Melissa Stewart's "Aha Moment"

It was 1996. My first children’s book had just been accepted for publication, and I was headed to East Africa with a group of scientists to do research for a second book. Life was good—or so it seemed.

As friends and family heard about my success, I received a flood of phone calls. They congratulated me, of course. But they also asked some unexpected questions.

“So now are you going to write a real book? You know, one for adults.”

“It’s nonfiction? That’s great. But wouldn’t you rather write fiction?”

These questions confused me. They made me wonder and worry. Was I headed down the wrong path? Was writing for children a waste of time? Was nonfiction less important than fiction?

Luckily, my journey halfway around the world gave me the perspective—and the answers—I needed. 

One night around a campfire at the edge of Tanzania’s Serengeti National Park, Ann Prewitt, an anthropologist and educator from the American Museum of Natural History, said she was fascinated by "aha moments"—seemingly small experiences that change the course of a person’s life. She asked the circle of scientists if they could recall such events from their own lives.  

When my turn came, I described exploring a wooded area in western Massachusetts with my dad and brother when I was eight years old. As we hiked, my dad asked lots of questions: 

“Why do stone walls run through the middle of the woods?”

“Why do sassafras trees have three kinds of leaves?”

“Why don’t chipmunks build their nests in trees like squirrels?”

He wanted us to think about our surroundings, and he knew a guessing game would be more engaging than a lecture. 

As we reached the top of a hill, my dad stopped and scanned the landscape. Then he asked if we noticed anything unusual about that area of the woods.

My brother and I looked around.

We looked at each other.

We shook our heads.

But then, suddenly, the answer came to me. “All the trees seem kind of small,” I said.

My dad nodded. He explained that there had been a fire in the area about twenty-five years earlier. All the trees had burned and many animals had died, but over time, the forest had recovered.

Why was that an "aha moment" for me? Because I instantly understood the power of nature. I also realized that a field, a forest, any natural place has stories to tell, and I could discover those stories just by looking.

As the firelight flickered across the African savanna and I described my childhood insights, heads nodded all around me. I was among a new group of friends, kindred spirits who understood my fascination with the natural world.

They knew why I didn’t write fiction.

They knew why children were my primary audience.

And suddenly, so did I. It was another "aha moment."

Now, 17 years later, I’ve written more than 150 children’s books about science and nature, including my newest title No Monkeys, No Chocolate (Charlesbridge, 2013). Some people still ask me why I’ve never written a book for adults. Others want to know if I’ll ever write a novel. But these questions no longer bother me.

 

I know that my personal mission, the purpose of my writing, is to give today’s children their own "aha moments" in the natural world—the same gift my dad gave me on that special walk through the Massachusetts woods.

Posted by Melissa Stewart, author of No Monkeys, No Chocolate. Visit her online at www.melissa-stewart.com. 

Hangin’ Out with Uncle Wiggly Wings: Researching and Writing Candy Bomber: The Story of the Berlin Airlift’s “Chocolate Pilot”

It seems I have a fascination for true stories about children who endure tumultuous events in history, as I tend to write about them (The Children of Topaz; Brothers in Valor). So when I ran onto the story of the Berlin Candy Bomber, it was a natural fit, for it concerned children who suffered through years of war—some young enough to have only known a life of hunger and fear. The candy-laden handkerchief parachutes dropped over West Berlin by Gail Halvorsen, a young American pilot, lit up a dark world for kids who hadn’t tasted chocolate in years. But the mere gesture of kindness also offered those children both healing and hope amidst the rubble of WW II. Forevermore, those kids remembered Halvorsen as Uncle Wiggly Wings (because he wiggled the wings of his plane to signal a candy drop), the Chocolate Pilot or Chocolate Uncle, and, of course, the Candy Bomber. In the photograph above, you see Halvorsen sitting on his cot reading letters from grateful West Berlin children (note the boxes of Hershey bars behind him).

As you know, writers, particularly of nonfiction, must do their homework--in other words: research, research, research. When writing about history, we spend lots of time checking secondary sources—books, magazines articles, etc. But we really get excited about primary source materials, such as letters, diaries, or (better yet) living people who were “there.” Of course, most historical events happened so long ago that finding and talking to folks who experienced those events is impossible (unless you know a good medium who can help you talk to the dead).

The World War II era (and its immediate aftermath) is now far enough in the past that we are beginning to run short of war veterans who can tell us first hand about that great and terrible conflict. Gail Halvorsen, the focus of my book, was a WW II pilot who was sent to Germany three years after the war ended to fly supplies into West Berlin. Our former ally, the Soviet Union (Russia), had turned against us and blockaded the surface routes into the American, British, and French sectors of the former capital city. To keep the West Berliners from starving, we flew in enough food and fuel to keep two million people alive for more than a year. Most of the flyers during what was known as the Berlin Airlift had been pilots during WW II, and not many of them are around anymore. So, to discover that Halvorsen was not only alive but also vibrant—and to realize he lived close to me—was more than exciting. It was exhilarating!

