Land of the Silver Birch

Land of the Silver Birch
Home of the beaver
Where still the mighty moose
Wanders to Dinah ...

I am SOOO HONOURED!!!! Shadows on the Train has been nominated for Ontario's 2008 Silver Birch Award! This is my second Silver Birch nomination. The first was for The Mask on the Cruise Ship, a couple of years back; or, in my sister Madge's language, about 2,439 new outfits ago.

Melanie is floating on air - in fact, if you tilt your head, you can just about see her orbiting. Oooo, watch out for that Russian satellite, Mel - oh no, a mega-collision ... debris is flying everywhere ... Run for cover!

Pantelli: "Dinah, too bad about your late author, but I need to point out that beavers, in fact, do NOT live in trees."
Me: "What, you've never heard of Bocky the Flying Beaver?"
Pantelli: "I think that was Rocky the Flying Squirrel; and, no."

Singin' in the Train

This post is dedicated to Dinah's friend J.S., who is learning French! Vraiment, tu es merveilleuse, J.S.!

There's another great review of Shadows on the Train, this time as part of a fascinating history of trains in kids' literature. Allow me to add to it by pointing out that I'm not the first singer to go all aboard for a train story. Judy Garland starred in The Harvey Girls. Like me, she was on the tracks (heh heh) of a villain. In that movie, Judy sang the Academy-Award-winning On the Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe, belting it out with such volume, volume, VOLUME that it's amazing the ties didn't fly off the rails. Watch for her below: she makes a dramatic late entrance. (Just as I like to, BTW - funny how this doesn't go over with teachers.)

Dinah, won't you blow your horn?

I've been working on the railroad, all right - catching thieves on a cross-Canada train! And now, thanks to a way cool review of Shadows on the Train by Wendy Williams of CM Magazine, I get to blow my own horn. Yay! Thank you, Wendy and CM!

Gender gap in achievement: where ARE you, Gilbert?

From the Sept. 22, 2007 Vancouver Sun article "To close the gender gap, we must do more for boys," by Melanie Jackson:

Among the memorable moments in Anne of Green Gables is the take-no-prisoners fight between the redheaded Ms. Shirley and Gilbert Blythe -- in academics. Right up to the end of Lucy Maud Montgomery's classic, the two battle neck-and-neck for highest marks.

It's one of the epic contests of young adult literature. It's also an anachronism. These days educators are trying to boost boys' average achievement rates to equal girls', never mind surpass them a la Gilbert. To do that, educators realize they pretty much have to start a new slate (much as Anne did after slamming Gilbert over the head with hers). Boys' lagging rates will be the topic of the Gender and Student Achievement Conference: Addressing the Gender Gap in Education, Oct. 18-20 in Kamloops.

Read the rest here. Above photo from the Kevin Sullivan production of Anne of Green Gables, featuring (ahem!) that OTHER famous redhead.

Life Is Serious

G.D. from Toronto wanted to know: "Did Melanie ever come back from being kidnapped?" Why, yes, she did - though first our Sinister Hoodie tried to ransom her. All Pantelli and I could come up with was some dented Bionicles, so the Hoodie eventually gave up and returned Melanie free of charge. He grumbled something about complaining to the kidnappers' union next time - like, who knows.

However, before he returned my author, the two of them, along with a Cecil B. DeMille-like cast and crew, filmed the following extravaganza, Life Is Serious, a concept Melanie feels very strongly about.

Di-Namic Tips on Writing

You guys have been e-mailing me for tips on writing. Personally, I'm into SINGING. So I'll lob this one over to my author, Melanie Jackson. ... Melanie?

Melanie: Sure, Dinah - but watch where you lob, okay? That one got me in the eye. Anyhow, here are my top five tips for budding authors:

1. Write about people and places you know. Change names, though! You don't want Great-Aunt Sadie bearing down on you with her cane.
2. Set a time every day for writing. Even if you toss out what you've written, you've improved your style just that much with your 6 a.m. cup of tea (or whenever).
3. Read constantly! And read good books. The good writers' style and messages will seep into your brain.
4. Print out and edit what you've written. I know, I know: editing sounds boring. But when you have a first draft in front of you it's like viewing an aerial landscape of a village. You can rearrange places and people to make the story better.
5. Like Prime Minister Winston Churchill (pictured) said, "Never never never never give up!" Admittedly, with his glorious, plummy accent he said "Nevah." But you get the idea. Be stubborn. You will succeed if you keep trying.

