Binder was born in Germany and moved with her family to Colorado when she was 5 years old. Her parents continued to speak German in the house, though, much to her mother’s chagrin, Binder resisted speaking the language, which she felt marked the family as outsiders in America. It was only as an adult, as her mother was sliding into dementia, that Binder finally acquiesced in order to feel closer to her. “Sharing a language is a form of love,” she writes, “I understand this now. And when my mother doesn’t recognize me anymore, I won’t be her Lisalein, but I’ll still be with her. I’ll be the woman with the curly hair who sits beside her and speaks to her in German.” In this memoir, Binder explores her shifting relationship with her mother, Helena, during the latter’s illness, which partially coincided with the Covid-19 pandemic. At the time, Binder was living with her husband and daughter in New Hampshire and Helena had recently relocated nearby. She soon moved into a memory care facility, where Binder visited her regularly, documenting the peculiar culture of the place with its memory boxes and uninhibited residents. Sitting in Helena’s small room, Binder contemplated how memory, language, migration, and the complexities of a mother-daughter relationship had fluctuated over the course of the disease, allowing Binder to better understand Helena even as she drifted further away from her. The author writes with the probing lyricism of a poet as she wrestles to articulate her muddled emotions. “Dementia isn’t a labyrinth anymore and not the sweet lotus either,” she writes. “It’s a fire that burns inside the brain. It burns and burns and gathers strength until there’s nothing left but ashes and glowing embers. It finds its fuel in the things that make us human.” Readers will admire Binder’s refusal of sentimentality, observant eye, and determination to grasp answers that seem always on the verge of evaporation.

Despite being an “economic powerhouse,” the United States “has managed to lose much of its manufacturing prowess,” and most low-tech production has taken flight to other countries like China, observes Olsen. We cannot simply accept an economy that runs singularly on services, he asserts. “We need to make more of our own things.” Much of the problem lies in the tax code, per the author, which seems to punish the average American worker—the linchpin of the nation’s economic competitiveness—and reward risky financial speculation. To remedy the problem, Olsen lucidly proposes a sweeping tax reform plan and suggests adopting a single-payer national health care plan and a “Child Sustenance Assistance Service.” The money to pay for these programs and tax cuts will come from taxing stock market and real estate speculation, the latter of which, according to the author, not only artificially raises housing prices but also destabilizes communities (these are provocative points argued with impressive analytical rigor). Olsen’s approach is free of any partisan rhetoric or ideological axioms; in fact, he roundly criticizes both communism and free-market capitalism as “too mechanistic.” At the heart of the book is a stirring paean to the nobility of work and the central significance of the American worker to the economy as a whole. (“A foundational principle of America is that the economy’s very purpose is to serve the needs and aspirations of the American workforce.”) This is a very brief book—well under 100 pages of main text—and such a quick treatment of so many complex issues can’t be decisively persuasive. The author’s discussion of alleviating poverty is particularly vague, and seems to amount to little more than hiring more case managers. However, the true value of this slim volume is that it stimulates further discussion by offering a perspective often neglected—one that places everyday workers, rather than disruptive entrepreneurs, at the top of the nation’s economic hierarchy.

Dubbing each a “super-small superhero,” the author profiles 20 compact creatures in his main gallery and adds brief cameos for 21 more at the end. Writing informally, he brushes in general observations about each one’s habitat, diet, and distinctive features, then points to what makes each a “champion”— the honeybee is a “champion of teamwork,” for instance, while the reef sea star is a keystone species. For the main set, presented in no particular order but ranging from the gopher tortoise to the microscopic and wonderfully durable water bear (aka tardigrade), Jones supplies both an isolated life-size image with labeled parts and a (usually) larger one in a natural setting. Not all of these animals are “cuddly or colorful,” as the author notes of the cacao-pollinating chocolate midge, but readers who take up his grand invitation to “step into the STADIUM OF THE SMALL” will come away with a deeper appreciation for the often-essential roles many of these mighty mites play in the natural world.

This exuberant rhyming ode to reading is primed to get kids excited about the wonders awaiting them between the pages of a book. As the authors wisely point out, books are perfect anytime, anywhere—and they’re for everyone. Readers are encouraged to give books as gifts, to share them with friends and family, and even to write and illustrate their own books. Savor them at bedtime, too. There are even options for the youngest kids—board books with flaps to lift and mirrors adorning the pages so that tiny listeners can admire and make faces at themselves. Just like readers, books vary in appearance and type—long, short, hard, soft, and everything in between. And who says books must only be read? Some books even help us sing. Best of all, you don’t have to buy books: Public libraries offer them for free! Return what you finish, then borrow more—as often as you like. What’s a better deal than that? If this book doesn’t turn kids into ardent readers, nothing will. Besides the bouncy, jubilant verses, the energetic illustrations will do the trick, brimming with ebullient colors and featuring a cast of spirited readers, diverse in terms of both race and age.

“It’s worth the climb,” Lily’s mother says as they open the door to their new apartment on the third floor of a walk-up. Though their home is just a few blocks from their old one, in many ways, it’s been a long journey; Mom and Lily have transitioned from a shelter for unhoused people to their own place. They’re supported by friends at the shelter, a social worker, and a kind neighbor who offers to watch Lily on weekends while Mom works to build a better life for them. The story celebrates their new opportunities—like Lily’s excitement about Mom cooking lasagna in their own kitchen—but also acknowledges the bittersweet emotions of leaving behind shelter friends, particularly Lily’s BFF, Madeline. Visits to the shelter offer comfort and continuity, showing how Lily and Mom maintain meaningful connections while expanding their world with a new day care and friends for Lily and college for Mom. Sensitively illustrated by Everson in purples, blues, and cheerful yellows (Lily’s favorite color!) that add joy to the narrative, this simple yet heartfelt tale balances realism with optimism. An author’s note with facts about homelessness provides valuable context, making this a poignant and much-needed story for children and their caretakers alike. Lily and Mom are brown-skinned; their community is diverse.