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Porch Lies

Tales of Slicksters, Tricksters, and other Wily Characters

Illustrated by Andre Carrilho
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Hardcover
$19.99 US
7.94"W x 10.81"H x 0.72"D   | 25 oz | 12 per carton
On sale Aug 22, 2006 | 160 Pages | 9780375836190
Age 8-12 years | Grades 3-7
Reading Level: Lexile 790L
Side-splittingly funny, spine-chillingly spooky, this companion to a Newbery Honor–winning anthology The Dark Thirty is filled with bad characters who know exactly how to charm.

From the author's note that takes us back to McKissack's own childhood when she would listen to stories told on her front porch... to the captivating introductions to each tale, in which the storyteller introduces himself and sets the stage for what follows... to the ten entertaining tales themselves, here is a worthy successor to McKissack's The Dark Thirty. In "The Best Lie Ever Told," meet Dooley Hunter, a trickster who spins an enormous whopper at the State Liar's contest. In "Aunt Gran and the Outlaws," watch a little old lady slickster outsmart Frank and Jesse James. And in "Cake Norris Lives On," come face to face with a man some folks believe may have died up to twenty-seven different times!
  • WINNER | 2007
    ALA Notable Children's Book
  • WINNER | 2006
    New York Public Library 100 Titles for Reading and Sharing
  • WINNER | 2006
    Parents' Choice Silver Honor Book
  • WINNER | 2006
    Chicago Public Library’s Best of the Best books
  • WINNER | 2006
    Book Links Lasting Connection

Booklist starred review
Horn Book Magazine starred review
Publishers Weekly starred review

“To me, reading is like breathing; both are essential to life.”—Patricia C. McKissack

Award-winning author Patricia McKissack wishes she could have talked to her hero, Frederick Douglass, about his rise from slavery, his daring escape, and freedom—at last! She is the author of The Dark-Thirty: Southern Tales of the Supernatural, which is a Newbery Honor Book and also received the Coretta Scott King Award. She frequently collaborates on books with her husband, Fredrick. They have three sons and live in St. Louis, Missouri.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Long before I became a writer, I was a listener and an observer. My relatives, who were dynamic and skilled storytellers, helped develop my listening and observation skills before I could read or write.

On hot summer evenings our family would sit on the porch and listen to my grandmother tell a hair-raising ghost story, or my mother would recite Dunbar poems or Bible stories. Sometimes we’d get a real treat when my grandfather would dramatize an episode from his childhood, told in the rich and colorful dialect of the Deep South. I can still hear him beginning a yarn, saying: “It was back in nineteen and twenty-seven. I disremember the exact day, but it was long ’bout July, ’cause the skeeters was bitin’ whole chunks outta my arms. . . .”

As a youngster I had no idea that my heritage would one day be the springboard for my writing career.

Somewhere around age seven I discovered reading. And so began my lifelong love affair with the printed word. To me, reading is like breathing; both are essential to life.

I grew up, went off to school, majored in English literature, acquired a teaching certificate, and married right after graduation. (They said the marriage wouldn’t last six months. . . .) I knew then I wanted to be a writer. But the children came—one, and two and three together. Not much time for writing.

The library was my lifesaver. Besides being free, air-conditioned, and quiet, it was a wonderful place to learn my trade. There I learned to identify the complex reading/interest levels in children’s literature from beginning reader through young adult books. My reading included publishers’ catalogs, writers’ magazines, and book reviews. And whenever time and money would permit, I’d attend a seminar or workshop, often taking all three children with me. That’s where I heard about keeping a journal and the benefits of belonging to a literary organization. My parenting period turned out to be a very productive time for the kids and me. I didn’t publish anything, but my spirits were high and my determination steadfast. And the boys turned out to be excellent readers and writers.

My sons grew out of diapers and into size eight shoes; I grew out of size eight jeans and into size twelve business suits. Then, after nine years of teaching junior high and senior high English and after earning a master’s degree in children’s literature, I changed careers and became a children’s book editor. Six years later I became a freelance writer. A year later my husband Fred joined me, and we’ve been writing together since then. On days when I get a rejection slip—oh yes, I still get them—I close up shop and work with my flowers or go antique shopping. Then it’s back to more writing and “yesterday” deadlines.