Pantelli and I log into a new mystery

Anyhow, Pantelli and I zoomed away from the Dubuques, Constable Dassios and assorted other adults with irritating questions. We smashed through a couple of garden hedges, scrambled over a sagging fence, pushed through lilac bushes, and ended up in the overgrown garden of our neighborhood haunted house.

From the cackles and giddy “Wheeeee!”s inside the crookedly open French doors, the inhabitant of the haunted house was having a rip-roaring good time. Parting long dandelion stalks and wavy grasses, Pantelli and I tiptoed closer.

We saw a skinny woman with long brown hair flinging herself about to the catchy music of Logdriver’s Waltz:

Dinah and Shakespeare

The Stratford City Gazette on Shadows on the Train: “Dinah is being shadowed by two mysterious characters, nicknamed The Whisperer and Bowl Cut. Evidently, they are pursuing a treasure that Dinah doesn't even have! Then various passengers on the train, including Dinah's music teacher, begin to disappear! Are they being kidnapped? ... This is the fifth instalment in the award-winning Dinah Galloway series of hilarious, wacky mysteries for children. There's absolutely no room for boredom on the part of young readers who accompany the spunky, unstoppable Dinah on her adventures!”

Listen, Shakespeare got his start in Stratford, so why not me? I'm a Shakespeare fan myself, by the way. Especially for his bloodier plays, natch. I mean, you really can't top Macbeth, now can you? Though I always wondered why Lady Macbeth had to do laundry commercials – y’know, that line about getting spots out. Guess she needed extra shillings.

The stuff I'm not so crazy about is that “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day” nonsense, which Jack spouts to Madge – sooooo tedious.

Now revealed: the reason behind the kidnapping!

Am I your bulldoggish neighborhood detective, or what? Through perseverance -- a.k.a. pest-like sleuthing -- I found out that the sinister Hoodie spirited my author off to star in a movie. So much for agents, huh? Anyhow, Melanie's new flick is called Life Is Serious.

Here's a shot of the set. You can see that quite a sizable crew and a whole lotta equipment were involved. Stay seriously tuned.

Melanie's kidnapping: the distressing video!

Shocker: Melanie gets spirited away!

In a horrifying development, my author, Melanie Jackson, has been kidnapped right out of her own back yard! Video coming soon -- convenient that we happened to be filming Melanie at the time, huh? Not so convenient that she'd promised me a hearty, deep-fried lunch at Memphis Blues on Commercial: now I'm hungry as well as horrified.

Anyhow, my tree-loving buddy Pantelli will be subbing for Melanie at the Vancouver Public Library launch of lotsa new books by BC children's authors, June 9, 1-3 pm. Including -- not to stop you in your tracks -- Shadows on the Train! Melanie belongs to CWILL (Children's Writers and Illustrators), which is organizing the event.

But, of course, since she's been KIDNAPPED, she won't be there; Pantelli will, in all his leafy glory.

Hey! Why don't you figure out where Melanie is? To find her location, try this Word Jumble out, if you dare ...

The Mystery, Unearthed

So where were we? Ah, yes. That Arctic-icy voice: “Just what are you doing?”

I glared back at the green-eyed woman. “We’re digging up Mrs. Dubuque, if you don’t mind.”

Green Eyes jabbed a green-nailed forefinger at me. “How can you do that – when I’m Mrs. Dubuque?”

I launched into a derisive HA! – only to stop. Just before the exclamation mark, to be exact.

Because Green Eyes’s face did look familiar, on closer examination. I’ve seen that face, a much more ample version of it, that is, on a plump body puttering about the garden. And over a large bowl of Snickers on Hallowe’en night, accompanied by the buttery-voice words, Help yourself. Hee hee. I know I do!

“Mrs. … Dubuque?” I venture, with an uneasy sensation similar to the time I was gobbling up tomatoes from our neighbours the Rinaldis’ garden, when I thought the Rinaldis were safely far away – but weren’t.

