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The Bulletin
of the
Center for Children's Books
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The Big Picture, a
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Abe Lincoln Crosses a Creek: A
Tall, Thin Tale (Introducing His Forgotten Frontier Friend)
by Deborah Hopkinson
illustrated by John Hendrix
Truth-tellers are dragged beyond their comfort zone when confronted
with many of the benign fictions that run deep in our culture. Should
Santa, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy be extended a short-term
or open-ended lease in childhood imagination or be simply run out of
town with a rousing “Not in My Back Yard”? And what should be
done about those old-fashioned character-building tales, à la George
Washington and his cherry tree? Should they be celebrated as quaint
bits of Americana, told but sternly debunked, or quietly buried in
embarrassed testimony to national gullibility? In an educational
environment in which one channels “Parson” Weems at one’s peril, just
how do you handle a legend? Deborah Hopkinson has found a way,
and it’s a winner.
Here’s the unfiltered, unembellished, bare-bones version of the
legend. When Abraham Lincoln was a young boy, he fell off a log
while crossing
a creek, and another boy plucked him out of the water. By the time
Hopkinson is
done with the account, it’s a full-blown adventure, fraught with
derring-do,
loyal friendship, raging rapids, a nation’s future saved by a hair, and
even a moral. Or
two. But isn’t that (gasp!) brazen embroidery? Doesn’t it involve
(horrors!) imagined
dialogue? Aren’t the details (oh, woe!) unverifiable? Sure. The
fun and
illumination come in when Hopkinson and Hendrix let readers in on the
entire tale-making
process, demonstrating how the tellers’ craft turns observation and
rumor into
story. Hopkinson first invites readers into sensory
participation: “Don’t you
feel like sticking your toes into that rushing water? That’s Knob
Creek.” Next she
introduces her two protagonists, Abraham Lincoln (“He’ll grow up to
become our
sixteenth president”) and Austin Gollaher (“Now I can just hear you
grumblin’, ‘Who?
That feller isn’t in my history book’”). Then it’s on with the story.
The two boys
head for the creek, warned by Abe’s mom that the water’s high. Abe
dares Austin to
cross on a log. He does, against his better judgment. (“Let’s all clap
together:
Austin made it!”). Abe follows, slips . . . . Hopkinson brings the
action to a
screeching halt and, remarking on the unlikelihood that the boys would
be walking across a
precarious and slippery log, replays the scene with them crawling. She
strings out
the mock tension for all it’s worth but admits all along that none of
it may
have gone down quite like she describes: “For that’s the thing about
history—if you
weren’t there, you can’t know for sure.”
Hendrix ably matches Hopkinson hyperbole for hyperbole, prevarication
for prevarication. His hand and paintbrush make several appearances
along the unfinished edges of the lush green and blue Kentucky
watercolor landscapes, reminding readers that the artist’s as well as
the author’s vision is
purposefully shaping the story as it unfolds. When Hopkinson decides to
restage the log crossing,
Hendrix obligingly supplies a huge signboard that blocks a double-page
spread with
the banner “HOLD ON ONE MINUTE!” When Hopkinson can’t settle on the
exact method
Austin used to save his buddy, she turns things over to Hendrix’s hand
and No.
2 pencil, which sketch several possible retrievals via, variously,
shirttail,
sycamore branch, and fishing pole. At one breath-bating moment, Hendrix
actually
jeopardizes the rescue by rendering a creek so tumultuous that it
stifles the drowning
boy’s cries and impels Hopkinson to demand, “John, could you please
stop painting
that noisy water?” And when Hendrix, ever the straight man setting up
the joke,
attempts to paint the homespun Gollaher in among the august president’s
think tank,
Hopkinson is johnny-on-the-spot with a redirect: “Put him back by Knob
Creek
where he belongs.” Truth—or at least some reasonable version of
it—prevails.
A short opening note cites the sources for the story, as told by
Gollaher long after the event, and there isn’t much else to go on.
Hopkinson
knows that kids will ache to connect a daring rescue with a lifelong
friendship
and a heroic statesman, but it just can’t be done, “for the truth is,
Abe and Austin
never do meet again.” All that history will allow is acknowledgment
that the boys,
grown into men, will think and speak of each other again with fondness.
Ah, well,
if you can’t have an epic ending, can you at least have a moral?
Hopkinson proposes
a couple of possibilities: “Listen to your mother and don’t go near any
swollen
creeks.” Or if that won’t do (“A mite weak, perhaps? Like Abe, a bit
thin?”), try
“What we do matters, even if we don’t end up in history books.” If you
ask a
listener, particularly one who’s embellished a tale or two him- or
herself, you’ll probably be
advised to
quit looking for a message. Two kids in a scrape makes a great story,
and so what if one becomes a president? (See p. 77 for publication
information.)
Elizabeth Bush, Reviewer
Illustration by John Dendrix from Abe Lincoln Crosses a
Creek: A Tall, Thin Tale (Introducing His Forgotten Frontier
Friend) ©2008.
Used by permission of Schwartz & Wade.
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This page was last updated on October 1, 2008.