Sweet Clara and the freedom quilt

Review by Booklist Review

Gr. 3-5. In this picture book for older readers, Clara is a slave in the Big House, a seamstress for the woman who "owns" her. Separated from her mother and desperately unhappy, Clara plans her escape. Piece by piece, stitch by stitch, she maps out the route to Canada and freedom on a brightly colored quilt. No one speaks of the quilt outright, although every now and then someone gives a hint about the route: "That swamp next to Home Plantation is a nasty place. But listen up, Clara, and I'll tell you how I thread my way in and out of there as smooth as yo' needle in that cloth." When the quilt is done, Clara heads for her mother, the Underground Railroad, and freedom, leaving the quilt to lead those who would follow. Ransome's paintings reflect an affecting text, and the faces of Clara and her fellows are well drawn and expressive. The story backtracks slightly as it nears conclusion, interrupting the strength of the narrative flow, but Clara is a sympathetic and determined character not easily forgotten (Reviewed Apr. 15, 1993)0679823115Janice Del Negro

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

A compelling story about an African American girl's escape from slavery on a Southern plantation brings power and substance to this noteworthy picture book. When the rigors of cotton-field labor overwhelm Clara, a kindly woman she calls Aunt Rachel trains the girl to be a seamstress in the main house. Like most slaves, Clara longs for freedom and, in her case, yearns to be reunited with her mother. Becoming proficient in her sewing, she begins in her off hours to put together a map-quilt, stitching in any information she can glean from overheard conversations about an escape route to Canada. Clara is indeed reunited with her mother (``her eyes just like I remembered, her arms strong around me'') in a chronicle made all the more touching for being rooted in fact. (The concluding flashback, a denouement explaining how the quilt may help others only slightly interrupts the fluid narrative line.) Ransome's ( Aunt Flossie's Hats . . . And Crab Cakes Later ) paintings here are among his finest: more lifelike and accessible than in some earlier books, the full-page, borderless oils exude an extraordinary warmth and humanity that lend credibility to the story. Himself a descendent of plantation slaves, the artist brings both dignity and realism to his work. This first-rate book is a triumph of the heart. Ages 5-10. (Feb.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by School Library Journal Review

K-Gr 3-- Clara, a young slave, works as a seamstress and dreams of freedom. Overhearing drovers talk of escaping North enables her to make a patchwork map of the area. When she escapes, she leaves the quilt behind to guide others. Based on a true event, this is a well-written picture book. Ransome's oil paintings, however, are perhaps too smooth and rich for the story they tell. The world depicted is too bright, open, and clean. For example, in the first scene Clara has been put to work in the cotton fields. Supposedly too frail to last long at such work, she is pictured as a slim, serious, yet sturdy girl. The bright yellow sky and the charming smile of the boy with her belie the realities of the back-breaking work. In another scene, young Jack, who has been brought back the day before from running away, looks solemn, but not distressed, and is wearing what appears to be a freshly ironed white shirt. Again, the image distances viewers from the realities of the situation. Clara's escape to Canada, too, is marvelously easy, although she does say, ``But not all are as lucky as we were, and most never can come.'' It is not easy to present the horrors of slavery to young children; thus, even though Ransome's illustrations, and to some extent the text, err on the side of caution, this is an inspiring story worth inclusion in most collections. --Karen James, Louisville Free Public Library, KY (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Horn Book Review

Clara, a slave in the Big House on Home Plantation, begins to save scraps of colored cloth for a quilt that becomes a map depicting the route of the Underground Railroad and the way north to Canada and freedom. Clara eventually escapes herself by the path that has by now been stiched into her memory, leaving the quilt behind as a guide for others. The smooth, optimistic, first-person vernacular of the story is ably accompanied by Ransome's brightly colored, full-page paintings. From HORN BOOK 1993, (c) Copyright 2010. The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