“Mrs. Weight-Loss-Retreat Dubuque, IF you don’t mind.” Green Eyes, a.k.a. the transformed Mrs. Dubuque preened in her triumphant new thinness. “Not only did I shed fifty pounds, I dyed my hair a romantic raven-black, and got green contact lenses. You see, Dinah, my favourite song has always been Green Eyes. A delightful 1940s instrumental. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

“Er – yes,” I stammered. “But the things that were buried. I mean,” I gulped, trying desperately to salvage the situation, “think of Hitchcock film Rear Window (see sinister photo, above). When Raymond Burr digs in his garden, it’s not to plant tulip bulbs. He’s knocked off the missus. Naturally,” I finished, with what I hoped was a winning laugh, “I thought … ”

“At my request, Mr. Dubuque was burying XX-large-size dresses to motivate me to never, but never, indulge in so many sweets again!"

Constable Dassios snapped her notebook shut. “I think we can pronounce Case Closed on this particular mystery, Dinah.”

Mr. Dubuque, beefy face red with anger, stomped over like a one-man herd of elephants. “Causing me trouble again, eh, Dinah? Wasn’t it offensive enough that you hid on our roof last Hallowe’en pretending to be a raccoon? Oh yes,” our neighbour laughed bitterly. “I figured out it was you. I’m not stupid, you know.”
A shocked, melodramatic gasp from Pantelli. “You did what, Di? You mean, you trespassed?”

Pantelli has a shovel-like quality to him: that is to say, always ready to offload blame. As I recalled quite well from that particular The Man in the Moonstone incident, Pantelli had been just as culpable as I.

Which is why, swivelling, I started after Pantelli.

“Wait,” shouted Mr. Dubuque. “I haven’t done with reaming you out!”

“Wait,” his wife echoed. “I haven’t done with describing my makeover to you!”

But I was speeding after the fleeing Pantelli. I followed him through a brambly hedge, into the overgrown garden of a skulking, graystone house – a sinister, unkempt place we’d always thought of as haunted.

Interrupted Train of Thought

"Just what are you doing?" exclaimed an Arctic-icy voice behind us.

I whipped round to see --

"Hold on, there, Dinah," Talbot interrupts. "Don't you think you oughtta make Shadows on the Train the subject of this post?"

Why ... I guess Talbot's right. I should. (Er -- later, Mrs. Dubuque.) This month my newest adventure, Shadows on the Train, chugs into bookstores! You can read all about my, Talbot and Pantelli's slightly off-track adventures with a mysterious treasure that someone is trying to steal. Problem is, we don't know exactly what the treasure is, except that it's worth a whopping eighty grand. And, as we travel by train across the country, a nice little old lady vanishes from the dining car! Very Hitchcockian, my mother would say. I'd say, I hope the old lady got to finish her crumpets first. I mean, thwarting someone's attempt to eat -- now that's brutal. Anyhow, you can get all aboard! with our fearful adventures by slinking amongst the deadly ... Shadows on the Train.

The Woman at the Window

Constable Dassios flipped open her notebook. "So where did you say this, er, body was, Dinah?"

I pointed at the Dubuques' flowerbed, sprouting bright orange zinnias whose black centers seemed to be winking knowingly at us. "That patch of pink in the middle of them is no sprig of posies, Constable. That's Mrs. Dubuque's housedress. I haven't seen her here in weeks. Her hubby's bumped her off and buried her."

Constable Dassios chewed the end of her pen. "Hasn't been seen for weeks, huh? Let me have a talk with Mr. Dubuque."

Talbot and Pantelli were sitting on top of the fence between my house and the Dubuques'. Talbot looked quite pale beneath his soulful dark forelock; he'd got along well with Mrs. Dubuque. But then Talbot got along well with all adults. Pantelli, meanwhile, was crunching his way through a bag of popcorn. He'd microwaved it specially for this "entertainment," as he called it.

"Hey -- there's Green Eyes!" he shouted, pointing to the window.

The green-eyed babe stared out at us for a moment, then let the curtain fall in front of her face.

"She's why Mr. D. killed his wife. Dead," I added pointedly, because the Constable did not look as impressed as she ought to. A tiny doubt entered my mind. Should I have waited till Mother was home to call the police? Talbot thought so. He feared I was being impulsive.

Me, impulsive? Donuts, holey?

"I'll handle this," said Constable Dassios. She started to walk up the deck steps to the Dubuques' back door.

