had a bare bum or a penis. He does insist on booping his bellybutton, and he gave him a kiss when he was getting back into bed.) Years ago now, when the Changeling was about 3 years old, a friend asked my advice on getting books for his nephew of a similar age, and I said that In the Night Kitchen was the Changeling’s favourite at the time. He read it, and said it was far too scary: the kid is put in the oven, how horrible! Meanwhile, another friend has told me that in Where the Wild Things Are the very anger and danger is dangerous; literature, I was told, should show an ideal world. I nodded seriously: “Yes, that’s why I love Tess of the D’Urbervilles,” I replied earnestly.

So these are some of our accusations against poor, maligned Maurice Sendak, whose reputation I will then proceed to defend: his books are scary, show a dark and dangerous world, and are disturbing to the innocence and rosiness of childhood.

These are, Mr. Darcy would agree, weighty accusations, indeed!

But what are the books about, what do they show, and what is there to be afraid of in them? In my view, there is nothing for children to be afraid of beyond what they already know, but there’s plenty to scare off adults, which is why it’s adults who object while children don’t. And, once again, it goes back to the point I cited from Mac Barnett in my post on The Runaway Bunny (I sure am going back to the classics, aren’t I?) regarding what the best children’s literature does: that it shows things as they are rather than mandating what things should be. In other words, Sendak is telling the truth.

Now, you might say I’m completely bonkers, and many would agree. I will concede that most homes don’t have a secret kitchen in which three giant bakers whip up massive cakes by night which we all get to eat every morning. And it’s a rare bedroom which sprouts forests and oceans to take you to a land of Wild Things so you can rumpus. I may have a Changeling, but my changeling is certainly not a thing all of ice which was brought by goblins who spirited away my real child while I sat in an arbor.

I concede that all of this is accurate. It is also true that I’ve yet to see a child and a bear in a broken top hat picking strawberries and blackberries in the same season while elephants skate on raspberry jam, but somehow that book feels so damned plausible it’s just perfect, but if the metre faltered even a little the whole book would collapse in a puddle.

But why is it scary for a child’s walls to melt away in a forest while he sails off to an island of Wild Things but going over a waterfall in a canoe full of blueberries with a bear is funny?

We, as adults, have to remember what a child sees and experiences. And I think that quite often we, as adults, have learned to recoil in fear whereas children fear unflinchingly. Sendak knew that better than many.

In Where the Wild Things Are, Max is mischievous, bouncing off the walls. We don’t necessarily see how that mischief turns to anger; both parents and children can, I know, fill in those blanks in any number of realistic ways: maybe the mischief was already angry, or maybe there was a catalyst, or maybe the excess energy spilled into high emotions and anger. Max, angry and mouthing off, is sent to bed without his supper. We watch as the open-eyed anger turns to closed eyes and the inner space of dissolving rigid walls into open air and the forest and the ocean, where he takes his anger and his wildness into expression and joy. The page layout matches this: small, constrained panels widen and broaden until the rumpus pages are full, gorgeous, wordless spreads with canny eyes and glorious smiles.

Parents recoil from anger and wildness and fierce expressions.

Children, however, are delighted by roaring terrible roars because in the pages of the book, as in the dissolving walls of the imagination, you can roar safely.

The other books have similar escapes.

It’s my suspicion, for example, that the terrified librarians pasting diapers on poor Mickey were fixating on that to avoid even looking at the scariest page in the book: Mickey pops out of the oven with a happy smile on his face saying: “I’m not the milk and the milk’s not me! I’m Mickey!”

Mickey, from falling dreamily through the air, buck naked, mixed into a cake, hops happily into action, forcing the bakers’ eyes open, telling them exactly who he is, and then taking charge. “I’m Mickey the pilot!” he declares. Then abandoning his dough-plane to the Milky Way he becomes a milkman, diving down to the bottom: “I’m in the milk and the milk’s in me…” Mickey flies and swims and cries “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” Mickey is the hero of cake-creation, but he is cheerfully defiant and happily reinvents himself throughout the book.

Mickey is the kid who cuts their hair in the bathroom sink and (not that I’ve ever seen this done) writes their name in Sharpie in the middle of the bedroom floor (I think it will come off with rubbing alcohol).

Let’s end with the book that’s the hardest, always the hardest, one that I reviewed very badly years ago so I don’t want to link to my review (though I still agree with my final line: “In very short form: this book feels like music sounds. And I have no greater compliment to pay it.”)– Outside Over There. On Shabbat, I looked at the cover and waved it at my husband: “Silver? Caldecott Honor? What else came out that year?” He shrugged while I ranted. I looked it up after Shabbat and texted him this screenshot…

Well, all right I guess. Fine. The committee must have been slightly overwhelmed. (I still would have pushed for Outside Over There.)

Why, though, do we adults insist on such lists and choices and clarity? Why do I have to explain that maybe it’s OK for Max to have a safe space to discharge the inevitable anger all children– all humans– feel? Why is it important to think about whether the Wild Things are dangerous? (NB: The Wild Thing is not only Max, but his family. The figures of the Wild Things were drawn from his own family members, according to the beautifully researched and written Wild Visionary by Golan Y. Moskowitz. Categories blur.)

Outside Over There deliberately rejects all such easy paths. Papa is away at sea (where, why?) and Mama is in the arbor (what’s she looking at?) and Ida has to look after her baby sister, whom she loves, but isn’t watching, so the baby is stolen by goblins. That poor baby– but, wait! That poor Ida! But can we blame the parents? Well, it’s their job–

This is not simple. Families aren’t simple. We all make serious mistakes and tumble backwards into outside over there, but we can be clever, too, and quick churn our goblins into a dancing stream (wait, aren’t the goblins the ones dancing, and doesn’t quick water churn?), and we can succeed.

Why does Sendak drop Mozart into Outside Over There? Well, why not? Why the German Romantic style? Why the German Shepherd dogs, based on his own, when he’s a child who grew up in the USA while his family was murdered in the Holocaust– his parents’ own siblings? Because the world we, all of us, including our children, live in is not simple. It defies understanding, but we can face that, and be brave rescuers, and love the innocent, rosy children crooning and clapping as a baby should, and look after them always, because that kind of love is stronger than any goblin.

Emotionally, psychologically, Sendak knew that to be true, and that is an unflinching, unshakeable truth I want every child to have the opportunity to hold in life.

Which is why I will read these books over and over every time my Spriggan says “Ah-gehn? Ah-gehn?” and the Changeling, all 9 years old as she is, will always pop her head up from her bigger books to watch and listen while we go through forests and kitchens and outside over there until we wind up back home, where our supper is thankfully waiting for us, and it is often even still hot.

I’m sure hoping you already have these books, but if you were, before you read this post, one of those poor, misguided souls– here are links to my local, beloved Brookline Booksmith: Where the Wild Things Are, In the Night Kitchen, and Outside Over There (link to the Carle Museum book shop because it’s sadly so hard to come by these days).