{"product_id":"when-winter-robeson-came-isbn-9781524741600","title":"When Winter Robeson Came","description":"\u003cb\u003eThe whole world seems to transform during the summer of 1965, when Eden’s cousin from Mississippi comes to visit her in L.A. just as the Watts Riots erupt, in this stirring new novel by Coretta Scott King Honor winner Brenda Woods.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen Eden’s cousin Winter comes for a visit, it turns out he’s not just there to sightsee. He wants to figure out what happened to his dad, who disappeared ten years earlier from the Watts area of L.A. So the cousins set out to investigate together, and what they discover brings them joy—and heartache. It also opens up a whole new understanding of their world, just as the area they’ve got their sights on explodes in a clash between the police and the Black residents. For six days Watts is like a war zone, and Eden and Winter become heroes in their own part of the drama. Eden hopes to be a composer someday, and the only way she can describe that summer is a song with an unexpected ending, full of changes in tempo and mood--totally unforgettable.★ “Author Brenda Woods offers this heartfelt piece of historical fiction as she recalls witnessing the Watts Rebellion in 1965. Eden is an aspiring songwriter, and the book cleverly uses music terminology to convey Eden’s and Winter’s shifting emotions during the six days of unrest and to mark the pacing of the plot. The free verse makes some of the more complex themes accessible, and this could easily spark a thoughtful discussion on how a history of Jim Crow laws, police brutality, and housing inequality plays into current social unrest.” \u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBulletin of the Center for Children's Books\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003cb\u003estarred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A \u003cb\u003ehighly relatable\u003c\/b\u003e and at times poetic piece of writing and American history with a fresh depiction of lower- to upper-middle-class Black life in midcentury Los Angeles.” \u003cbr\u003e —\u003ci\u003eNew York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e “A heartfelt exploration of the 1965 Watts Rebellion as seen through the eyes of a remarkable girl.”\u003cbr\u003e —Jacqueline Woodson, National Book Award-winning author of \u003ci\u003eBrown Girl Dreaming\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e “\u003cb\u003eWoods has framed this story lyrically\u003c\/b\u003e, using musical movements and terminology to move the exposition along believably through Eden, who hopes to be a songstress. Readers will find themselves immersed in the time period with naturally included details, including musicians, authors, and places. This slim yet affecting offering presents an important moment in U.S. history that sadly mirrors current events. \u003cb\u003eMiddle-graders will be entertained and educated, as well as inspired to action\u003c\/b\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e“Woods explores the Watts riots of August 1965 through the experience of two Black cousins in a rhythmic historical novel in verse. . . . Interwoven with plentiful music references (\"Winter and I became a duo; our ballad, a duet\") and utilizing historically accurate language, Woods's harmonious play-by-play narrative of growing up during the Watts Riots spotlights some long-lasting effects of racial inequality and discrimination on children.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Eden plans to be a songwriter, and the text frequently achieves lines Eden herself would relish. . . . Neighborhood, family, friends, music, social justice, and dreams—themes that Eden begins to weave into songs by story's end. This is a layered story, told from the heart and rooted in the Woods's own experiences in 1965 Watts, as related in the author's note.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003ci\u003eHorn Book\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eBrenda Woods\u003c\/b\u003e was born in Ohio, grew up in Southern California, and attended California State University, Northridge. Her award-winning books for young readers include \u003ci\u003eThe Blossoming Universe of Violet Diamond\u003c\/i\u003e (a CCBC choice and a \u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e Best Book); the Coretta Scott King Honor winner \u003ci\u003eThe Red Rose Box\u003c\/i\u003e; the ALAN Pick \u003ci\u003eSaint Louis Armstrong Beach\u003c\/i\u003e; and \u003ci\u003eVOYA\u003c\/i\u003e Top Shelf Fiction selection \u003ci\u003eEmako Blue\u003c\/i\u003e. Woods’s numerous awards and honors include the Judy Lopez Memorial Book Award, the FOCAL International Award, and the ILA Children’s Choice Young Adult Fiction Award. She lives in the Los Angeles area. To learn more, visit brenda-woods.com.\u003cb\u003eUnexpected Endings\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When my cousin, Winter Robeson, came, I figured\u003cbr\u003e it would simply be two weeks of summertime fun.\u003cbr\u003e But every now and then it seems like songs with unexpected endings:\u003cbr\u003e things don’t always turn out the way you thought they would.