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...And Now Miguel, by Joseph Krumgold
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He wanted to be treated like a man, not a child.
Every summer the men of the Chavez family go on a long and difficult sheep drive to the mountains. All the men, that is, except for Miguel. All year long, twelve-year-old Miguel tries to prove that he, too, is up to the challenge'that he, too, is up to the challenge'that he, too is ready to take the sheep into his beloved Sangre de Cristo Mountains.
When his deeds go unnoticed, he prays to San Ysidro, the saint for farmers everywhere. And his prayer is answered . . . but with devastating consequences.
When you act like and adult but get treated like a child, what else can you do but keep your wishes secret and pray that they'll come true.
This is the story of a twelve-year-old Miguel Chavez, who yearns in his heart to go with the men of his family on a long and hard sheep drive to the Sangre de Cristo Mountains--until his prayer is finally answered, with a disturbing and dangerous exchange.
- Cover illustration by Chris Miles
- Interior illustrations by Jean Charlot
- Sales Rank: #769416 in Books
- Brand: Harper Collins
- Published on: 1984-04-04
- Released on: 1984-04-04
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 7.63" h x .51" w x 5.13" l, .39 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 256 pages
Review
"A memorable and deeply moving story of a family of New Mexican sheepherders, in which Miguel, neither child nor man, tells of his great longing to accompany men and sheep to summer pasture, and expresses his need to be recognized as a maturing individual."-- BL.
About the Author
Joseph Krumgold received the Newbery Medal for ...And Now Miguel. One of the few people to receive the medal twice, he was subsequently awarded it for his novel Onion John,also available in a Harper Trophy edition.
Jean Charlot was a master lithographer and muralist whose works are a part of the collections of the Museum of Modern Art and the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
CHAPTER ONE
It was love at first sight and I was astonished that it should be happening to me because the first sight had nothing in the least alluring about it. The roads from airports to cities rarely do. I was like a man who bewilders his friends by becoming infatuated with a particularly unprepossessing woman-warts and a squint and a harelip. 'What on earth does he see in her?' I've often wondered myself. What did I see in that dreary road which was taking me to Paris?
This sudden incomprehensible love affair might have been a little less mysterious if I had arrived in France with gooseflesh anticipations of romantic garrets and dangerous liaisons in them, the Latin Quarter and champagne at five francs a bottle, and artists' studios-all the preposterous sentimental paraphernalia from absinthe to midinettes. But I had not included any of these notions in my meagre luggage, I had no preliminary yearnings towards the country. Rather the contrary. In Australia I had spent much of my time with a young woman who had visited France just before the war and had gone down with a bad attack of what someone called 'French flu'. She babbled so fervently and persistently about France and Paris that she infected me with a perverse loathing for both.
The fact nonetheless inexplicably remains. A hundred yards from the airport we passed a café ('Le Looping', with the two o's aerobatically askew to make the point clear) and puppy love overwhelmed me-puppy love from which this old dog has not yet shaken himself free. 'Le Looping' and the handful of unremarkable customers sipping their drinks on the terrace instantaneously bewitched me.
I knew, with no rational justification, that I was in a country which for me was unlike any other country. It was as though some indigenous evangelist had caused me to be 'born again'.
One life abruptly ended and another began. There and then I shed my twenty-five years. To this day, in my own head and heart I am twenty-five years younger than the miserable reality.
The passengers in the airport bus were a drab lot. It was only eighteen months since the war had ended. There had not been much time to spruce up. In my besotted state, they seemed to me as fabulous as troubadours. The houses along the road were dismal little pavilions badly in need of a coat of paint. I gaped at them as if each one were the Chateau de Versailles. And in the distance the Eiffel Tower looked so impossibly like itself as depicted on a thousand postcards and a thousand amateur paintings that the sense of unreality which I had been feeling deepened still further.
What had brought me to Paris was my eagerness to visit a writer I had admired since my school days. He and his wife were to become two of my closest friends. We saw a great deal of each other in the years ahead-in Paris, in the South of France, in the Loire Valley. Of all the countless occasions on which we laughed together, argued, drank wine, loafed on a Mediterranean beach, listened to music, none was as sheerly magical as that first evening in Paris.
Our relationship took shape from the very beginning. We were already friends by the time we left their studio and strolled together down the Boulevard de Montparnasse. For some reason, twilight in Parts, then at least, was not like twilight in any other city. It enveloped you in a wonderful blue and golden luminosity and it had its own special unidentifiable perfume. That one-and-only twilight dreamily descending on us was so unlike anything I had known that I had my first vague glimpse of a mystery which was to become more and more apparent as time went by: Parts was the city of the unexpected. You always felt as though something extraordinary were about to happen. Sometimes it did, sometimes not; but the expectation never diminished. One went on waiting.
