Each Little Bird That Sings

by Wiles, Deborah

• ISBN13: 9780152056575
• ISBN10: 0152056572
• Edition: Reprint
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 2006-08-01
• Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

Summary

Ten-year-old Comfort Snowberger knows a thing or two about death. Her family owns the town funeral home and she has attended 247 funerals. She can tell you which casseroles are worth tasting, whom to sit next to, and whom to avoid at all costs. Number one on that "avoid" list Comfort's sniveling, whining, unpredictable cousin Peach, who ruins every family occasion. So when Great-great-aunt Florentine drops dead-just like that-Comfort expects a family gathering to remember. What she doesn't count is: One, she has to watch over Peach after the funeral. And two, her best friend, Declaration, has suddenly turned downright mean. Now, even if it means missing the most important funeral of her life, all Comfort really wants to do is sit in her closet with her dog, Dismay, and hide. But life is full of surprises. And the biggest one of all is learning what it takes to handle them.

Author Biography

DEBORAH WILES is the award-winning author of one other novel, Love, Ruby Lavender, an ALA Notable Children's Book, a Children's Book Sense 76 Pick, and a New York Public Library 100 Titles for Reading and Sharing. Ms. Wiles is the recipient of the 2004 PEN/Phyllis Naylor Working Writer Fellowship. She lives in Atlanta, Georgia.

Excerpts

I come from a family with a lot of dead people.Great-uncle Edisto keeled over with a stroke on a Saturday morning after breakfast last March. Six months later, Great-great-aunt Florentine died-just like that-in the vegetable garden. And, of course, there are all the dead people who rest temporarily downstairs, until they go off to the Snapfinger Cemetery. I'm related to them, too, Uncle Edisto always told me, "Everybody's kin, Comfort," he said.Downstairs at Snowberger's, my daddy deals with death by misadventure, illness, and natural causes galore. Sometimes I ask him how somebody died. He tells me, then he says, "It's not how you die that makes the important impression, Comfort; it's how you live. Now go live awhile, honey, and let me get back to work." But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me back up. I'll start with Great-uncle Edisto and last March, since that death involves me-I witnessed it.It was March 27, the first day of Easter vacation. I had just finished deviling eggs in the upstairs kitchen. Uncle Edisto and I were planning the first picnic of spring. My best friend, Declaration Johnson, would be joining us. I was sitting at the kitchen table, scarfing down my Chocolate Buzz Krispies. Uncle Edisto licked the end of his pencil and scribbled onto the crossword puzzle in the Aurora County News. Daddy and Mama were working. Great-great-aunt Florentine had just sneaked her ritual piece of bacon from the paper-toweled rack by the stove."I'm off to the garden, darlin's!" she said. "I feel a need to sing to the peas!" She kissed Great-uncle Edisto's head. He looked up from his crossword puzzle and sang-to the tune of "Oh! Susanna"-"Oh, Peas-Anna! Don't you cry for me . . ." I laughed with my mouth full of cereal. Aunt Florentine blew me a kiss, then she drifted out of the room, singing to herself: "For I come from Mississippi with a Moon Pie on my knee!""'Moon Pie'!" said Uncle Edisto, poising his pencil over the crossword puzzle. "That's it! Twenty-four across!"The sky had been clouding up all morning, but I was ignoring all signs of rain. A grumble of thunder brought my dog, Dismay, to the kitchen, where he shoved himself at my feet under the table, pressed his shaggy black body against my legs, and shuddered."Oh, now, doggie!" said Great-uncle Edisto, peering under the table at Dismay. "You don't have to worry about no thunder! It's a beautiful day for a pic-a-nic!" Uncle Edisto was always optimistic. "Yessir," he said, smiling at me, "a pic-a-nic at Listening Rock should be just about perfect today!"Then-Craaaack! went the thunder. Sizzle! went the lightning. And Boom! . . . The sky opened wide and rain sheared down like curtains.Dismay scrambled for my lap, bobbling the kitchen table on his back."Whoa, doggie!" called Great-uncle Edisto. He steadied the table as Dismay yelped and tried to get out from under the table and onto me."Down, Dismay!" I shouted. Milk sloshed out of my bowl, and I made a mighty push-back i

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Excerpted from Each Little Bird That Sings by Deborah Wiles
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