NSK 2009 Bringer of Solace and Delight: A Tribute to Vera B.Williams Virginia Euwer Wolff Virginia Euwer Wolff nominatedVeraB.Williams forthe NSKNeustadtPrizefor Children's Literature and gave thefollowingtribute to Williamsat theceremony honoring heron October23,2009, inNorman, Oklahoma. In books foryoung childrenwe learn about the building of friendships, thegiftof loyalty, the sustaining power of trust.Inbooks these same children will find later, as older young readers, theywill learn about false friendships, fractured loyalty, the dissolution of trust?and about how we struggle to learn to livewith disequilibrium. In her art and stories fortheyoung, Vera B.Williams treats this complicated and sobering matter of trust with a tenderness thatapproaches sanctity. Her characters livepassionately. Their scrap piness, theirgrit and energy, theirpartnerships move about in a kind of dance of life.Remember the Matisse women dancing? They're in the Muse um ofModern Art inNew York. The painting is called Dance, and Matisse made it just over one hundred years ago. (A later, more intenseversion, from 1910, hangs in theHermitage Museum in Russia.) Five women, holding hands, leaping and pounding against a bright green ground and deep blue sky. The Matisse women and Vera Williams's story-families seem related. I don't want to seem to forcean objective correlative,but in theircoun terpoint of toughness and delicacy, the dancing women and Williams's communities of people? sometimes connected purely by need?share the strain of hard work and of loss, as well as the rapture of moments when everybody seems to understand everybody else. Against what? What is the antagonist in Vera Williams's stories? It isalways negativity. The forces that want to choke off the creative surge in all ofus, the forces thatwould stifle goodwill, would strangle the impulse forjoy. What if littleVera Baker's family had not been solid members of thepolitical left? What if Vera had not seen up close, in her daily life as a young girl, the art and science and hubbub of social activism? Now, my generation was knocked back and forthbetween being taught tohate Hitler, tohate Stalin, topay attention toourmusic lessons and to JackieRobinson stealing bases in the World Series COVER FEATURE on the radio;we were taught toplay volleyball, to flirt and chug-a-lug beer, todecide whether or not we really likedFrench kissing (a shockingly dar ing social activity?and wouldn't itbe too icky to actually dowith anybody?). One of the basic constants in this postwar upbringing was thatwe were supposed to fear and hate?at thevery least be apprehensive of? anyone associated with the political left.They might have Communist cousins or friends, and Communists were very, very, very bad people who were going tobomb us all todeath, and then make us be Communists with them. Little Vera, on the opposite coast of theUnited States, was born into a fam ilydevoted to social protest, progressive politics, and the hurly-burly of the pursuit of justice, even when the process became unsavory or dangerous. While Vera was discov ering thenoisy complexities of social activism, there I was on the farm,without electricity, trying to figure out how to climb a cherry tree and read thewords in theDick and Janebooks. My familywould have gasped and hightailed it to church, topray for Vera's daring, leftist bunch. And Vera's family might have noticed thatwe Euwers didn't speak the language of protest,weren't even sure how to spell "Bolshevik"?in short,that we didn't seem to know what a social conscience was. Except in small details: my widowed moth er?left to run the family orchard business when our dad died?gave our pots and pans to the AChairfor MyMother gives resttoweary workers of theworld. It'scovered indeep red, the redof theflames thathad burnedRosa's family home and all their furniture, but on thischairthe red isfertile ground for radiant flowers. workers who came topick our fruit; gave toys we didn't play with to theirsniffly, rascally, sad-eyed children; she gave help and succor to thewomen whose husbands beat them.And when I woke one night hearing something in thekitchenwhen everybodywas supposed tobe asleep, Iwandered out inmy jammies to see what was going on, and there was my mother, awashbasin ofbloody...