Twilight aside, most things were in short supply in 1947. Fortunately, the writer had been familiar with Paris for thirty years or more. He was already on the right sort of terms with the proprietor of an unassuming restaurant in one of the side streets. So we were served with a mixture of raw vegetables, a sorrel omelette (I can still recall the metallic taste of that sorrel) and, thanks to the proprietor's peasant brother, some wild duck. The wine was a muscular red with a powerful rasp to it but (a symptom of French flu?) I thought I had never drunk anything so delicious. It was served in cups as if we were in the prohibition speakeasy era because otherwise less privileged customers would have been clamouring for some and there wasn't any too much to be had.
Afterwards we walked back along the boulevard towards the studio. We stopped midway for a glass of brandy at the Dôme. Tourists had not yet ventured to return to Paris. The other customers on the terrace were all French, completely nondescript but fascinating because they were French. There were practically no cars on the roads. Those there were either had great charcoal-burning furnaces fixed to the back or carried dirigible-like bags of gas on their roofs. Every so often a fiacre went clip-clopping past. The air was almost startling pure. The stars were sharply visible in a translucent sky. I turned to the man at the next table and asked him for a light-speaking French for the first time in my life. I managed to make three ludicrous grammatical blunders in the course of that one short sentence. If he was amused by my linguistic ineptitude he was too polite to show it. La politesse francaise-that still existed, too.
Most helpful customer reviews
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
Five Stars
By Mary A. Rodriguez
Book in perfect condition. Arrived as promised. Charming tale that reminds one of a simpler time long past. delightful.
35 of 39 people found the following review helpful.
BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU PRAY FOR
By Plume45
Miguel at 12 desperately wants to take his place among the Menfolk of his family, by proving to his father that he is mature enough to be one of the regular hands. For years he has dreamed of accompanying the Chavez men on their annual summer trek up into the Sangre de Cristo Mountains with their large flock of sheep. Despite his zeal, creativity and real help with the family business, Miguel seems condemned to spend yet another summer at home with the girls.
When the entire village near Taos, New Mexico, turns out to celebrate the feast day of San Ysidro, their local patron, Miguel decides to petition the saint in a touchingly humorous (almost letter like) prayer. He takes it for granted that his wish will be granted, but soon is shocked to discover the harsh conditions. He never meant for his beloved brother, Gabriel, to have to leave home for two years in the military. Is there any way he can take back his wish? This leads to a long, soul-searching discussion on the
efficacy of prayer, the power and limitations of saints, and great fraternal quality time.
This story will apppeal more to boys seeking macho experience, for the role of females is relegated to the superficial. Still the book provides warm, family interactions. Narrated in the first person by Miguel himself, the book reveals the coming-of-age struggle and dreams of a Mexican-American youth. Readers will discover wry humor, simple faith, bi-lingual slang, and uneven pacing. Krumgold indulges in great detail about the sheep raising business, as Miguel blunders his way into adulthood. Wonderful descriptions of the mountains which have been calling him for years.
4 of 4 people found the following review helpful.
Slow At First, Then Valuable and Thought Provoking
By LME
As an adult who has read numerous children's books both on my own and as read-alouds, I was for some time confused as to why this book had garnered a Newbery Medal. I hung in there and was at least a third of the way through the book before I started to understand its' value. I kept thinking that my own boys would have liked this as a read-aloud when they were in perhaps grades 2-5, maybe even 1-5. I think younger boys would identify with the way that Miguel talks about himself and looks at the world.
As it progressed I really enjoyed Miguel's brushes with adulthood and progression in the family's sheep farming operation. His talk with his older brother Gabriel toward the end of the book was just the kind of thing a grade school boy could understand. Here was 12 year old Miguel trying to make sense of how and why things happen in life. The book could easily have ended here. Instead it went on to his journey into the mountains for the sheep's summer pasturing.
I do think this book is best read-aloud or read by a thoughtful child. It would likely provoke much discussion of life issues when read-aloud. It has an odd juxtaposition of young-ness and older philosophical thinking. Also, in some ways it reads like a documentary, a genre in which the author did much work. The story moves at a very leisurely pace and this will be off-putting for many readers today. I think it is really more of an "art book" in the same way that some films are "art films". Art films are not going to appeal to all audiences and neither will Miguel's story. It will, however, be a satisfying read for many.
This book would likely be a bestseller today if the story were "tightened up", in other words shortened and edited in some ways. This book has a Roman Catholic backdrop due to the time period and location.
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