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Summary
Summary
Friendship takes some imagination in this story of two kids who discover they have more in common than they knew, for fans of Stargirl.
Joey wants more than anything to talk to someone about music, to be a part of the group. But he's so shy, something always seems to get in the way. He escapes to a secret place on a hill, until one day he discovers that a strange girl has invaded the hill--and built a fort that looks like a spaceship. The hill is the one place he can be himself, so Joey decides he needs to stake his claim. He confronts the girl, whom he calls Marsh (short for Martian), and finds that she has been busy in her little makeshift "spaceship," building an imaginary world.
It's a world that hides secrets, but might also be the very thing to bring Joey out of his shell. And when Joey decides to follow Marsh home, her real life is not what he expected. But there he finds that they have music in common and he realizes that no distance is so great that music cannot bridge.
Martine Murray brings a unique friendship to life in this openhearted, imaginative tale.
Author Notes
Martine Murray is an Australian author and illustrator, born in 1965. She is based in Melbourne. Before becoming a writer, she studied art at Victoria College of the Arts and dance at Melbourne University.
Her books include A Moose Called Mouse, How to Make a Bird, The Slightly True Story of Cedar B. Hartley (Who Planned to Live an Unusual Life), The Slightly Bruised Glory of Cedar B. Hartley (Who Can't Help Flying High and Falling in Deep), Molly and Pim and the Millions of Stars, Marsh and Me, and the Henrietta series. Henrietta and the Perfect Night, and Marsh and Me were named Honour Books by the 2018 Children's Book Council of Australia Book of the Year Award for Young Readers.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (5)
Horn Book Review
Introspective Joey discovers that a girl has built a treehouse (mistaken for a spaceship) on the hill he visits alone to play his guitar. He nicknames the girl "Marsh," short for Martian, and is baffled and fascinated by her. As the two forge a friendship based on music, Marsh's poignant backstory emerges. This well-crafted Australian novel explores the nuances of friendship and family. (c) Copyright 2019. The Horn Book, Inc., a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Booklist Review
Feeling awkward at home and at school, Joey has one place where he is fully himself, a hill where he can be alone and play his guitar inexpertly but with abandon. When he discovers an amateurish tree house there, it's a blow. Its occupant, the enigmatic girl he calls Marsh, seems happiest when singing or talking of the Plains of Khazar, an imaginary world. Offering food and companionship, he gains her trust but risks it by secretly following her home and talking with her father, a grieving widower. Eventually, Marsh confides her anger and fears related to losing her mother. The story builds toward the local Battle of the Bands, where Marsh and Joey perform. This Australian chapter book has a sympathetic first-person narrator in Joey, who freely confesses his insecurities while finding the courage to move beyond his comfort zone, taking small steps in pursuit of what matters to him. While the closing chapters wrap up loose ends rather neatly, events earlier in the story support its hopeful conclusion.--Carolyn Phelan Copyright 2018 Booklist
Bookseller Publisher Review
Joey Green is a nice, sensitive boy. He's a bit of a loner, lacking in confidence and trying to find a way to fit in at school. One day, he discovers an unusual girl in a treehouse behind his house who tells him stories about a fantasy realm, the 'Plains of Khazar'. She won't tell him her name so he calls her Marsh (short for Martian) and the two tentatively form a friendship. When Joey follows her home one day, he discovers the reality of Marsh's life with her widowed father, and while it's not a horrible life, it's a terribly sad one. It's not until Joey's father explains grief to him that Joey is really able to understand the bizarre way that Marsh and her father are living. This is a story of an unlikely friendship, a common theme in children's books, but one that feels refreshing due to how nice these children are. Joey's classmates at school are good kids, his parents are decent and Joey himself has a highly developed moral compass and sense of duty while still remaining believable. Martine Murray (Molly and Pim and the Millions of Stars) captures the sadness of Marsh and her father's lives without wallowing in it. Joey and Marsh's story is both reassuring and encouraging for children aged eight and up. Louise Pfanner is an author, illustrator and bookseller
School Library Journal Review
Gr 4-8-Joey has a secret: he wants to play the guitar. He has been teaching himself in his bedroom and practices when he is alone on a hill in his neighborhood. Then someone else enters his world on the hill and starts building a tree house that resembles a rocket ship. Joey calls her Marsh, short for Martian, because she won't tell him her name or anything real about herself. They begin to spend time together on the hill and Joey learns that Marsh is the daughter of Serbian immigrants and that her mother has recently died. This short, contemplative story is an Australian import and is told through first person present tense. Joey narrates his thoughts as he struggles with feelings of inadequacy. Readers will cheer for Joey as he finds his voice and Marsh as she comes out of her shell. Give this to fans of Wonder looking for a short read. VERDICT A sweet middle grade story about friendship that doesn't stand out from the pack; an additional purchase for most collections.--Allison McLean, Elkhart Public Library, IN © Copyright 2019. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Kirkus Review
