Review of The Trees Have Hearts: A Very Special Story

Review of The Trees Have Hearts

PUBLISHED ON BETWEEN THE BOOK COVERS 

Reviewed by  Carla Ives 

It's very unusual for me to read a children's book as my children are all grown up now and there are no grands quite yet. I am a huge fan of reading to your child, though, and I read to mine for as long as I can remember. They are now three excellent readers. But when I met Mrs. D and she gave me a gift of several of her beautiful books, I decided to revisit the world of children's books.

Although I have several of Mrs. D's books, I began with The Trees Have Hearts as I was intrigued by her story of coming to America in 1992 with her ​​two young children to a new world and a new life.

The Trees Have Hearts tells the story of a beautiful little girl with dark curly hair who is very sad because she can not make friends. Why? She can not speak the language. This little girl came from a faraway place and the other children make fun of her because she can not talk to them.

In the garden of her new home are three very beautiful trees. Hearing games crying to herself, the trees attempt to make friends with the little girl. How is this possible, you ask? Because, the according to the Chance Plum Tree, "Trees speak all the languages ​​in the world."

The little girl has good times and adventures with her trees and even Old Man Wind gets in on the games. She is lonely no more. But as time passes and her language skills improve, she begins to make new human friends. Not wanting to lose her, the trees make a pact that they will shelter all of her human friends, too.

There is much more to the story, but you'll have to read it for yourself. One thing you will notice about The Trees Have Hearts  that is it's much longer than a regular American story book. Mrs. D told me That she was shocked when she came here by how short our kids' stories were. Her children would be like, "that's all?" So she decided her stories would be more like the stories she grew up with in the Ukraine. The book is 8.5 "by 11" in size and has approximately 40 readable pages.

Highlighting the story are the beautiful illustrations by Juli Hasegawa. They are graceful and gentle really fit the tone of this lovely story. The Trees Have Hearts has also earned the Mom's Choice Award for Excellence.

Incidentally, Mrs. D is Olga D'Agostino. I got to sit down and talk with her recently and learned about her stories and what inspired her to write in a language that was not her own. I have a few more of Mrs. D's delightful stories to tell you about and you'll be getting tidbits of Mrs. D's story with each upcoming book review.

If you'd like to read your child a very special story, I heartily recommend The Trees Have Hearts. It may take you more than one night to get through it, but I think every little girl would love to sit on your lap and hear the story of the child from far away who was lonely because she could not speak the language. Children of all ages will understand the little girl's pain and empathize with her ​​journey to new friendships, games spurred on by loving garden trees.

You can get your own copy of The Trees Have Hearts from  Amazon or Barnes & Noble .

Mrs. D kindly provided me with a copy of this book to read and review. All opinions are my own.

About Carla Ives 

My Pen, Your Voice

Founder and CEO Between The Book Covers

Between The Book Covers features the oftentimes opinionated book reviews of Carla Ives, a self-described Jill of all trades, master of a few.

Carla loves history books, historical fiction and historical romance, all of which you will find on this site, along with any other books that may come her way. 

You just never know what will appear next on her website.

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My Valentine

My Valentine

by Mrs.D.

The winter was slowly fading away. The glowing sun, full of energy and warmth, pulsated in the blue sky, promising a sunny day. Melting snow by my window, it woke up the first flowers, who bravely poked their tiny heads through the thin icy covering. The crystal drops beamed on the white petals, as the flowers gracefully stretched toward the sun. Full of hope and poise, the young snowdrops waved with gentle leaves, greeting the returning spring. Filled with love and peace, their smiling faces brought back memories of my first love.

I had known him since birth. I lived by the river. He lived by the hill. His house was old and crowded; mine was quiet and new. He was shy and calm; I was jolly and noisy. We shared one crib and ate from one bowl. We were neighbors and non-separated friends. We were children of the postwar generation.

We grew up in a small village lost in the Carpathian Mountains. His one-bedroom house, with a cold dirt floor and a huge wood-burning stove, which took up half the kitchen, was my home too. His grandma took care of us while our parents slaved in the fields owned by the communist party. Sitting in his old crib, made from a solid piece of wood, we learned to talk and read. On cold days, we cuddled under the woolen blanket and listened to the stories his dad told our neighbors about the labor camp where the Germans took him when he was a young man. We ate warm bread, baked by his mother. It was dark, like the soil. Made from mixed grains, ground between two stones placed on the bottom of a wooden barrel, it tasted better than any white bread I ever ate. Swinging from wall to wall in the suspended crib, we pretended we were flying to space. With its squeaking rusty chains, the crib threatened to throw us out on the dirt floor. Giggling, we held tight to the metal chains secured to the wooden ceiling and watched his forgetful grandma placing a pan filled with pig grease on the wooden bench instead of the stove.

We shared many secrets, we did things we shouldn’t, we fought and we cried, we hugged and we kissed. Then we grew up. We were five years old. He told me we should get married as soon as the snow melts.

“Why not now?” I asked.

“You will see,” he said.

The winter departed and the snow was slowly disappearing. The earth was warming up under the shimmering sun. Spring arrived. One day he tiptoed to my window.

“Come with me.” He impatiently waved his hands, switching from one foot to the other.

“I can’t leave the house; my mom is not home,” I said through the glass. He sighed and turned around. I saw him walking toward the narrow bridge, and then he crossed the river and disappeared between two hills.

“Wait!” I yelled through the open window, and ran toward the hills. He was climbing the hill, covered in pure white snowdrops, which peered at me with their smiling eyes.

“This is for you.” He gently stretched out a shaking hand, full of delicate flowers. “I love you,” he whispered in my ear.

Thank you!

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