Books like Twig

Had you heard of Elizabeth Orton Jones before seeing this book? If so, your familiarity was probably with her lovely illustrations in Prayer for a Child by Rachel Field, which won the 1945 Caldecott Medal as the year's most distinguished picture book. Elizabeth Orton Jones is an exceptional artist, but Twig demonstrates that her talents don't end there. This is a novel as multifaceted and insightful as some of the best in children's literature, the brainchild of a writer capable of transforming an anecdote about an imaginative girl in her urban backyard into a feast for the senses that helps unlock our own wealth of imagination if we've misplaced the key. Twig doesn't have rolling meadows to run around in, or carefully maintained suburban streets or vast mountain ranges or the clever, clean symmetry of an affluent cityscape. Twig, a young girl without siblings or nearby friends, has her creativity and a wish from the heart for a story to inhabit, a story to look back on fondly when she's grown. She is the childhood incarnation of Elizabeth Orton Jones, who discovered that the power of story is unlimited in those willing to nurture it, to believe anything is possible if you can conceive of and imagine it through to the end. We, her readers, are lucky enough to be invited along on her exciting personal journey. We see the setting of Twig's story even before page one. The rear of her four-story apartment house is drawn in loving detail opposite the title page: the zigzag stairs leading down to the alley out back, the buildings pressing close on either side, the fence enclosing a makeshift backyard for Twig to play in. By the fence sits Old Girl, a stray cat, and past the fence is Old Boy, a tired workhorse who sleeps all he can between shifts, and sometimes during. From the illustration alone we can tell this is a sacred place for Twig. There isn't much to be entertained by back here, so Twig has set up an old tomato can on the ground as a rudimentary fairy house. The can has a split down the side for a front door, and Twig has spruced up the interior to host the proper fairy if he or she should happen along. There's even a little creek running beside it from the apartment house's drainpipe, and a dandelion for a splash of warm color. Twig settles in to wait for her fairy. Mrs. Sparrow, who lives with her husband and four eggs in a nest on the drainpipe, finds a fairy-sized humanoid on the steps of the public library while on an outing. Elf is his name, and he'd be glad to inhabit Twig's fairy house. Using his book of magic, Elf transforms Twig to the same size he is, and they make quick work fashioning the tomato can into a comfortable residence. Twig and Elf don't agree on every decor decision, and certainly not on every guest who should be allowed in the house, but not everything has to be gotten right on the first try. Elf brings home some fantastic surprises, including a little set of wings that allows Twig to fly above her apartment house without Sparrow or the Mrs. having to take her up. When Sparrow disappears long enough to worry Mrs. Sparrow, Twig and Elf volunteer to watch over the eggs, keeping them warm while their mother searches for their father. And the Sparrows aren't done importing guests to Twig's backyard. A visiting fairy Queen and a great magician offer to show Twig and Elf parts of the world beyond their imagination. There are no bounds to the fantasy created in Twig's backyard, and all the companionship she could want is right here between the back of her apartment house and the rickety old fence. All stories end, but the ones that settle into our heart and affirm our deepest desires are never really over. They remain like a distant star, lighting the darkness so we're never alone again. One star makes all the difference. I could write on and on about Twig. Every episode in it contains subtle truths about imagination and hoping for the future, written in pretty and charming prose. Where did Elf come from? Tiny people don't materialize on library steps every day, and there's a reason why Elf showed up at the right moment for Mrs. Sparrow to meet him. Elf was destined to be in Twig's story, just as he was to be part of his last story, about a shoemaker and his wife who scarcely had the resources to live. Elf relates that experience to Twig, and it's nothing like the "Elves and the Shoemaker" retread she expects; the story ran off the rails weirdly, everything going wrong and spoiling the possibility for a happy ending. Sad, desperate, and cross with the shoemaker over what he wanted to wish for from the elf, the man's wife wishes she could start the story all over. A peculiar ending for a fairy tale, but it plays a huge role in what happens next for Twig and Elf. Twig is pleased with the knickknacks Elf retrieves to decorate the tomato can house...until he brings a pet. A cute pet. Wait...what, cute? Elf is tickled pink to haul a squirmy insect named Chummie to his new tin house, but Twig is not thrilled. Chummie is a cockroach. Elf has taught him to roll over, and he loves giving the bug big hugs. Elf proudly shows how Chummie follows him all over the house, scurrying after him on his tiny legs. Disgusted, Twig hurls plastic dinnerware at Chummie until he flees the tomato can, and screams at the cockroach to stay out. Elf is too disappointed in Twig to say a word. He walks out after Chummie and they disappear into the distance, Twig's upbeat fantasy gone horribly wrong in a matter of minutes. How did it sour so fast? Twig weeps over her lost companion, angry