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 We've been so engrossed in making our holiday gift-giving lists (if not yet actually shopping for the gifts) and in reading our interview with Philip Gourevitch (The Paris Review Interviews, Volume I), not to mention original essays by Alicia C. Shepard (Woodward and Bernstein) and Carolyn Turgeon (Rain Village) and the daily posts from guest blogger Tsia Carson (Craftivity), that we almost forgot about the Powell's Schoolbook Challenge! Our goal is to put 50,000 new books onto the library shelves of Portland- and Beaverton-area schools. If you'd like to help us out with a $5.95 pledge, which will buy an eleven-book donation, please click here.
 
NEW ARRIVALS
A Very Special Brockman Christmas
I grew up with five brothers, and my parents found raising us to be something of a daunting task. If I recall correctly, keeping six young boys from fighting and misbehaving was the thirteenth labor of Hercules (later deleted from the myth, but restored in the director's cut). One year, when I was eight years old and not even the most cantankerous of the litter, my mother grew fed up and bellowed at dinner, "Santa is making a list and you're all on the naughty side and if you don't stop fighting THIS INSTANT, your stockings will be a sad affair come Christmas morning!" We did stop our fighting — but only to join together in laughing at her. What a ridiculously empty threat. What kind of parent would withhold stocking stuffers from her children? As it turns out, mine. Christmas morning, all six stockings were filled to bursting — not with toys, but rather mulch. Enclosed were little notes written in cursive: "The Brockman boys: excess fighting, too many counts. Better luck next year." Next year, we were angels. We carried groceries for our mother, performed the chores assigned by our father (even added a few chores of our own, to sweeten the deal), with nary a cross word nor a thrown fist between us. Our stockings overflowed with toys and candy — but inside each was a cautionary note, again in the cursive script: "Probationary period. Don't slip up again." Sensing a good thing, my parents brought Ebenezer Scrooge's wish of Christmas all year 'round to glorious life. From that year forward, Santa visited our home at regular, unpredictable intervals, sometimes only issuing progress reports ("July 25th: Six counts of fighting, four counts of generosity. Six months to shape up!") and other times delivering surprise gifts as rewards, or bags full of mulch as warnings. I've never forgotten the lesson my parents taught me. How could I? Whenever I'm late with a Mother's Day card, I get a FedEx package full of mulch. Every year, as April 15th inches closer, I receive a letter in a familiar cursive handwriting: "Boys who forget to file their taxes get a bag of mulch and jail time." And each December, when I come home to a family that has grown quite a bit larger but no less kind and generous toward one another, I greet the dawning of Christmas morning with a mixture of excitement and trepidation. I try to stay on my best behavior all year, really I do. My consolation is, even if I'm bad, at least I can bring something home to my garden.
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IN OUR NEXT EDITION:
An interview with Steven Johnson (The Ghost Map).
A chance to win a red iPod Nano.
An INK Q&A with Kevin Brockmeier (The Brief History of the Dead).
Bear is down in the dumps. All his favorite climbing trees are strung with holiday lights. Despite unseasonably clear skies, last week he hardly got off the ground.
"There aren't other trees to climb?" Bagheera asks. "What about in the park?" No climber, Bagheera. He prefers to lurk in gardens and under the deck. Rarely, in fact, does he wander far from home. Witness, here the cats are now, on his front porch: Bear, Fup, and Bagheera, lounging on the wide, wooden rail. Not ten feet in front of them, the dogwood is a tangle of live wire and bulbs. Bear stares longingly at the trunk. Bagheera looks at the same tree and sees an interruption in the lawn. "Imagine if a strange dog took over your porch for a month," Fup tries to explain. Bagheera scouts the vicinity. Clearly he's nervous just thinking about it. "Would you want to hang out on the porch next door instead?" Bear leaps down into the yard. He circles the base of the tree. Maybe he overlooked a way around the cord? He did not.
We've been very good this year. Well, mostly. Okay, somewhat. Send questions, comments, suggestions, and stocking stuffers to newsletter@powells.com.
PowellsBooks.news Copyright 2006 Powells.com
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