I shrugged at Talbot and Pantelli. Mr. D. and Green Eyes would simply deny any accusations. I would just have to take matters in hand, so to speak. Grasping the pink patch of cloth, I gave a yank --

And toppled backward on the grass. I was holding Mrs. Dubuque's trademark pink housedress all right.

But there was no Mrs. Dubuque in it.

Di-vine thanks to my support staff

Yep, that's 'em: (from left) my author, Melanie Jackson, along with Wilfred the Cowardly and Mad Maybelle, Melanie's tekkie during author presentations. And the presentation they're smiling about here is the January 27 WriteOn! literacy event at Vancouver Public Library, hosted by the Lower Mainland Chapter of the International Literacy Association (LOMCIRA), Literacy BC, and of course VPL itself. Poet Bob Heidbreder romped the audience through his catchy rhymes, then Melanie presented my own personal tour through the screamingly fascinating History of the Mystery. There were lots of writing activities, too. Another THANK YOU, btw -- to Meredyth Grace Kezar of LOMCIRA.

Oh ... the Dubuque mystery? Well, stay tuned for an update on this very grave situation.

Enter Green Eyes

A mysterious woman has started visiting Mr. Dubuque. The married Mr. Dubuque, I should note disapprovingly. The mystery babe has raven-dark hair, wickedly sparkling green eyes and – the ultimate villainess giveaway – wears a fur coat over her slim frame.

Mrs. Dubuque wasn't like that at all. Mrs. Dubuque was comfortably plump, with wispy gray hair that she didn't bother brushing. Mrs. Dubuque shuffled around in worn slippers and an old, faded pink housedress. Not the glam-villainess type at all.

You'll notice I refer to Mrs. Dubuque in the past tense.

“Because of course Mr. Dubuque killed his wife to make room for this new dame,” I explained at dinner last night. We were having one of my favorites, spicy garlic roast chicken. I waved a drummette around for emphasis. “My theory is, he buried her in the garden. I wouldn't be surprised if Green Eyes helped him.

"This explains why Mr. D. dug up his flowerbed a couple of months back and then replanted the whole thing. He replanted it over his late wife.” Having made my point, I chomped into the delicious, sauce-covered meat.

Strangely, Mother and Madge set down the pieces of chicken they’d been eating. “I hope you don’t share your grisly theories about our neighbor with anyone else,” Mother frowned. “Your over-active imagination could get us into a lot of trouble, Dinah.”

Jack, also at the table, erupted in something that sounded like a laugh. He transformed it into a hoarse-sounding cough, and reached for some potato salad.

“You know quite well that Mrs. Dubuque is on an extended trip,” Madge reproved me. She pushed her own plate of chicken away; Jack and I helped ourselves.

“I know that Mr. D. mutters and hurries away when I question him about that trip,” I retorted. I leaned over the table confidentially. “If you ask me, she went on a permanent trip, as in, the one-way kind.

“And … ” I held up my now efficiently gnawed-to-the-bone drummette for silence. “I now have proof that Mrs. D.’s sleeping with the worms.”

“Really, Dinah!” Madge stood up, threw her napkin on the table, and marched out of the room.

Jack licked the last of the potato salad off his fork. “And what proof, pray tell,” he inquired, “is that?”

I smiled triumphantly. “A corner of Mrs. D's old pink housedress is sticking out of the flowerbed.”

Have a Dickens of a Christmas!

Mother, Madge, Jack and I are heading off to midnight Mass on Christmas Eve. This year I'll be stepping forward from the rest of the choir to do a solo: O Holy Night. And on Christmas Day, we'll each read aloud from Charles Dickens's A Christmas Carol, about this sour old man named Ebenezer Scrooge who slowly comes to realize the value of caring for others as opposed to the value of a bank book. My favorite part is when he buys Tiny Tim a fat goose for the roasting! Num! For myself, I happen to like finding goose-egg-sized chocolates bulging up my Christmas stocking.

Read the book -- and see the 1951 movie starring Alastair Sim. Watch out for the ghost of events yet to come, though. Scareee!

Hey, be like Scrooge -- the reformed Scrooge -- and think of others this Christmas. Like the homeless animals at the BCSPCA! And, hey, Merry Christmas to all and to all a good Silent Night.

