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This richly layered novel is in turn funny, mysterious, and touching. Sharon Creech's original voice tells a story like no other, one that readers will not soon forget.
Gramps says that I am a country girl at heart, and that is true.
Thirteen-year-old Salamanca Tree Hiddle, proud of her country roots and the
"Indian-ness in her blood," travels from Ohio to Idaho with her
eccentric grandparents. Along the way, she tells them of the story of Phoebe
Winterbottom, who received mysterious messages, who met a "potential
lunatic," and whose mother disappeared.
Beneath Phoebe's stories Salamanca's own story and that of her mother, who
left on April morning for Idaho, promising to return before the tulips bloomed.
Sal's mother has not, however, returned, and the trip to Idaho takes on a
growing urgency as Salamanca hopes to get to Idaho in time for her mother's
birthday and bring her back, despite her father's warning that she is fishing in
the air.
This richly layered novel is in turn funny, mysterious, and touching. Sharon
Creech's original voice tells a story like no other, one that readers will not
soon forget.
Winner of the 1995 Newbery Medal
A 1995 ALA Notable Children's Book
School Library Journal Best Book of 1994
Winner of a 1994 Bulletin Blue Ribbon
A Notable Children's Trade Book in the Language Arts (NCTE)
Winner of the 1997 Heartland Award for Excellence in Young Adult Literature
Chapter One
A Face at the Window
Gramps says that I am a country girl at heart, and that is true. I have lived
most of my thirteen years in Bybanks, Kentucky, which is not much more than a
caboodle of houses roosting in a green spot alongside the Ohio River. just over
a year ago, my father plucked me up like a weed and took me and all our
belongings (no, that is not true--he did not bring the chestnut tree, the
willow, the maple, the hayloft, or the swimming hole, which all belonged to me)
and we drove three hundred miles straight north and stopped in front of a house
in Euclid, Ohio.
"No trees?" I said. "This is where we're going to live?"
"No," my father said. "This is Margaret's house."
The front door of the house opened and a lady with wild red hair stood there.
I looked up and down the street. The houses were all jammed together like a row
of birdhouses. In front of each house was a tiny square of grass, and in front
of that was a thin gray sidewalk running ...
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There is no such thing as a moral or immoral book. Books are either well written or badly written. That is all.
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