The dual challenges of the 1962 Cuban missile crisis that threatens the world and the unexplained loss of parents that threatens a family are the driving forces behind the lives of two boys and their grandfather.
Willie, Denny and their grandfather, Pop, have lived together for nine years, ever since the boysâ parents died in an accident that remains a mystery to the boys. Denny reluctantly leaves for college, while Willie enters sixth grade, fearful of the menacing missile crisis and curious about his parentsâ fate.
Willieâs best friends are Lucy and Preston. Lucy wonders about the âman in the suitâ who seems to be everywhere she goes. Her mom, Trish, grapples with unemployment. Prestonâs is burdened by the trauma his father experiences from involvement in two wars. Denny meets his first ever girlfriend at college, Lucy, who has one leg thatâs shorter than the other. Good neighbor, Robert is building a bomb shelter in the back year. Muriel, his mother is a shoot-from-the-hip older adult with dementia.
Over time, the connections between them create the shelter they need for their common journey. Seaburn again tells a story of human vulnerability, endurance, secrets, truth, loss, humor, resilience and love.
The dual challenges of the 1962 Cuban missile crisis that threatens the world and the unexplained loss of parents that threatens a family are the driving forces behind the lives of two boys and their grandfather.
Willie, Denny and their grandfather, Pop, have lived together for nine years, ever since the boysâ parents died in an accident that remains a mystery to the boys. Denny reluctantly leaves for college, while Willie enters sixth grade, fearful of the menacing missile crisis and curious about his parentsâ fate.
Willieâs best friends are Lucy and Preston. Lucy wonders about the âman in the suitâ who seems to be everywhere she goes. Her mom, Trish, grapples with unemployment. Prestonâs is burdened by the trauma his father experiences from involvement in two wars. Denny meets his first ever girlfriend at college, Lucy, who has one leg thatâs shorter than the other. Good neighbor, Robert is building a bomb shelter in the back year. Muriel, his mother is a shoot-from-the-hip older adult with dementia.
Over time, the connections between them create the shelter they need for their common journey. Seaburn again tells a story of human vulnerability, endurance, secrets, truth, loss, humor, resilience and love.
Willie lies on the floor behind the couch, his back against the wall, because thatâs the safest place to be. He turns on his belly and rests his chin on his fist. He hears the wall clock ticking over the fireplace, but he canât see what time it is. âSmoochy, come-ere.â Smoochy is sprawled on the throw rug, her tail thumping the floor. âCome on girl. You donât want to die, do you?â Smoochy gets up, shakes her head, her long ears flapping, and then crawls in, her nose pressing against Willieâs forehead. ââAtta, girl. Now youâre safe.â Smoochy licks Willieâs face.
Willie and Smoochy cock their heads when a siren, screaming like a coyote, goes off again in the distance. He squeezes his dog and closes his eyes. âYouâll be okay, girl. Iâve got you.â Smoochy squirms to get loose, but Willie holds on tight. âJust another minute, Smooch.â Willie presses one ear against Smoochyâs side and cups his other ear with his hand. It feels like the siren is inside his head, right between his ears, whirring, whirring, whirring. âCâmon, enough.â
When the siren stops, Willie sighs and pats his dog. Smooch tries to
wiggle her way out just as the siren blasts again---RRRRrrrrrrrRRRRrrrr. She slips away. âSmoochy! Smoochy!â Willie digs his nails into the carpet. He canât see his dog. He holds his breath. A spider slinks slowly down the wall beside him. He reaches out and smashes it. He closes his eyes and buries his head in his arms. He inhales carpet dust. This has gone on every day for, like, ever. Test after test. The siren stops and then starts blaring a third time. âPop! Where are you?â
This must be it, he thinks. The end of the world.
Sounding like air screaming through the pinched end of a balloon, the siren subsides again. Willie shuts his eyes tight, and muffles his ears with the palms of his hands. He curls his toes and tries to pull up his knees. He gulps air and waits for the next blast.