A Royal Thank You

... to my buddy B.L. of Vancouver, who introduced my author, Melanie Jackson, at not one but TWO school presentations. Way to go, B.L.! And I happen to know you're an ace writer, so keep on writing!

This being a royal thank you, I have an excuse to blather about my personal heroine, the very royal, very cool Elizabeth I. That Queen Elizabeth, who lived way back in the 1500s – hey, around the time Melanie Jackson was in kindergarten! – was redheaded and spitfire-determined, just like me. She reached the throne purely by her wits, after having a whole pack of enemies plot against her life. And then she reigned for a whopping forty years. I suspect Elizabeth was stubborn - another trait we have in common - and determined not to give up, no matter what. Yay, Elizabeth! There's a great historical novel about her called Young Bess, by Margaret Irwin. It was made into a movie, too! The photo shows Jean Simmons as Young Bess. Ahem, movie producers: ever be interested in casting a musical version of Young Bess? Puh-leeze, consider yours truly.

Speaking of stubbornness, I marched next door to ask Mr. Dubuque what had become of his wife. "Mrs. Dubuque - you do remember her," I said.

"Yeah. Well," Mr. Dubuque grunted, closing the door. Or trying to: it met my foot. "Ursula's visiting relatives back east."

"Funny," I said, though I wasn't smiling. "I once practiced my Junior Sleuth Club interrogation techniques on Mrs. D. Asked her about her background. She said her entire family lived in Sweden."

"Ja?" Mr. Dubuque scowled at me. He rammed the door against my foot. I had to withdraw it, or for the rest of my life look like I was walking on the side of a hill.

And then there's that garden he'd uprooted and replanted. Weird thing to do in late autumn. From my bedroom window I stared down at the rich orange zinnias freshly growing in the Dubuque garden - and wondered, and wondered.

A huge round of applause for S.P.!

My buddy S.P. from Vancouver sent me in this cool-sounding plot for a novel she's working on. I love it when kids write stories. Take it away, S.P.!

"I started a new story about a month ago and I'm still sticking with it. (I haven't gotten writer's block yet, like I always get). It's called Trouble in Tulum and it's about an eleven-year old girl called Elma Nichols who wins a two-week vacation with her parents and way-too-mature 16-year old sister to Tulum, in Mexico. But when she gets there, she hardly gets to relax at all. She gets wound up in a swirl of protests, purple-haired people, deep, ice-cold fountains, a strict substitute teacher, playing soccer in a monsoon, and more.

"So far, I've written six chapters and 63 pages. I'm really excited about it! So far, I've used dramatic irony, excitement, inner conflict, humour and exaggeration.

"By the way, here's the description I wrote for my book:

"When Elma Nichols and her family win a two-week vacation to Tulum, Mexico, they are overjoyed. Elma wants to swim with dolphins, her sister Madison wants to soak up the sun, and their parents want to relieve all their stress that's been building up. But little does Elma know that she's going to get tangled up in a mystery involving a heated protest, a day trapped at sea, and dozens of purple-haired people. Can she stop the protest, solve the mystery and still manage to make the most of her
vacation in paradise?"

Brussels sprouts more than leaves
This post is dedicated to Dinah's friends C. and M. in North Vancouver.

I just got some horrifying news. I hope you're sitting down. My author, Melanie Jackson, recently served Brussels sprouts to dinner guests. Like, what is she trying to do, alienate the planet? My North Van buddies C. and M. heard about it and are in therapy right now.

Melanie remains irritatingly blasé. "Brussels sprouts are good," she insists. "Would you like to try this nummy recipe I found, where you make them with slivered almonds?"

"Sure," I reply sweetly. "That's number two on my list of choice things to do today -- right after strapping myself to the Skytrain tracks."

Gad. You can see what I have to put up with.

Here's what C. and M.'s dad wrote in his e-mail to me: "M., with a shocked look on his face said, 'But Dinah doesn't like Brussel sprouts.' C. piped up, 'Don't you remember, when Dinah was making the Brussels sprouts disappear at the dinner table, she threw the last one out the window where the bad guy was trying to get into the house. It went into his mouth and he fell into the yard. The neighbours reported a man dressed all in black, limping and chewing something with a disgusted look on his face.' "

Ah yes, how fondly I remember that episode. It was near the start of The Mask on the Cruise Ship. Brussels sprouts as Scud missiles: now that's a good use for 'em.