Meatballs for the People

For fans of the Legendary Alston Boys, an uproarious contemporary adventure story with a dash of fantasy about two friends who start a non-singing duo, go viral, and become unlikely international rock stars, bringing mindfulness to the middle school masses.At Visalia Middle School, nothing exciting ever happens. For Jason and Sean, eating candy at recess and dreaming of a future filled with fame and fortune is usually the highlight of their day. But when Sean stumbles across a video of a composer’s deliberately silent performance piece, the boys come up with an idea for a musical act that performs non-songs. And when a video of their first concert goes viral, the duo suddenly finds their dreams of stardom coming true—despite their lack of any musical talent.Soon they’re off on a globe-trotting adventure where, with the help of a cockatiel translator and an eleven-year-old talent agent, they unintentionally popularize the concept of quiet mindfulness and discover that fame can be fickle, but friendship is forever.

Thirteen-year-old Gabe Mendoza is headed to the public library when he hears a voice call, ""Son."" Gabe sizes up an approaching vagrant. ""It's me, your dad.""Dad? Couldn't be. This man looks homeless—is homeless. He's hauling a suitcase with everything he possesses—nothing. To Gabe, the figure doesn't look right. He's wearing a sweatshirt on a hot summer afternoon. His neck is filthy, his teeth rotten in an unsmiling mouth.  Gabe's father had abandoned him and his mother five years earlier. As the story unfolds, Gabe wrestles with confusion. Should he give his father a second chance—the father who is now destitute, possibly ill, pathetic, and an alcoholic?<BR><BR> Life has never been easy for Gabe on the streets of Fresno. He's always escaping trouble, especially from Frankie Torres, who practices his gangbanging tactics on Gabe. <BR><BR> The novella is quick as anger, but Gabe isn't angry. There's tenderness in his troubled heart. It is meant to be read more than once—each reading will reveal more about his mother, playground life, forgiveness, and the healing nature of dog that comes into his life.<BR><BR>. . . The afternoon was hot, maddening hot. He stopped under a tree and spied the temperature on the corner bank building: 104. Through the wavering heat, he eyed a figure in a 49ers sweatshirt. Dang, Gabe thought. What's wrong with this guy? A sweatshirt in this heat?<BR> ""Son,"" the figure beckoned to him.<BR> Son? Gabe wondered. Was this homeless man looking for a handout?<BR> ""It's me, your dad."" The figure in dirty clothes was pulling a large suitcase on wheels. The man did his best to hoist a smile.<BR> The vagrant did resemble his dad, whom Gabe hadn't seen in four years. His dad had driven away in the family's best car, with his clothes and the household computer in the backseat. He had also loaded the car with cases of soda and bottledwater, as if he were thirsty for a life other than the one he had with them. . . "" He's homeless,"" Gabe whispered to himself. Everything he owned was stuffed in that suitcase on wheels, which he hauled like a donkey pulling a cart.

The poet writes, "The Monday when Daylight Savings, 2021, kicked in, I was left in the dark. The morning light appeared in our eastern window, then was gone by the time I finished washing the lunchtime dishes. The daytime was downright stingy in offering sunlight's optimism. A few days later, while I was on my couch with an Afghan around my legs, I sat up from my ten-minute nap, struck by a bright idea. I would write a hundred poems in a hundred days-why not? I pictured myself licking the end of a pencil to get them written in sort of a captain's log-do it longhand, I told myself. I woke before sunrise, wrote, revised, and got a poem done by lunchtime. Ambitious me. In truth this Hundred Poems Project was absurd. I knew-other poet friends knew-that more than half would end up the fireplace if not the angry teeth of our paper shredder. For me, that was a given. The act of writing mattered-keep it going, I told myself, be like a beaver and chew on a pencil, put down some lines, don't forsake this craft! This private project of mine was a reminder to myself that after five decades I remain a poet, a calling few can claim. I provide forty-eight of the one hundred poems written that fall. I like to think of this period as my downtime on the couch. The writing was anything but restful."<BR>

¡Viva la causa!<BR> ¡Viva César Chávez! <BR> Up and down the San Joaquin Valley of California, and across the country, people chanted these words. Cesar Chavez, a migrant worker himself, was helping Mexican Americans work together for better wages, for better working conditions, for better lives. <BR> No one thought they could win against the rich and powerful growers. But Cesar was out to prove them wrong -- and that he did.