Itâs quiet for a few minutes. He takes one hand from one ear and turns on his side to see if he can hear anything. The clock on the wall is still ticking. There are voices outside. Happy voices. Kid voices. He takes another deep breath and blows through his puckered lips in relief.
There is a knock at the door. He pushes as hard as he can against the couch, feeling like a turtle struggling to get off its back. The knock is louder the second time. He slides out backwards inch by inch. Smoochy watches, bemused. Willie goes bug-eyed when he sees itâs 12:45pm. Nuts! Lunch time is long gone. He hasnât eaten a thing. Another knock at the door.
He goes into the hall and peeks through the curtains. Lucyâs face is pressed against the glass. Preston is walking on the porch railing, his arms out for balance. Lucy smiles and waves. He holds up one finger, heâll be out in a minute. He races up the stairs to his bedroom where he yanks a Clark Bar from his pillow case, shoves it into his jeans pocket and flies back down. He feels his heart beating against his striped jersey. He looks in the hall mirror. His hair is plastered to his head from all the sweat. Can he soak it at the kitchen sink and quickly dry his hair with a hand towel? There is another knock. He looks in the mirror again, shrugs and runs to the front door.
When he opens it, Lucy is sitting on the porch, rocking in Popâs favorite chair. Preston is still balancing on the porch rail.
âHey,â says Lucy.
âHey.â Willie takes a deep breath.
âHowâs it going?â Preston slides off the rail.
Willie breathes hard, his face is white.
âWhatâs the matter?â says Lucy.
âWhat do you mean âwhatâs the matter?â?â
âYou look, well, you look like death warmed over,â says Pres. Preston shoves Willie and laughs.
âLike what?â
âThatâs what my grandma says if someone doesnât look right. She says, âWhatâs wrong? You look like death warmed overâ.â
âIâve seen your grandma. She looks like death warmed over,â says Willie. Lucy sneers and punches him in the arm.
âSoâŚâ
âSo, what?â
âYou still havenât answered me,â says Lucy.
A group of kindergarteners pass by holding hands, one of their mothers leading the way.
âCâmon, letâs get goingâ says Preston.
âYeah, weâre gonna be late for social studies.â Willie jumps off the top porch step and lands with a thud. The September air rustles the sycamore leaves. He squints into the noonday sun.
They fall in behind the kindergarteners for half a block before they pass them up. A group of boys cat-call Lucy from across the street. âWoooo-hooo, Lucy! Ramma-lamma-ding-dong!â âShut up creeps!â She holds up her fist.
This is new. Theyâd been friends since kindergarten, but Willie has never thought of Lucy the way other sixth grade boys think of her. Recently, though, he has noticed her long, lush, dark brown hair and bright blue eyes.Â
Her smile and the dimple on her chin.
Heâd asked Preston: âDo you think Lucyâs pretty?â
âMy God, man, are you nuts or something?â
Willie puffs himself up and glowers at the boys across the street.
âOooo, weâre shakinâ,â calls the ring leader.
âMorons,â says Willie.
âHey,â says Lucy, nudging Willie in the ribs. âSee that guy?â
âWhat guy?â Â
âThe guy, that one over there crossing the street.â She points.
âYeah, soâŚâ
A guy in a suit, white shirt and tie and walks into Scanlonâs Service Station.
âHave you ever seen him before?â
âNaw. Why?â
âNothing.â Lucy watches the man in the suit as he exits the gas station. He stops, unwraps a pack of cigarettes and lights one up. He turns and looks right at Lucy. âJust seen him around a bunch of times.â
By then, Preston is half a block ahead of them, running as fast as he can without stepping on any cracks.
The school yard is full of kids waiting for the bell to re-enter Wood Street Elementary for the afternoon session. Lucy lays her books on the grass. Willie leans against a tree. Preston chases a fifth grader whoâd stuck his tongue out at him.