\u003cbr\u003e August 1965 wound up becoming\u003cbr\u003e exactly like one of those songs.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  A Volcano Erupts\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e The melody began harmoniously.\u003cbr\u003e Instantly, Winter and I became a duo, our ballad a duet.\u003cbr\u003e But it wasn’t long before the tempo of our song changed.\u003cbr\u003e Poco a poco—little by little—the music veered off course,\u003cbr\u003e becoming an improvisation, spontaneous, unrehearsed.\u003cbr\u003e Then, suddenly and without warning, the city of Watts,\u003cbr\u003e which people claim was a volcano aching to erupt,\u003cbr\u003e finally did.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  Free-Flowing Melodies\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e Eden, Eden Louise Coal, is my name.\u003cbr\u003e I’m twelve, going on thirteen.\u003cbr\u003e I live on 103rd Street in Los Angeles, California,\u003cbr\u003e just west of Figueroa, not too far from Watts.\u003cbr\u003e Something else I suppose you should know\u003cbr\u003e is that I plan to become a songwriter, and so\u003cbr\u003e my words often pour out in cascading streams,\u003cbr\u003e sounding like free-flowing melodies.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  His Arrival\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e It’s a summertime Thursday, August 5, 1965.\u003cbr\u003e We’re downtown at Union Station, Daddy and I,\u003cbr\u003e sitting inside on one of the long, cool wooden benches, waiting.\u003cbr\u003e Now and then a train unloads and passengers stream out.\u003cbr\u003e Hands begin waving, and people hurry toward each other,\u003cbr\u003e smiling, reaching out arms, hugging, sometimes kissing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e His\u003c\/i\u003e train arrives late, but then there \u003ci\u003ehe\u003c\/i\u003e is.\u003cbr\u003e All the way from Sunflower, Mississippi,\u003cbr\u003e birthplace of Jerry Butler, Daddy likes to brag.\u003cbr\u003e Been two years since I last saw him\u003cbr\u003e at our family reunion in Indianola, Miss.\u003cbr\u003e I glance up at him, thinking, He sure grew tall,\u003cbr\u003e and that makes me feel small.\u003cbr\u003e He’ll be fourteen this December,\u003cbr\u003e our cousin, Winter Robeson.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e I’m Eden\u003c\/i\u003e, I blurt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e I know. You ain’t changed ’cept you got a lot shorter\u003c\/i\u003e, Winter Robeson jokes.\u003cbr\u003e I laugh. \u003ci\u003eDid not\u003c\/i\u003e, I tell him, then examine him from head to toe.\u003cbr\u003e The straw cowboy hat looks small for his head,\u003cbr\u003e and for some reason that makes me smile.\u003cbr\u003e Between his front teeth a gap has appeared\u003cbr\u003e and his perfect velvety skin is dark brown.\u003cbr\u003e His suitcase Mama would call well used.\u003cbr\u003e His plaid shirt is green, his jeans brand-new-blue.\u003cbr\u003e His black high-top Converses have snowy white laces,\u003cbr\u003e and from his neck a Kodak camera loosely dangles.\u003cbr\u003e We trail my daddy, Ernie Coal, outside into the sun.\u003cbr\u003e From the front seat of our ’57 Chevy, I keep turning around, gazing,\u003cbr\u003e sipping him slowly like ice water, memorizing him like a poem.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e Y’all even have your own automobile. Wish we had one\u003c\/i\u003e, Winter remarks,\u003cbr\u003e caressing the seat, acting like he’s riding in a brand-new Cadillac Coupe de Ville.\u003cbr\u003e I turn on the radio and music fills the car.\u003cbr\u003e Marvin Gaye is singing, “I’ll Be Doggone,” and I sing along.\u003cbr\u003e Immediately, Winter joins in and together we croon.\u003cbr\u003e When the song ends, Winter begins snapping pictures,\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e Click, click, click.\u003cbr\u003e California\u003c\/i\u003e, he softly says, making it sound like heaven.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e It gets in your blood after ’while\u003c\/i\u003e, Daddy confesses.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e Not like Mississippi, but it does.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And right then, once again, I begin to long\u003cbr\u003e for the country roads and folks of Indianola, Miss.\u003cbr\u003e where I was born and raised till I was ten.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  Missing Her and Mississippi\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e Mississippi,\u003cbr\u003e where trios of songbirds serenaded me in the morning,\u003cbr\u003e and lightning bugs added sparkle to summertime nights.\u003cbr\u003e Mississippi,\u003cbr\u003e where I spent Sundays singing old-time hymns,\u003cbr\u003e in our tiny white wooden church with the pipe organ,\u003cbr\u003e and Saturdays taking piano lessons from Miss Elvira Porter.\u003cbr\u003e Miss Elvira Porter, her hands wrinkled but fingers still nimble,\u003cbr\u003e taught me how to read notes and play,\u003cbr\u003e plus, musical symbols and terms galore.