I enjoy teaching other people to write too. What better way to combine all my training as teacher and writer? For the past ten years I’ve been teaching a course in writing for children at the University of Missouri at St. Louis. One of the greatest joys is seeing a student’s face when he or she tells me, “I’ve just sold a story!” It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it’s great!

I’m reminded of the day my editor, Anne Schwartz, told me Flossie and the Fox was going to be published. I squealed for joy! When Mirandy and Brother Wind was accepted, Anne knew to hold the telephone away from her ear. The delight of selling a book has never diminished—and I hope it never does.

I write because there’s a clear need for books written about the minority experience in America—fiction and nonfiction. I also write for the love of it!


PRAISE

THE DARK-THIRTY
Southern Tales of the Supernatural

—A Newbery Honor Book
—A Coretta Scott King Award Winner


A MILLION FISH . . . MORE OR LESS

—A Junior Library Guild Selection

“A lively, well-cadenced tale.”—Kirkus Reviews


NETTIE JO’S FRIENDS

—A Parents’ Choice Award Winner

“Pure joy . . . McKissack’s authentic Southern vernacular is rich and rhythmic with a natural flow to read aloud.”—Starred, School Library Journal


MIRANDY AND BROTHER WIND

—A Caldecott Honor Book
—A Coretta Scott King Award Winner for Illustration
—An ALA Notable Book
—A Notable Children’s Trade Book in the Field of Social Studies

“Sparkles with energy . . . a treat.”—The Bulletin


MONKEY-MONKEY’S TRICK

“Young readers will enjoy practicing their reading skills to find out which animal is the best trickster.”—School Library Journal

View titles by Patricia McKissack
Mis Martha June was a person I thought incapable of telling a porch lie. I was wrong. Always prim and proper, she was a churchgoing woman who spoke in quiet, refined tones with her mouth pursed in the shape of a little O. She was never without a dainty pocket handkerchief tucked in her sleeve, which she gingerly used to dab perspiration from her brow. A woman of Mis Martha June’s qualities did not sweat.

She owned a bakery that was known for having the best coconut cream pies in the world—same recipe her mother used, and her mother before her. And no customer was more faithful than a wily character named Pete Bruce, about whom she loved to tell stories. He was considered the prince of confidencers, and the idea of Mis Martha June having anything to do with the likes of him was about as odd as a fox and a hen striking up a friendship.

“Pete Bruce was the worst somebody who ever stood in shoes,” Mis Martha June always began in her quiet manner. But then she’d add quickly, “I’ll be the first to admit, however, he could make me laugh in spite of myself, especially when he threw one of his million-dollar smiles my way. . . .”

Here is the rest of the story as she told it long ago on our front porch, on a late summer night.



----



I was near ’bout ten years old when I first laid eyes on Pete Bruce. He was a full-fledged rascal and I knew it! If you went by looks alone, Pete Bruce was pleasing enough. Had a nice grade of hair, wore it slicked back with Murray’s hair dressing oil and water; had plum black skin, even darker eyes, and a devil-may-care swagger. As I recollect, he always loved big Stetson hats, flashy cars, and loud suits. Stood out. Pete Bruce liked that—standing out, being noticed and all.

Mama sold coconut cream pies to passengers at the bus station back then, and her reputation as a super baker was known far and wide. Most people called her the Pie Lady. I helped Mama on weekends or when I wasn’t in school, so folk started calling me Li’l’ Pie. And a few people still call me Pie to this day.

It was an ordinary Tuesday morning when Pete Bruce stepped off the bus. Hot! My goodness, it was hot as blue blazes. Yet I noticed that this man had on a suit, fresh and crisp as if he’d just taken it off a cleaning rack. “How come he looks so neat when everybody else looks like they slept a week in their clothes?” I wondered out loud.

“A sign of good material,” said Mama, who was studying the stranger as a potential customer.

We watched as he dabbed his brow with a perfectly folded white linen handkerchief. He checked the crease in his hat and placed it squarely on his head. Then he studied the surroundings, as if testing the wind, getting the lay of the land. Spying Mama and me, he picked up his carpetbag and started on over.

The man had an ageless body. By the bounce in his step, he could have been twenty, but the set of his brow told the story of a much older man. “Morning,” he spoke real polite-like, flashing the biggest grin. “Name’s Pete Bruce. Them coconut cream pies?” he asked Mama, examining the display she had arranged on the hood of our ’28 Ford.