âMan, I hate those sirensâ says Willie.
âThe sirens?â
âYeah, you know---the sirens. Didnât they bother you?â
âI donât know. I was making lunch for my mom and cleaning up the kitchen. So, no, I guess they didnât.â
It was quiet for a moment. Is he the only one who pays attention to these things? Is he the only one who understands whatâs at stake? âMy mom says itâs just a big nothing.â âReally?â says Willie.
The bell rings and everyone pours into the school, bees to the hive.
âI hope sheâs right.â
Once in his seat by the window, Willie forces a smile as his classmates clamor in. Maybe if you put on a happy face, you wonât feel so jumpy, Pop had told him. He waves to Preston. It helps that everyone is loud and boisterous, not a care in the world. He nods to Linda, Sally and Frank. He wonders if any of them were hiding behind their couches just a few minutes before.
Mr. Highmark enters the room, Mr. Clammerman close behind him.Â
Oh no, not this, thinks Willie.
Mr. Clammerman is wearing a civil defense badge on his sleeve and a broad smile on his even broader face.
âGood afternoon, kiddos!â
âHi, Mr. Clammerman,â several kids call out in sing-song rhythm.
âGood afternoon, gang!â Mr. Highmark is the new social studies teacher. He doesnât look much older than Willieâs brother, Denny, although Mr. Highmark has a bushy moustache that looks like an upside-down U. Willieâs brother can barely grow fuzz. Pop told Denny he didnât need to shave. He could just dust his lip.
âWe have our friend Mr. Clammerman with us this afternoon. Heâs here to help us be aware, stay safe and---(he pauses for effect)---avoid the red menace. Mr. Clammerman, welcome!â He bows slightly and sweeps his arm out in a regal gesture. The class giggles.
âThank you, Mr. Highmark.â He faces the class; everything about him is paunchy. âAs you young citizens of this great nation know, we are in a time of perilâŚâ
Of my God, thinks Willie. He looks out the window, breathing as evenly as he can.
ââŚthe Soviets are not our friendsâŚâ
A bead of perspiration drips from his forehead to the inside corner of his right eye. He doesnât touch it.
ââŚthe threat of nuclear war, something we here in America wonât tolerateâŚâ
The words of Willieâs neighbor, Mr. Ashwood, ring in his ears: âThey donât just want to destroy our way of life, they want to destroy us. Itâs coming, Iâm telling you.â He snorted and hawked a loogie onto the sidewalk. Pop flicked his Camel into the street. âYou think?â was all he said.
Later Willie asked Pop if there was going to be a nuclear war. Pop said, âNothing for you to worry about,â and walked away. He was like that. Didnât say much. Willie asked if he could call Denny. âNo, you canât call him, itâs long distance; Iâm not made of money.â said Pop. That was that.
He talked to Preston, but it didnât help much: âIâm telling you, man, America is like Popeye and the commies are like Bluto, you know? Popeye never loses to Bluto. He always finds his spinach. Weâll kill the Soviets to death if they try anything!â His father had fought in World War II and Korea. âMy dad says we should have bombed all our enemies to smithereens when we had a chance.â He had a battery-operated toy machine gun on his front porch that was mounted on a tripod. He shot at any suspicious looking car or truck that passed by---RATTA-TAT-TAT! âThey donât stand a chance, man.â
Willie watches as two students struggle to set up the movie screen. Mr. Highmark finally steps in to hook the screen at the top. Mr. Clammerman attaches the movie reel and threads the film through the projector. There is a fifty-fifty chance the projector wonât work. Willie crosses his fingers. No luck, though. Soon jaunty music fills the room as smiling children with bows in their hair and bright smiles on their faces appear on screen. A pretty young teacher, also smiling, talks to them when, suddenly, a loud bell rings. âWhat do we do?â she calls in a pleasant voice. All the kids say, âDuck and cover, Miss Woodson!â Their knees hit the floor. They slide under their desks and fold their arms over their heads. The camera, at floor level, films their fresh scrubbed faces. They all have freckles and happy grins. They remain perfectly still until the bell stops ringing. âWonderful, boys and girls!â says the teacher.