as the shoemaker's wife had been. It's surprising and bittersweet when Twig sets the table, straightens up the house, and the story restarts from just before Elf brought Chummie, only this time, he doesn't. Oh, how we would love to be able to set our own story right that easily, erasing mistakes that mar the course of our life. It's poignant to see Twig reclaim her friendship with Elf that way, knowing our stories usually aren't that simple to fix. What does Elf return with instead of Chummie? A pair of yellow wings that grant them freedom to soar like the Sparrows, and elevated perspective on Twig's backyard and the miniature estate she built for her and Elf. "Oh, wasn't this lovely? Wasn't it lovely having wings?" To move unmoored from the earth, going where your fancy takes you, choosing what you want to do without conventional limitations? Twig enjoys being Elf's size, and the sights and sensations that come with it. "Oh! Wasn't this lovely? Wasn't it lovely being little enough to lie on a dandelion leaf?" Preoccupation with growing up is childhood's general rule, but what about appreciating being small enough to do things you can't when you're older? You have a short time to enjoy these aspects of life before they're beyond reach. The wings take off on their own when Twig tries to transfer them to Elf, and the bright yellow flying apparatus vanishes into the sky. Twig wishes she and Elf could have flown forever, but rather than be depressed, she thinks how wonderful of Elf it was to bring her the wings in the first place, and she can't remain sad when she focuses on that. "Thanks, Elf!" she whispers into one of his pointed ears for only him to hear, and those two words are powerful in the story's context. When we gain wings and eventually lose them, it's vital not to forget the elation of the days when we weren't bound by gravity. Losing the wings doesn't mean they were never ours at all. The story shifts when Sparrow returns, and has the fairy Queen with him. She's no taller than Elf or Twig, and brings a sense of elegance to the backyard. Old Girl, the cat, sings a concert for the Queen, who gracefully compliments the feline's melodious meowing. It is an honor to be with the Queen, and her dignity and wisdom influence Twig and Elf for the good. Of course, a Queen is bound to have illustrious visitors, and Twig and Elf are ecstatic at the arrival of Lord Buzzle Cobb-Webb and his Royal Magical Cobb-Webb Kerchief. The Queen has a position for Twig in her magical realm, and Lord Buzzle Cobb-Webb has one for Elf in a land where elves are constantly needed in fairy tales; the two enchanted beings are here to usher Twig's narrative to an end, and that's not a bad thing. As Twig does, we may wish our ideal story stretched on eternally in comfort and peace so we would never have to live with less, but the Queen assures her there's solace in an ending. "But ends are also beginnings, you know. Every single story has a beginning at its end." You may be able to reboot if the middle goes wrong, as Twig did for the Chummie incident, but even favorite stories must end. That's the only way for a fresh story to emerge on the canvas of our life, coloring us with new hope, relationships, and a vision of the future more sensational than we could imagine before our previous story. Profound loss is balanced out by a new set of blessings we may have not have had room for before the loss. Life can be lonesome and we're not sure what enduring effect we have on the world, but our story matters, Twig realizes at the end of this book as she looks into the darkening sky. "Oh! Wasn't this lovely? Wasn't this a perfectly lovely end? It was like waiting for the story to begin all over again! And it was a little like something else, too. It was a little like making a wish, and having the wish come true...She looked and looked. And pretty soon she saw a little tiny star, no bigger than a toothpaste top, come out right above the back yard. She saw it come out and begin to twinkle, all by itself. Why! It wasn't evening yet. There weren't any other stars around. There was nothing around except plain, ordinary sky. But the little star kept twinkling. And—somehow—the sky didn't seem so plain and ordinary any more. Why! Even a little star no bigger than a toothpaste top made quite a difference—a little star, twinkling all by itself, made a difference in the whole sky!" Our lives and the lives of the ones we love matter because they illuminate the sky even if only for a short while, casting a hopeful glow over everything their light touches. As long as we keep their stories alive, there's a fresh beginning right around the corner, where the laughter and affection we shared will live on as vivid as ever. People who know the history of children's literature know Elizabeth Orton Jones's artwork, but not nearly enough are aware that her writing was just as beautiful. Twig is on par with the works of Noel Streatfeild, Robert Lawson, and Beverly Cleary for its emotional and thematic depth. I stand by the selection of Elizabeth Janet Gray's Adam of the Road for the 1943 Newbery Medal, but Twig was a worthy candidate, and I could easily have seen it being awarded a Newbery Honor for that year. A novel like this is rare and special for its re-readability; I could read Twig two or three times a year for life and not grow tired of its sprightly spirit, ageless wisdom, and tender, subtle commentary on the human condition. I love this book, and I don't say that lightly. Thank you, Elizabeth Orton Jones, for a gift so personal and precious.