“Welcome to Masonville,” Mama said cheerfully. “This is my daughter, Martha June. And yes, sir, these are coconut cream pies made by none other than Frenchie Mae Bosley, yours truly.” Mama extended her hand and Pete Bruce took it and pumped it like a bellows. He grabbed mine and shook it, too, and I noticed how soft his was. This was not a man used to hard work.

“Pies do look good,” he said, still holding that grin like an egg-stealing fox.

“Here, have a piece.” Mama always let people taste a sliver of her sample pie. It was great for business, ’cause not one person had ever taken a taste and not bought a whole one. Sometimes they bought two.

Pete removed his hat—the way a man does when entering a church or a funeral—and clutched it to his chest. “No, ma’am,” he said ever so courteously.

“What’s the matter?” Mama said, sounding sympathetic. “You got sugar?”

He shook his head, lowered his eyes, and leaned on one foot and then the other. “No, ma’am, I aine diabetic.” He sighed heavily.

“Well, what, then?” Mama was curious now.

“I mean no disrespect, Miz Frenchie, but there’s a lady over in Steelville, Miz Opal Mary, she bakes the best cream pies in the world. Ummmm!” He closed his eyes as if eating one right then. “I—I have no doubt that your pie is delicious, but it just can’t be as good as Miz Opal Mary’s.”

Mama’s back stiffened. “How can you say that without having eaten mine?” she replied curtly.

Pete Bruce went back to shifting his weight from one foot to the other, eyes cast downward. “I’m sure your pies are fine, ma’am. But I’d rather not disappoint the last memory I have of Miz Opal Mary’s rich, creamy, oh-so-sweet coconut cream pie.”

Mama was beside herself. “I assure you, young man, there is no way in the world you would be disappointed if you ate a slice of my pie.”

“I can’t be sure,” Pete said, looking like it made him sad to say it.

Quickly Mama cut a small wedge from her sample pie. She shoved it at Pete Bruce. Slowly, as if it pained him to do so, he put the whole thing in his mouth and chewed on it with his eyes closed. “Ummm,” he moaned.

“Well, sir,” said Mama confidently, “tell me the truth. Wasn’t that the best thing you ever put in your mouth?”

Pete Bruce opened his eyes and shook his head. “I wish I could say, but . . .”

“But what?”

Pete shrugged. “I’m confused. It’s hard to tell whose is better. Yours? Or Miz Opal Mary’s?”

About

Side-splittingly funny, spine-chillingly spooky, this companion to a Newbery Honor–winning anthology The Dark Thirty is filled with bad characters who know exactly how to charm.

From the author's note that takes us back to McKissack's own childhood when she would listen to stories told on her front porch... to the captivating introductions to each tale, in which the storyteller introduces himself and sets the stage for what follows... to the ten entertaining tales themselves, here is a worthy successor to McKissack's The Dark Thirty. In "The Best Lie Ever Told," meet Dooley Hunter, a trickster who spins an enormous whopper at the State Liar's contest. In "Aunt Gran and the Outlaws," watch a little old lady slickster outsmart Frank and Jesse James. And in "Cake Norris Lives On," come face to face with a man some folks believe may have died up to twenty-seven different times!

Awards

  • WINNER | 2007
    ALA Notable Children's Book
  • WINNER | 2006
    New York Public Library 100 Titles for Reading and Sharing
  • WINNER | 2006
    Parents' Choice Silver Honor Book
  • WINNER | 2006
    Chicago Public Library’s Best of the Best books
  • WINNER | 2006
    Book Links Lasting Connection

Praise

Booklist starred review
Horn Book Magazine starred review
Publishers Weekly starred review

Author

“To me, reading is like breathing; both are essential to life.”—Patricia C. McKissack

Award-winning author Patricia McKissack wishes she could have talked to her hero, Frederick Douglass, about his rise from slavery, his daring escape, and freedom—at last! She is the author of The Dark-Thirty: Southern Tales of the Supernatural, which is a Newbery Honor Book and also received the Coretta Scott King Award. She frequently collaborates on books with her husband, Fredrick. They have three sons and live in St. Louis, Missouri.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Long before I became a writer, I was a listener and an observer. My relatives, who were dynamic and skilled storytellers, helped develop my listening and observation skills before I could read or write.