\u003cbr\u003e I’m not sure if she planted the seed of music in me\u003cbr\u003e or if it was already there just waiting for her to cultivate.\u003cbr\u003e From her creaky porch swing, where she and I loved to linger,\u003cbr\u003e she spoke of Negro women composers,\u003cbr\u003e like Margaret Bonds and Julia Perry,\u003cbr\u003e writers of spirituals, sonatas, symphonies, even operas,\u003cbr\u003e and trained me to hear life’s orchestra.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e Hear that, Eden?\u003c\/i\u003e she asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e Hear what?\u003cbr\u003e The whip-poor-wills singing, the dog barking in the distance,\u003cbr\u003e the gentle breeze rustling the leaves of the cypress trees.\u003cbr\u003e Now the train, hear it rolling along the tracks?\u003cbr\u003e Getting louder . . . crescendo . . . shh, softer now . . . decrescendo.\u003cbr\u003e There’s the train’s conductor, his horn a-blowing.\u003cbr\u003e Finally, the climax, my teakettle inside whistling.\u003cbr\u003e It’s a beautiful composition, wouldn’t you say?\u003cbr\u003e I would, yes ma’am, I would.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Missing her and Mississippi makes me sigh.\u003cbr\u003e And I ache for it even more with Winter nearby.\u003cbr\u003e The tone of his voice, the warmth of his smile, bring me back.\u003cbr\u003e And for the thousandth time I wish we’d never left.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  103rd Street\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e Our house looks pretty with its square patch of emerald green lawn, freshly mowed.\u003cbr\u003e Pink geraniums are blooming, and the picture window is Windex clean.\u003cbr\u003e Inside, everything is what my daddy calls spic-and-span,\u003cbr\u003e and Mama has fixed things up especially nice,\u003cbr\u003e the way she always does for visits from folks back home.\u003cbr\u003e It’s like Mama’s bound and determined to wash off her country beginnings\u003cbr\u003e as if they’re a stain and a life in California is a fancy detergent,\u003cbr\u003e guaranteed to get rid of it, once and for all.\u003cbr\u003e Mama steps onto the front porch.\u003cbr\u003e Her lipstick is red, hair freshly pressed and curled,\u003cbr\u003e green and white polka dot sundress, starched and perfect.\u003cbr\u003e Grinning and waving, she rushes to the car,\u003cbr\u003e my mama, Ruby Coal.\u003cbr\u003e Mama hugs Winter so tightly that a laugh pops up out of him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e As handsome as your daddy, J.T.\u003c\/i\u003e, she says, her voice sounding sweet—dolce.\u003cbr\u003e I notice that Mama’s mention of his daddy, who disappeared\u003cbr\u003e and is likely dead, changes Winter’s eyes from happy to sad.\u003cbr\u003e Yet still, he politely replies, \u003ci\u003eThank you, Miz Ruby.\u003cbr\u003e It’s so nice to have you here\u003c\/i\u003e, Winter, Mama tells him.\u003cbr\u003e His face brightens, and again he says, \u003ci\u003eThank you, Miz Ruby.\u003cbr\u003e It’s most kind of y’all to have me.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  The Gum Smacker\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e The next-door neighbor’s screen door opens,\u003cbr\u003e its usual squeal turning our attention its way.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e Hi, Mr. and Miz Coal . . . and Eden\u003c\/i\u003e, she adds reluctantly,\u003cbr\u003e as if I’m insignificant, the way she always does,\u003cbr\u003e gum smacking, fifteen-year-old, thinks-she’s-a-Hollywood-movie-star\u003cbr\u003e Cassie Webber.\u003cbr\u003e Mama and Daddy give a courteous reply and head inside.\u003cbr\u003e Then Cassie Webber blows a huge, perfect pink bubble, pops it with her finger,\u003cbr\u003e and as if he’s a blinking neon sign, stares at my cousin, Winter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e Who are you?\u003c\/i\u003e she asks.\u003cbr\u003e I\u003ci\u003e’m Eden’s cousin, Winter.\u003cbr\u003e Did you say Winter?\u003cbr\u003e Yes, I did\u003c\/i\u003e, he tells her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e What kind of a name is that?\u003cbr\u003e The one my daddy gave me, born the first day of Winter is why.\u003cbr\u003e Oh\u003c\/i\u003e, she says. \u003ci\u003eThat’s strange but kinda cool.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And as she gazes at Winter,\u003cbr\u003e I swear I see stars in the gum smacker’s eyes.\u003cbr\u003e As we make our escape, Winter confides, \u003ci\u003eShe’s just sayin’\u003cbr\u003e what most folks think ’bout my name being strange, I mean.\u003cbr\u003e Even my buddies poke fun and tease,\u003cbr\u003e “Put your coats on, y’all, ’cuz Winter’s comin’ and I feel a breeze.”\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I smile and so does he.","brand":"Nancy Paulsen Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303555027173,"sku":"NP9781524741600","price":8.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781524741600.jpg?v=1767744008","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/when-winter-robeson-came-isbn-9781524741600","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}