"English and Spanish texts (both handled well)...plentiful naive-style
paintings contribute a solid sense of place and reflect the strong
family ties and efforts at community Dorros conveys in his
story."-Booklist (starred review)
"Noteworthy in presenting a protagonist who would be just as interesting
in another milieu."-Publishers Weekly
"An upbeat but largely realistic picture of migrant life-and an
entertaining boost to bilingualism."-Kirkus Reviews
"The bright colors warm the story as the radio warms the lives of the
characters."-The Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books
As a child, besides listening to the radio on car trips, each station
along the way chiming in with its own distinctive tones and voices, I
listened to the radio at night in bed. I could journey with the radio,
or I could journey with books. I read books almost every night, too. I
had to keep that kind of a secret, because my parents thought I was
sleeping.
So I couldn't turn on the lights. When it got too dark to see the pages,
or the flashlight batteries ran out, I'd duck under the covers with a
radio I'd built from a few pieces in a kit. Most nights the radio only
received one station, which broadcast baseball games. But every once in
awhile I'd find a station whose radio waves were bouncing through the
night from far off, from other parts of the country, even of the
world-those were the best nights.
During the days, I liked growing things. I got seeds, planted gardens
and worked in them, watering and pulling the weeds. Okay, so I didn't
pull so many weeds, but I did grow gardens. When I started working at
jobs, I thought that because I liked growing things I would look for
work with plants. One summer I worked on a farm in Wisconsin. Helping
with a harvest was the hardest work I'd ever experienced, even harder
than the construction work I'd done. Hunched over all day, harvesting
plants then stacking them, was difficult, heavy, and uncomfortable
work-both the positions, the lifting, and the hot, hot sun beating down
on us all day.
Another summer I went to pick fruit in eastern Washington State. Again
it was hot, heavy work, but this time I was moving in a different
direction. Instead of bending over all day, I was climbing ladders and
stretching, then lugging fruit-filled bags down the ladder to empty into
a bin. I noticed that some of the people around me could pick twice or
three times as much as I could in the same amount of time. In the
evenings, around the little houses we were staying in on the farm, I got
to know some of the other fruit pickers. They knew the work well. They
were migrant farm workers who traveled from farm to farm, some with
their families, as they worked with different crops.
Early one morning, about fifteen years after I'd worked picking fruit, I
was driving over the mountains from Seattle to speak at a school in
Eastern Washington. Suddenly as I tuned the radio, I heard an announcer
speaking Spanish in some parts of the broadcast and English in others.
"Ricardo, feliz cumpleaños." "Emily, your cousin will be arriving next
Thursday." It turned out to be a radio station especially for farm
workers, and the announcements helped people keep in touch with each
other. A new story idea was born for me at that moment, and I couldn't
wait to start scrawling notes on any piece of paper I could find.