On hot summer evenings our family would sit on the porch and listen to my grandmother tell a hair-raising ghost story, or my mother would recite Dunbar poems or Bible stories. Sometimes we’d get a real treat when my grandfather would dramatize an episode from his childhood, told in the rich and colorful dialect of the Deep South. I can still hear him beginning a yarn, saying: “It was back in nineteen and twenty-seven. I disremember the exact day, but it was long ’bout July, ’cause the skeeters was bitin’ whole chunks outta my arms. . . .”

As a youngster I had no idea that my heritage would one day be the springboard for my writing career.

Somewhere around age seven I discovered reading. And so began my lifelong love affair with the printed word. To me, reading is like breathing; both are essential to life.

I grew up, went off to school, majored in English literature, acquired a teaching certificate, and married right after graduation. (They said the marriage wouldn’t last six months. . . .) I knew then I wanted to be a writer. But the children came—one, and two and three together. Not much time for writing.

The library was my lifesaver. Besides being free, air-conditioned, and quiet, it was a wonderful place to learn my trade. There I learned to identify the complex reading/interest levels in children’s literature from beginning reader through young adult books. My reading included publishers’ catalogs, writers’ magazines, and book reviews. And whenever time and money would permit, I’d attend a seminar or workshop, often taking all three children with me. That’s where I heard about keeping a journal and the benefits of belonging to a literary organization. My parenting period turned out to be a very productive time for the kids and me. I didn’t publish anything, but my spirits were high and my determination steadfast. And the boys turned out to be excellent readers and writers.

My sons grew out of diapers and into size eight shoes; I grew out of size eight jeans and into size twelve business suits. Then, after nine years of teaching junior high and senior high English and after earning a master’s degree in children’s literature, I changed careers and became a children’s book editor. Six years later I became a freelance writer. A year later my husband Fred joined me, and we’ve been writing together since then. On days when I get a rejection slip—oh yes, I still get them—I close up shop and work with my flowers or go antique shopping. Then it’s back to more writing and “yesterday” deadlines.

I enjoy teaching other people to write too. What better way to combine all my training as teacher and writer? For the past ten years I’ve been teaching a course in writing for children at the University of Missouri at St. Louis. One of the greatest joys is seeing a student’s face when he or she tells me, “I’ve just sold a story!” It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it’s great!

I’m reminded of the day my editor, Anne Schwartz, told me Flossie and the Fox was going to be published. I squealed for joy! When Mirandy and Brother Wind was accepted, Anne knew to hold the telephone away from her ear. The delight of selling a book has never diminished—and I hope it never does.

I write because there’s a clear need for books written about the minority experience in America—fiction and nonfiction. I also write for the love of it!


PRAISE

THE DARK-THIRTY
Southern Tales of the Supernatural

—A Newbery Honor Book
—A Coretta Scott King Award Winner


A MILLION FISH . . . MORE OR LESS

—A Junior Library Guild Selection

“A lively, well-cadenced tale.”—Kirkus Reviews


NETTIE JO’S FRIENDS

—A Parents’ Choice Award Winner

“Pure joy . . . McKissack’s authentic Southern vernacular is rich and rhythmic with a natural flow to read aloud.”—Starred, School Library Journal


MIRANDY AND BROTHER WIND

—A Caldecott Honor Book
—A Coretta Scott King Award Winner for Illustration
—An ALA Notable Book
—A Notable Children’s Trade Book in the Field of Social Studies

“Sparkles with energy . . . a treat.”—The Bulletin


MONKEY-MONKEY’S TRICK

“Young readers will enjoy practicing their reading skills to find out which animal is the best trickster.”—School Library Journal

View titles by Patricia McKissack

Excerpt

Mis Martha June was a person I thought incapable of telling a porch lie. I was wrong. Always prim and proper, she was a churchgoing woman who spoke in quiet, refined tones with her mouth pursed in the shape of a little O. She was never without a dainty pocket handkerchief tucked in her sleeve, which she gingerly used to dab perspiration from her brow. A woman of Mis Martha June’s qualities did not sweat.

She owned a bakery that was known for having the best coconut cream pies in the world—same recipe her mother used, and her mother before her. And no customer was more faithful than a wily character named Pete Bruce, about whom she loved to tell stories. He was considered the prince of confidencers, and the idea of Mis Martha June having anything to do with the likes of him was about as odd as a fox and a hen striking up a friendship.

