BYOK (Bring Your Own Kleenex)

It's natural for a little boy to pick out a book called "Train to Somewhere" at the library. The cover looked so harmless. A painting of two little girls, suitcases in hand, heading toward an old steamer train.

Noah and I settled on the couch tonight to read the book which he borrowed this afternoon. As I briefly skimmed the introduction (silently) my eyes bugged out with alarm as I looked at my husband across the room. Here is start of the introduction:

"From the mid-1850s till the late 1920s, an estimated 100,000 homeless children were sent by train from New York City to small towns and farms in the Midwest."

AAAAGH!!! I looked at Noah. It was too late to hide the book.

The introduction continued:

"Charles Loring Brace of the Children's Aid Society hoped to place them with caring families. Some of the children did well. Some did not. Some exchanged one kind of misery for another." Oh. Dear. God. Please let the phone ring, please let the phone ring, please let the phone ring.

It concluded:

"This is the story of fourteen orphan children..." Gulp.

Author Eve Bunting gives this brutal (although fictitious and well-illustrated) account of these children who ride the train and make several stops in the Midwest hoping to find a family to adopt them. The sturdy boys are chosen first; the main character, who declares herself "not pretty," is chosen last.

It contains heartwarming dialogue and descriptions such as the following:

"We're not seeing as many going this year as last, though," the conductor adds. "1877 was a peak year for orphans."

"Zachary came to New York on a boat from Liverpool, England, with his father, and then his father left him."

"Clickety-clack, clickety -clee, I'm coming, Mama. Wait for me."

Nine pages later we better understand that line when the main character, Marianne, explains that her mother "kneeled in front of me on the steps of St. Christopher's the day she left me there" and told her she was "going to the West to make a new life" and that she'd come back for Marianne.

The truth is, the story was so sad, I couldn't help but laugh at the horror of reading it out loud to a small child. It was one of those moments where you're thinking, "Is this really happening?" The great thing about kids is that they pick up cues from adults, and since I was laughing so hard trying to keep from sobbing like a baby, Noah thought most of it was hilarious. At other times I wasn't sure what was going through his mind. He was sitting bolt upright staring seriously at me. And that was even with skipping the most horrifying lines. I think we need to switch to SpongeBob.