Eva of the Farm

Collagelike illustrations introduce each section. This text offers much to prompt discussion and poetry writing. No one's rated or reviewed this product yet. Skip to main content. Eva of the Farm. The Farm has apple trees and sun daisies and a creek. The Farm has frightening things too—like cougars, bears, and a dead tree that Eva calls the Demon Snag. She dreams of being a heroine of shining deeds, but who ever heard of a heroine-poet? This novel by acclaimed author Dia Calhoun is about the transforming powers of imagination and hope, which can turn us all into heroes.

Read on your iOS and Android devices Get more info. I love the writing style of this book which made it easy read and fast page turner. The author used very descriptive, elegant words through out this book and I love how the poems that the character makes were shown for the reader to look at. I felt deep emotions like anger and sadness from loss and decisions that other characters made in the book. The main character explored many of these emotions throughout the story from what may have been the end of her farm, friendship, and family.

I'd recom I love the writing style of this book which made it easy read and fast page turner.

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I'd recommend this to any reader who wants a fast read and story that deals with problems that have to get overcome. Jun 13, Penny Peck rated it liked it Shelves: Financial setbacks mean the family may lose the farm, which has been in Eva's mother's family for generations. Eva is a little too uninformed for her age, with such little knowledge of things like Facebook or Twitter, or pop culture in general, you would think she lived "off the grid," but that is not the case. Also, Eva's poems, which are set off in italics in the text, are a little too melodramatic. On the plus side, the adult characters seem very well-rounded and realistic.

Still, many tweens will relate to Eva's overly emotional personality and the timely story. May 21, Tova rated it really liked it. This book is very fast paced, as it written in verse. It was well written and enjoyable. I also went to a young writers workshop with the author at my local bookstore and got my copy signed and she's really sweet. This story to boot is set in the Methow Valley which is where I'm from.

Jul 25, Rebecca Gomez rated it really liked it Shelves: A moving story about a young girl who is determined to save her family's farm. The girl, Eva, is completely believable as a daughter, a sister, a poet. The verse drew me in and tugged on my heart strings. Oct 26, Sandy D. Wonderful novel in free verse aimed at y.

Poetry, foreclosure, nature, sibling relationships, friends who move away and change Mar 25, Jenn rated it it was ok. I very much wanted to love this book. The poetry and the idea of the story of a family struggling to save their farm appealed to me so much. Alas, I never really connected to the main characters and the pace was very slow for me. Nov 21, Sharon Lawler rated it really liked it Shelves: Story in verse, set in contemporary Washington state, about a family in both emotional and financial crisis. The plot keeps you reading, but the language and imagery stay with you long after you've finished.

Aug 04, Debby Zigenis-Lowery rated it really liked it. An enjoyable story about a girl, a farm, and her family, and how poetry enriches her life. Nov 14, Ann rated it really liked it Shelves: I normally find books in verse a struggle but this flowed so beautifully and the poems were wonderful and so visual. Apr 05, Lisa rated it it was amazing Shelves: This book dazzles and shines with imagination and hope. Jul 15, Ms. I was one of those young girls who wanted to write, and even I didn't want to read about Eva, especially since the book was in verse. Jul 25, Melissa rated it really liked it Shelves: When the hail finally stops, rain parades against the glass on and on and on while the robins hop over the wet grass and stuff their beaks with worms.

So I build a block castle for Achilles.

I plop his toy horse inside the castle walls and tell him the Greek story of the Trojan horse. At just the right moment in the story— when the Greeks are sneaking out of the horse to destroy the city of Troy— Achilles reaches out with both hands and knocks down the castle I have so carefully built. He shrieks and gurgles with glee. When at last the rain stops, the desert heat prowls across the land again. Sprinklers In this desert land arcs of water— silver rainbows— pulse from a thousand sprinklers day and night, sweeping circles around the apple and pear trees.

A week later, I walk out to the shed, looking for Mom and Dad, to tell them about a pear tree with dead leaves on one of its branches. Tools hang in orderly rows from hooks on the walls— saws, axes, hammers, wrenches, coils of rope, and a dozen pruning shears. It broke a month before she got sick. Mom hauled it into the shop, planning to fix it. Dust rises when I lift the blue sheet. The spinning wheel is beautiful. I used to write my best poems to the sound of the wheel humming while Grandma Helen spun. Footsteps crunch in the gravel outside the shop door.

The door creaks open and Dad strides in, his face grim. My breath shoots into my lungs as I remember the pear tree with dead leaves. More days of heat and rain brought fire blight, a horrible disease, I know, which might destroy our entire pear orchard. Hour after hour, day after day, I pile dead branches into the wheelbarrow and trundle them to the bonfire. Only butchery and burning will keep the disease from spreading and stop the fire blight— maybe.

Our orchard curls up in smoke that stings tears into my eyes as I say good-bye to my lost friends the trees. I know Mom and Dad borrowed all that money for a loan from the bank to buy the new tractor and build the new shed. I stare down at the scrambled eggs speckling my blue plate for the fourth time this week. I shut right up. The answers lie in math and science and economics— not poetry.

A poem about the plight of the polar bears might inspire people to help them. We make the most difference when we use the gifts we have. And Eva is a gifted poet. I finger the hole in my shorts.

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I like the thrift shop, though, because anything is possible there. For three dollars you can stuff whatever you want in a bag. The thrift shop has everything you can imagine and some things you cannot. Clothes, dishes, toys, puzzles— Mom can stuff a bag tighter than our Thanksgiving turkey.