When Sweet Clara, not yet 12, is taken from her mother and sent from North Farm to Home Plantation as a field hand, she's put in the care of ``Aunt Rachel,'' not ``my for-real blood aunt, but she did her best.'' Fearing for Clara's health, Rachel teaches her to sew and is lucky enough to get her a place in the Big House, where Clara listens, learns, and saves scraps that she eventually pieces into a map-quilt showing the way to the Ohio and freedom. The troubles Clara escapes are so muted here that her accomplishment seems almost too easy; in a straightforward narrative flavored with dialect, she mentions that recaptured slaves might be beaten and describes her grief at leaving her mother, but Ransome's moving depiction of the hug when the two are reunited on the way north is a more poignant clue to the pain of their separation. What's emphasized are Clara's resolve and creativity and the accomplishment of winning her freedom; in the same vein, Ransome depicts the characters as sturdy, purposeful, and mutually supportive and sets them in colorful landscapes eloquently proclaiming the earth's beauty. A well-told, handsomely illustrated story that effectively dramatizes young Clara's perseverance and courage. (Young Reader/Picture book. 5- 10)

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Chapter One  You see, but you do not observe.  --Sherlock Holmes, in "A Scandal in Bohemia"   I kept my head down as I went around the curve, hoping the pan wouldn't fly off my head. With my right hand, I steadied my quivering spaniel and tried to keep her from toppling out of the basket. Still, even one-handed, I swear I would've made the turn with no problem.  Except. Except the girl was standing in the middle of Maddox Street. I shouted, "Hey, watch out!"  Too late. I had to let go of Little Roo. I grabbed both handlebars and pulled hard to the left. I wasn't quick enough. My right pedal struck the girl's shin; we all went down. I banged my left knee. The pan clattered away and LR tumbled out of the basket. She bounced up and began barking and twirling in circles like a crazy windup toy. Overhead, bombers roared. From the ground, ack-ack guns shot defensive fire into the sky. I scrambled to my feet, rubbing my knee.  "Are you all right?" I yelled over the din.  The girl didn't answer at first. I reached out a hand to help her up. She pushed it away. "Why don't you watch where you're going?"  "Me? You were standing in the street! You're lucky I wasn't a bus: You would've been crushed flat."  Then I stopped. Pointless. It was pointless to argue. I could tell from her accent that the girl was an American. The city was crawling with them. Soldiers in uniform, journalists, navy and army officers sporting stripes and medals, young women in crisp American Red Cross uniforms. Everyone had come to prepare for the invasion of France. It was the only way the Allies could defeat Hitler and end the war.  I knew as well as anyone that we needed the Americans, but there was a part of me that resented these strangers. They hadn't been here during the worst of it. Three years ago, the Blitz had gone on and on. We'd lived through all-night bombing raids, incendiary bombs designed to burn London to the ground, rubble and destruction on street after street. A lot of kids had been sent to the countryside. My older brother, Will, and I had begged to stay.  The Americans hadn't lived through that. Compared to us Londoners, they seemed to burst with hope and energy. Maybe they just ate better. They had money to eat in restaurants, where (so we heard) you could still get "real" food. They hadn't spent years waiting in long queues, ration cards in hand, to buy food that didn't taste much like food.  Latecomers. Too late to change what had happened to us.  Dad, as always, looked on the bright side. "We can't achieve victory without them, Bertie," he explained. "Britain needs American troops and trucks and tanks. We need them all. Be polite when you encounter anyone from the United States."  And so I tried again. "Sorry I knocked you down, miss. I'm a civil defense volunteer. It's my job to tell you to get to the shelter immediately. It's just up the street."  The girl snorted as she stood. She brushed off her coat. "You don't look very official. You look like a kid. And was that a tin pan on your head?"  I felt my face burn. "I'm thirteen. It's just . . . this is the first time I've been on duty during a raid and I couldn't find--"  That was as far as I got. All at once, the night splintered apart. Whoomph. Bam!  "Get down!" I hollered. I had just enough time to grab LR and throw myself to the pavement. I curled over her warm, furry body and whispered, "It'll be all right, girl."  We were lucky. I felt the ground shake, but the bomb had hit nearby, most likely a block or two away. I glanced up to check on the stranger. What is she even doing out alone at dusk? I wondered. Most people headed inside on a late winter afternoon, especially now that the German bombing raids had begun again.  "Please, miss . . . it's not safe to be out."  The girl shot to her feet. "I've got to go."  And then she was gone, flying off down the street, her dark blue coat flapping against her thin legs. Good, I thought. Maybe the noise has scared her. Maybe she'll follow directions and get to safety.  "Go past the big church on your left," I bellowed. "You'll see the sign for the shelter to your right." I couldn't be entirely sure, but it looked as if she'd darted right past it. I shrugged. Well, she wasn't my problem. Time to get to the command post.  LR wriggled out of my arms and started sniffing around. I went searching for the tin pan to stick back on my head. Next thing I knew, LR was at my feet, tail spinning like a propeller. Woof! Out came a muffled bark. Her little jaws were clamped onto something. "What have you got, LR? Drop it!"  I was about to reach for the object when the sound of footsteps startled me. I turned to see an older couple passing by, heading in the same direction as the girl. "Let's go, dear," the man called to the woman. "Almost there."  "I'm a civil defense volunteer," I hollered. "Take shelter now!"  "Thanks, lad, but we're almost home," the man said, reaching out to grab his wife's hand. "We've got a Morrison shelter under our kitchen table. We'll be safe."  A hatless young man with short dark hair came bounding right behind them. I tried my warning again. "Get to the shelter!"  He shot me a frown. I had a quick impression of an angular face and intense, blazing eyes. He looked preoccupied, as if he had something else on his mind besides ack-ack guns. And then, like the other three, he hurried off down Maddox Street.  "I give up! No one pays me any attention," I complained to LR, who was still wagging and waiting for me to claim what she'd discovered. I picked up a battered red notebook, small enough to fit in my trouser pocket. I slipped it in without thinking much about it, then reached out for LR.  "Now we really have to go. Back in the basket!" The wardens would be disappointed in me. Disappointing people was all I seemed to be able to do.  But LR wasn't listening either. Nose to the ground, she raced past me, going back the way we'd come. She wasn't going home, was she? "Oh, come on, LR! Get back here," I snapped. "You're going to make me lose my messenger job."  I lunged. I missed. And LR kept going. She had a determined trot. And she was stubborn. If she wanted to listen, she listened. And if she didn't . . .  About all I could do was chase after her short, stubby tail with its curlicue waving at the tip. It soon became clear she wasn't heading home. She disappeared around the curve and into a small side street on the right.  LR was trained to find people in the rubble. This street hadn't been hit, though. The blast I'd just felt had been farther away. So what was she doing? I stopped short at the entrance to the narrow alleyway. "Little Roo!"  She'd vanished into the gloom. The sky had grown darker and the night quieter. The sirens had stopped for now; the bombers had moved on, at least from this part of the city.  I'd forgotten gloves and my hands were cold. But as I stood alone in that eerie place, my palms started to feel clammy. There was an odd prickling at the base of my neck, almost as if someone was watching me. I peered over my shoulder and squinted. I couldn't see anyone. I tried to keep breathing. In, out. In, out. It helped me stay calm. Sometimes.  If only I had my torch. Mum used to remind me about things like that. But that was before.  And then I made myself do it. I took a step into the darkness.    Chapter Two  Never trust to general impressions, my boy, but concentrate yourself upon details.  --Sherlock Holmes, in "A Case of Identity"    "LR?" I whispered, shuffling ahead a few paces. Silence. On either side, old brick buildings hemmed me in.  I noticed some "Food Waste for Pigs" bins on my left. Was LR just nosing around for crumbs? I called again. "Little Roo?"  At last I heard a faint answering whine. As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I spotted her. She was nosing a bulky, dark shape, past the food waste bins, on the left side of the street. It wasn't an unexploded bomb, an overturned bin, or a heap of clothes. It was a person. I took a shaky breath and inched forward. As I drew closer, I realized it was a young woman, lying on her side, eyes closed. Her head rested on one arm, almost as if she was asleep. Could she be asleep? One part of my brain knew that didn't make sense. No one falls asleep on the side of the street during an air raid. Excerpted from Sweet Clara and the Freedom Quilt by Deborah Hopkinson All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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