With that, Clammerman stops the projector. Mr. Highmark leans against the wall, his arms folded.
âOkay, boys and girls, now itâs your turn.â Everyone claps and whoops. âHere we go. Mr. Highmark, please turn off the lights.â Highmark pushes away from the wall and flicks the light switch.
âHere we go. I want you to imagine that the sirens are about to blast and we have to get as safe as we can as quickly as we can. Okay?â Everyone yells, Okay! âOne, two, three----SIREN!â
There is a flurry of activity, kids pushing chairs aside, shoes scuffing the floor, some boys tripping and falling, one calling out that his nose is bleeding. Soon, though, everyone is under their desks. Mr. Clammerman keeps yelling âSiren! Siren!â
Willie is in a fetal position under his desk and can barely take a breath. He hopes the smaller he makes himself, the less likely heâll be incinerated.
He wants to raise his hand and ask Mr. Clammerman a question: If an atomic bomb was dropped near us and we were hiding under our school desks, would we be safe? But he is afraid of the answer.
By now, Willie is sweating âlike a pig,â as Pop would say. He feels lightheaded and wishes heâd eaten more than a Clark Bar for lunch.
Mr. Clammerman stops yelling âSiren!â and tells the kids they can get up on their feet and stretch. Clammerman praises the students, as they stand by their desks like budding soldiers: âTake your seats. Good job young Americans! You have done your country proud!â And then he calls each student up to give them a civil defense patch. It is a blue circle with a white triangle in it. Inside the triangle are the letters âCâ and âDâ. Willie has ten civil defense patches at home in his underwear drawer.
When itâs Willieâs turn to go forward for his patch, he looks up at Clammerman but all he sees are cascading spots before his eyes. He tries to stand once, then twice, but when he does, the room whirls and his stomach whirls with it. He tilts back and forth like a top slowing down, about to fall. He calls out, âHelp!â but the only thing his classmates hear is âOoooooUuuugh.â Before he knows it, heâs lying on the floor staring at the hissing radiator.
           Â
There is something very comforting about returning to David Seaburn's fiction for me. His books give to me the same feeling that I get from wearing a well worn-in pair of shoes and, whilst it may not sound it, this is a high compliment from me: you know that you are in for a comfortable and safe time which will not rankle or chafe; you will feel enclosed in a world which is well-shaped and crafted with thought; when you reach the end, you don't really like the feeling of separation as it has been an experience of support, warmth and comfort.
Seaburn's book Give Me Shelter provides all of this and for me was a really good read. Set in Ellwood at the time of the Cuban Missile Crisis, the book is centred on Willie, a sixth grader, and his close family, friends and neighbours, during what must have been an intense time, not only in America but also around the world. Willie already has worries and is particularly anxious about what he sees on the news as well as the air raid sirens that regularly pierce the day to attune the populace into awareness of what they may have to face should things escalate. Willie lives with his Pop, Hal to others, who is trying his best to guide Willie and his brother, Denny through life, their parents having died in what is referred to throughout the book as a tragic accident. The mystery surrounding the circumstances in which WIllie's parents meet their demise permeates the text and its revealing provides a light on what could be the cause of Willie's pronounced anxiety.
Seaburn's style of writing is gentle and intuitive: as a reader, I drifted through the narrative, completely absorbed by the characters, the dialogue, the switching between perspectives. He has the ability to show real everyday human concerns and it is the presentation of these which drives his fiction. Plot is almost secondary to his depiction of people's lives and the dynamic between them and others and it takes a writer of great perception to accomplish this. However, that being said, there is always a clear purpose in what Seaburn sets out to do - he is an astute and aware writer who guides you through his created world with clarity and conciseness and just the right amount of humour when required.
Read his books.