Twelve-year-old Joey's discovery of a treehouse in his favorite wooded hideout has an unexpected outcome in this Australian import.Joey feels practically invisible to his classmates and worries that his lack of athletic prowess disappoints his dadhe is most comfortable playing guitar alone "on the hill." While his deepest wish is to be in a band, he feels too shy to make it happen. Joey, who presents white, has an encyclopedic knowledge of male historical figures, to whom he often compares himself: "Landing on the moonon behalf of all mankind [is] deadly important and a million times more glorious and triumphant than being nice or sensitive." Yet his outlook expands after meeting Marsh (his nickname for her since her treehouse resembles a Martian spaceship) and accepting their shared connection to "the hill." Territorial resentment gives way to curiosity and empathy as he learns that Marsh built the treehouse to feel closer to her dead mother; that her Serbian parents moved here, to Australia, before her birth; and that her real name, Ruzica, makes her a target at school. Joey's observations about Marsh and her father (first perceived as an unwashed drinker of beer) at times seem rooted in stereotypes, and his continuing use of a nickname that is based on that of a literal alien to refer to his friend sounds an off note. However, Joey and Marsh's deepening friendship (and daring entry into the Battle of the Bands) rings true.A quietly moving exploration of identity, friendship, and family that encourages facing one's fears. (Fiction. 8-12) Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Excerpts
Excerpts
There are three places in my life. Hill, home and school. If you drew a map of me, I would be triangular. Or if you drew a portrait of me, I would have three aspects. Maybe even three heads. I'd like a painting of a three-headed me, but that's because I suspect I'm secretly a surrealist, like Andre Breton. Heard of him? He's a poet, like my mum, only he started an art movement that led to some pretty crazy paintings that looked more like dreams than real life. That's why I'm a surrealist--because I'm stuck somewhere between dreams and real life. If only life wouldn't always stamp dreams out with its onward march. Here's the three me's. At home I'm Joey, the unsporting, sometimes broody closet guitarist and older brother. At school I'm Joseph M. Green, the quiet kid who doesn't cause much trouble, but doesn't hold much interest, either. That's all real life. But on the hill I'm the heroic, loud, surrealist loner--ready and waiting for adventure, or at least for something to happen, or more specifically for something to happen to me. I'm loud because I play my guitar there, and I play it without one bit of restraint. But that's where I live in my own dream. The me I like the best is that me. The one who deals in dreams. The one on the hill, sitting on the grass as the sun sinks and the shadows are long and the world is far away. Everything glows then--trees, sky, ground, even me. Up there, I own the world. I get a waft of triumph. I'm playing my guitar and there's only the birds to hear me and only the sky to fill with notes. No one to snigger at me since, I admit it straight up, I'm no guitar hero. But at least up there I can imagine I am. Up there, I go about with a Jimi Hendrix swagger if I feel like it. I'm anything I want to be--famous astronaut, mountain climber, warrior, poet. . . . The sound of my guitar floats out over the hill, just like the coos of the wood pigeons do, or the puffs of winter woodsmoke, or the hoot of the train when it roars past. If I belong anywhere, it's to the hill and to the me that the hill brings out. The me who can strum those chords as long and loud as I like. But as you know, the sun sinks, the moment passes and I have to get home for dinner. I skulk out of my dream life and back into real life, where I'm just plain awkward and unfitting. There I'm like a fish trying to walk on land. When I get home, Dad is watering the vegetable garden. "Hiya, Joey, where have you been?" "Up the hill," I say. "With Black Betty," I add, just to make sense of my hill habit. Black Betty is our dog. Black as the night, of course, and partial to a walk, which makes her a perfect excuse and companion for my late-afternoon ventures. Dad is an odd-jobs man, which means he finds a way to earn a living in whatever way he can, when he isn't making sculptures in his shed. Making sculptures in his shed is what he prefers, but it doesn't pay the bills. "Did you have a nice walk?" "Yeah." This is typical of our conversations. Dad is sort of busy doing something, like watering the tomatoes, and with the other half of his mind he tries to show an interest in what I've been doing. But because I know he isn't really very interested in what I've actually been doing (playing guitar to the world), I never talk about it, and he believes instead that I have this not-very-exciting habit of taking Black Betty for a walk. "How was school today?" he says, dropping the hose to pick some tomatoes. "All right," I say. I tend to give up on these conversations before they have even started. What am I going to say? School is always kind of difficult, because I'm not really any good at anything and this makes me feel like a loser and then I act like a loser and once you get cast in the role of loser, even if it was you who cast yourself, no one wants to hang out with you. Except Digby, who for some reason accepts me, accepts the dull, unshining, defeated soursop me that I am at school. Digby is one of a kind, though. He's not impressed by the sporting stars. Not like Dad. You can't blame Dad, since he was one of those sporty types himself. He's athletic, he's got muscles and he's got skills. You should see him throw. We went for a swim at the reservoir last weekend. I was floating rather serenely, in my used car tire, dreaming about something. I was a long way away from the edge, where Dad was standing with Opal. But he threw a tennis ball at me and it made it all the way exactly to my hands. I still fumbled it. Dad shook his head, in despair, I think. But I dropped it partly 'cause I didn't believe it was possible to throw so far and to have such good aim, so I wasn't ready. I just get nervous anytime Dad tries to do something sporty with me. Sports isn't my thing. In fact, it's as if Dad and I come from different planets. I can only imagine how disappointing it is to have a son who you can't play catch with. Dad hands me some tomatoes so he can get some leaves of basil. He knows better than to throw them to me. They'd be sauce before we got them to the kitchen. "The good news is," he says, "I'm cooking pasta tonight." It's not the best-ever news. The best-ever news would be that I suddenly grew muscles and could kick a football from one side of the oval to the other. Or I grew my real-life land legs and stopped feeling like a fish gasping on the playground, where real life plays itself out in ball games, good jokes, plain tomfoolery and bravado. But Dad's pasta is pretty good, especially when it's cooked with homegrown tomatoes. Excerpted from Marsh and Me by Martine Murray All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.