Meeting and getting to know Gail Halvorsen (who just turned ninety this year and is still qualified to fly C-54 cargo planes!) left no doubt this was a book I wanted to write. I discovered he is in constant, worldwide demand to tell his story, and so he travels a great deal. He goes to Germany often, where the children of 1948 still remember and love him, and he is regularly invited to present to school children, church groups, community organizations, and so. As a result of these ongoing appearances, he put together a short video presentation about the origins of the Berlin Airlift and about the implementation of his idea to parachute candy to the children. Here is the link to that presentation (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H-4vE6DCLeU). Click on it, and you’ll hear Gail’s voice narrating. You’ll also see some of the 8mm movie clips he shot of the Berlin Airlift in progress, as well as his “candy bombing” operations. I must say, it’s educational and inspiring.

As a result of his travel schedule, I usually met with Halvorsen between trips while I was working on the book. That’s when I’d drive out to his small ranch, which lies about 20 miles south of my house in Orem, Utah. It has a beautiful setting, as you can see from the photograph of Gail and me with the mountains in the background. Gail allowed me access to his files, and therefore I was able to scan over 300 of his photos (many of which appear in the book). Of course, we had many long conversations, and he was always available, if not in person then by phone or email, to answer my endless questions, verify facts, or simply to visit. I think it’s safe to say that we became friends, which was the very best outcome of my writing project.

Gail Halvorsen lives in Arizona these days, though he still owns and maintains his place in Utah (which, by the way, is his home state). Therefore, I seldom see him now—only when he blows into town to check on the ranch or visit family. But we still keep in contact, mostly via email. The last time I saw Gail was in early October (2010) when I received a call from him letting me know he’d be in Utah during the next few days. Of course, he was leaving soon after his arrival for far-flung spots—he’s still a veritable globetrotter and was heading to Germany again and then to Afghanistan, where the U.S. Air Force had invited him to participate in an airlift mission. Amazing! At any rate, he came by my house to pick up a half dozen copies of Candy Bomber, as he’d run low on them and needed some for some an upcoming event. Of course, Gail has written his own book for adults titled The Berlin Candy Bomber, and he sells a lot of them everywhere he goes. But he’s also very good at promoting my book during his travels, as well as Margot Theis Raven’s picture book, Mercedes and the Chocolate Pilot.

Speaking of Mercedes, one of the best vignettes in Candy Bomber is about her. She was a seven-year-old girl living in an apartment building near Templehof Airport, where the American cargo planes landed every few minutes. She wrote Lt. Halvorsen a letter chiding him (and the other pilots, of course) for flying so low over her place in his approach to Templehof that her chickens were afraid and had stopped laying eggs—but the pain of it all might be alleviated if he were to manage a candy drop nearby. Mercedes ended her letter with these words: “When you see the white chickens please drop it there, all will be OK.” As it turned out, Mercedes and her husband, Peter Wild, were primary sources for me, as well. One important item they provided was a high-resolution photo of Mercedes at age seven. Note that she is wearing black market shoes, which were often mismatched. As you can see, these shoes are not the same size, a detail Mercedes and Peter pointed out to me.

The other vignette that I found most delightful was about Peter Zimmerman, who sent Halvorsen a letter with a map to guide the lieutenant’s plane to his backyard. “Drop the chocolate there,” he wrote. Gail attempted to find Peter’s place and did make a drop—but not close enough, apparently. Another letter from Peter complained that because Halvorsen had missed his yard, bigger kids had beaten him to the candy. A drawing accompanying the letter showed a cargo plane with the words “No chocolate yet” on the tailfin. Finally, in frustration, Peter wrote this: “You are a pilot? I gave you a map. How did you guys win the war?” Drops to Mercedes and Peter were never successful, so Gail mailed packages filled with sweets to both children.

One of the most salient historical concepts is people’s capacity for inhumanity. In fact, our wars often are the events around which we organize the recounting of our history. I suppose one of the things I liked best about writing Candy Bomber was that this little slice of history reveals, instead, our capacity for compassion and love—even for our recent enemies.

Halvorsen at the end of the airfield with German children.

Halvorsen leading German athletes into the stadium during the Salt Lake City Winter Olympics.

Posted by Michael O. Tunnell, author of Candy Bomber: The Story of the Berlin Airlift's "Chocolate Pilot".