“Pete Bruce was the worst somebody who ever stood in shoes,” Mis Martha June always began in her quiet manner. But then she’d add quickly, “I’ll be the first to admit, however, he could make me laugh in spite of myself, especially when he threw one of his million-dollar smiles my way. . . .”

Here is the rest of the story as she told it long ago on our front porch, on a late summer night.



----



I was near ’bout ten years old when I first laid eyes on Pete Bruce. He was a full-fledged rascal and I knew it! If you went by looks alone, Pete Bruce was pleasing enough. Had a nice grade of hair, wore it slicked back with Murray’s hair dressing oil and water; had plum black skin, even darker eyes, and a devil-may-care swagger. As I recollect, he always loved big Stetson hats, flashy cars, and loud suits. Stood out. Pete Bruce liked that—standing out, being noticed and all.

Mama sold coconut cream pies to passengers at the bus station back then, and her reputation as a super baker was known far and wide. Most people called her the Pie Lady. I helped Mama on weekends or when I wasn’t in school, so folk started calling me Li’l’ Pie. And a few people still call me Pie to this day.

It was an ordinary Tuesday morning when Pete Bruce stepped off the bus. Hot! My goodness, it was hot as blue blazes. Yet I noticed that this man had on a suit, fresh and crisp as if he’d just taken it off a cleaning rack. “How come he looks so neat when everybody else looks like they slept a week in their clothes?” I wondered out loud.

“A sign of good material,” said Mama, who was studying the stranger as a potential customer.

We watched as he dabbed his brow with a perfectly folded white linen handkerchief. He checked the crease in his hat and placed it squarely on his head. Then he studied the surroundings, as if testing the wind, getting the lay of the land. Spying Mama and me, he picked up his carpetbag and started on over.

The man had an ageless body. By the bounce in his step, he could have been twenty, but the set of his brow told the story of a much older man. “Morning,” he spoke real polite-like, flashing the biggest grin. “Name’s Pete Bruce. Them coconut cream pies?” he asked Mama, examining the display she had arranged on the hood of our ’28 Ford.

“Welcome to Masonville,” Mama said cheerfully. “This is my daughter, Martha June. And yes, sir, these are coconut cream pies made by none other than Frenchie Mae Bosley, yours truly.” Mama extended her hand and Pete Bruce took it and pumped it like a bellows. He grabbed mine and shook it, too, and I noticed how soft his was. This was not a man used to hard work.

“Pies do look good,” he said, still holding that grin like an egg-stealing fox.

“Here, have a piece.” Mama always let people taste a sliver of her sample pie. It was great for business, ’cause not one person had ever taken a taste and not bought a whole one. Sometimes they bought two.

Pete removed his hat—the way a man does when entering a church or a funeral—and clutched it to his chest. “No, ma’am,” he said ever so courteously.

“What’s the matter?” Mama said, sounding sympathetic. “You got sugar?”

He shook his head, lowered his eyes, and leaned on one foot and then the other. “No, ma’am, I aine diabetic.” He sighed heavily.

“Well, what, then?” Mama was curious now.

“I mean no disrespect, Miz Frenchie, but there’s a lady over in Steelville, Miz Opal Mary, she bakes the best cream pies in the world. Ummmm!” He closed his eyes as if eating one right then. “I—I have no doubt that your pie is delicious, but it just can’t be as good as Miz Opal Mary’s.”

Mama’s back stiffened. “How can you say that without having eaten mine?” she replied curtly.

Pete Bruce went back to shifting his weight from one foot to the other, eyes cast downward. “I’m sure your pies are fine, ma’am. But I’d rather not disappoint the last memory I have of Miz Opal Mary’s rich, creamy, oh-so-sweet coconut cream pie.”

Mama was beside herself. “I assure you, young man, there is no way in the world you would be disappointed if you ate a slice of my pie.”

“I can’t be sure,” Pete said, looking like it made him sad to say it.

Quickly Mama cut a small wedge from her sample pie. She shoved it at Pete Bruce. Slowly, as if it pained him to do so, he put the whole thing in his mouth and chewed on it with his eyes closed. “Ummm,” he moaned.

“Well, sir,” said Mama confidently, “tell me the truth. Wasn’t that the best thing you ever put in your mouth?”

Pete Bruce opened his eyes and shook his head. “I wish I could say, but . . .”

“But what?”

Pete shrugged. “I’m confused. It’s hard to tell whose is better. Yours? Or Miz Opal Mary’s?”