For three dollars I can stuff a new me into the bag. I can become a heroine in a flowing red skirt with only a little tear that trails behind me on the floor— and a ruffled white shirt like Evangeline might wear. I add silver boots and a silver helmet with only a small dent, like Joan of Arc might wear. And I am ready for anything. Three dollars is too much for me to waste, Mom says. She dumps everything out of my bag except the silver boots, which I can wear in the snow. She crams the bag with boring T-shirts, jeans, and sweaters. Tonight there will be a meteor shower called the Perseids.

It happens every August in the constellation of Perseus. Everyone— Dad, Mom, Achilles, Sirius, and me— lies outside on the grass, listening to the cricket symphony and waiting for the shooting star show to begin, as we have every year for as long as I can remember. I want him to see his first falling star— his blue eyes opening wide in delight. I want him to stretch his hands toward the stars. As darkness falls, I think about my last e-mail to Chloe. Did the camp close? You know how bad things are— with the fire blight ruining the pear crop. Quetzal called me yesterday.

I am so sorry, Eva. I fall back on the grass and squeeze my eyes shut— squeeze my fists shut— squeeze my worry shut tightest of all. Sometimes I think if I could taste one cherry—just one— the worry inside me would go away, and everything would be all right again, and I could go to Camp Laughing Waters with Chloe. Cherries are that magical.

Cherries dangle like ruby earrings from the branches. The cherries taunt beyond my outstretched fingers while starlings jeer and dart, pecking greedy holes in the fruit. I long for thieving wings— to steal such sweetness for myself. On Friday morning Mom and I drive to the post office in Methow— a town so small a rabbit could pass it by in one hop.

Mom leaves our old Ford truck running while I go in and grab the mail from our post office box. The envelope is as white as snow, and a chill spreads from it up through my fingers. I put the letter from the bank on top of the pile of mail so Mom will see it right away.

I will ask her what foreclosure means. But when I climb back into the truck and Mom sees the letter, her face turns pale. She snatches the letter, stuffs it into her purse, and then hunches over the steering wheel, her pink lips pressed tight. My breath speeds up, coming short and fast. Something is wrong— terribly wrong. What I have been afraid of since the fire blight struck is true. What I have been too scared to think of— except in the cobwebby corners of my imagination— is true. Mom and Dad will not let anything bad happen.

I have to know what this all means. Mom paces with Achilles on her hip. She turns, sees me too, and puts a smile on her face. Dad stands up with the zucchini in his hand. Achilles stretches out his arms toward me, and I take him from Mom. The wind stops blowing— the birds in the blue spruce stop singing— the river stops roaring— the garden stops growing— and the Farm itself seems to heave a great sigh because the words are out, are spoken at last— lose the Farm.

Mom grew up here. I want to grow up here. Achilles wants to grow up here too. I hug him tight against the ache in my chest. Achilles has spoken his first word— my name. I whirl him around again and again. I will never lose Achilles. First Word Like a butterfly from a cocoon, the word from his lips changes a baby into a brother. And lucky to have it, she says, because so many people are out of work right now.

She says she will write more articles, but editors are picky, she claims. So I feel pretty much worthless. All I can do is look after Achilles while Mom and Dad work. I leaf through my stack of poems, written in my best chancery cursive calligraphy. Poets are always poor— unless they become poet laureates or write greeting cards or advertising slogans. Maybe Dad is right. Maybe I am wasting my time on poetry. I take out a blank sheet of Canson calligraphy paper, then hesitate.

Mom says when I use up the last of my calligraphy paper, there will be no money for more. So I need to be sparing. How can I be sparing with poetry? Same Old Bear Wood crackles the dawn, and I know the same old bear is feasting in the same old plum tree again.

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Every year he swipes off whole branches, gorging on glistening plums. Does he dream of plundering our orchard all winter in his stuffy den? The bear looks worse every year too— muzzle gray, fur matted, one ear missing— but keeps looting. I keep expecting one of them to die— the tree or the bear— but they seem to need each other. Which just goes to show you that sometimes things work out fine for everybody. So long as that old bear leaves a few plums for me. Swinging in the hammock, I look out over the orchard, over the house with its shining metal roof, over the tangle of the vegetable garden.

Does the Farm know we might have to leave? Could the land help us stay? I look the other way and stare through the deer fence at the wild canyon. Is the Demon Snag causing all our troubles? Is it summoning powerful evil magic that creeps down the canyon and slips through the chimera of the deer fence?

The canyon and the Farm must have kindly spirits as well. I think of Mrs. Which— kindly spirits of stars— who helped Meg become a heroine and fight the darkness and save her little brother. How can I fight the Demon Snag? What kindly spirits will help me save the Farm? I decide to walk up the canyon alone to confront the Demon Snag. Then I picture the deer with its bloody throat lying slaughtered across the trail. I have no magic, I am not wearing my silver boots, it is almost dark— and I am not even brave enough to go up alone in the light.

Skylight at Night Bats fly like black ghosts in and out of the skylight over my bed at night. Stars fly like guardian angels in and out of the skylight over my bed at night. Owls fly like wizards in and out of the skylight over my bed at night. Wishes fly like whirling seeds in and out of the skylight over my bed at night.

Dreams fly like magic carpets in and out of the skylight over my bed at night. Sleeping deeply, I remain. The bank man Mom calls Charlie and I call Mr.