Patricia MacLachlan was born on the prairie, and to this day
carries a small bag of prairie dirt with her wherever she goes to
remind her of what she knew first.She is the author of many
well-loved novels and picture books, including Sarah, Plain and
Tall, winner of the Newbery Medal; its sequels, Skylark and Caleb''s
Story; and Three Names, illustrated by Mike Wimmer.She lives in
western Massachusetts.
In Her Own Words..
"One thing I''ve learned with age and parenting is that life comes
in circles. Recently, I was having a bad time writing. I felt
disconnected. I had moved to a new home and didn''t feel grounded.
The house, the land was unfamiliar to me. There was no garden yet.
Why had I sold my old comfortable 1793 home? The one with the
snakes in the basement, mice everywhere, no closets. I would miss
the cold winter air that came in through the electrical
sockets.
"I had to go this day to talk to a fourth-grade class, and I
banged around the house, complaining. Hard to believe, since I am
so mild mannered and pleasant, isn''t it? What did I have to say to
them? I thought what I always think when I enter a room of
children. What do I know?
"I plunged down the hillside and into town, where a group of
fourth-grade children waited for me in the library, freshly
scrubbed, expectant. Should I be surprised that what usually
happens did so? We began to talk about place, our living
landscapes. And I showed them my little bag of prairie dirt from
where I was born. Quite simply, we never got off the subject of
place. Should I have been so surprised that these young children
were so concerned with place, or with the lack of it, their
displacement? Five children were foster children, disconnected from
their homes. One little boy''s house had burned down, everything
gone. "Photographs, too," he said sadly. Another told me that he
was moving the next day to place he''d never been. I turned and saw
the librarian, tears coming down her face.
"''You know,'' I said. "Maybe I should take this bag of prairie
dirt and toss it into my new yard. I''ll never live on the prairie
again. I live here now. The two places could mix together that
way!" "No!" cried a boy from the back. "Maybe the prairie dirt will
blow away!" And then a little girl raised her hand. "I think you
should put that prairie dirt in a glass bowl in your window so that
when you write you can see it all the time. So you can always see
what you knew first."
"When I left the library, I went home to write. What You Know
First owes much to the children of the Jackson Street School: the
ones who love place and will never leave it, the ones who lost
everything and have to begin again. I hope for them life comes in
circles, too."
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