Jennifer Bohnhoff
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In Praise of Bad Boys

2/18/2019

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My two classes of seventh graders read an excerpt from the autobiography Bad Boy, by Walter Dean Myers this past week. 

Myers is probably every English teacher's favorite bad boy. As a child he was a wiggly, fidgety, squirmy boy who was always talking out of turn, wandering the classroom, and not getting his work done. He freely admits he lacked self control and frequently got into fights. In short, he was very much like many of the students I teach now.

After his mother's death, Myer's father gave him to another family. Even thought they raised him as their own, it must have been hard to live with the memory of that early rejection. Much of the anger and acting out that he did in school might be traced to his childhood.

Luckily for Myers, the woman who raised him also read to him. He found solace in books and used reading as a way to escape bad situations. When he was in high school, one of his teachers recognized that he was not only a good reader, but a good writer as well. She encouraged him to continue writing, no matter what was going on in his life.

Myers didn't immediately follow her advice. He dropped out of high school and joined the Army. It was only after he was discharged that he picked up the pen. Before he passed away in 2014, Myers had written more than 100 books. He is  best known
for his young adult literature, but he also wrote picture books and nonfiction. He was the recipient of the Coretta Scott King Award for African-American authors on five different occasions.

Maybe one of the bad boys in my class right now will pick up a pen and become the next generation's Walter Dean Myers. Maybe not. Writing is not for everyone. But I can encourage them to read and write, for literacy opens many doors. I can
help them overcome their own anger and feelings of rejection and find the self discipline to settle in and "get the job done," even when it's not what they want to do. I can recognize the good in each of them, and encourage them to find the one thing that is their passion. My bad boys might grow up to be auto mechanics, ranchers, businessmen or teachers. Perhaps there's a lawyer, doctor, or truck driver in the bunch. They may not all become writers, but these bad boys can all become good men.

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The First Gun is Fired and the First Song is Written

2/11/2019

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PictureGeorge F. Root
The first song specifically written for the American Civil War was published and distributed just three days after the Battle of Fort Sumpter.

"The First Gun is Fired: May God Protect the Right," by George Frederick Root was wildly popular in its day, but it isn't the most recognizable of Civil War songs to 21st century listeners. Root, who was born August 30, 1820 in Sheffield, Massachusetts, went on to write many other songs, such as Tramp! Tramp! Tramp! and The Battle Cry of Freedom, that continue to be well known. The prolific songwriter, who died in 1895, also wrote many church hymns and popular parlor songs. Here are the lyrics to the Civil War's first song:


1. The first gun is fired!
May God protect the right!
Let the freeborn sons of the North arise
In power’s avenging night;
Shall the glorious Union our father’s have made,
By ruthless hands be sunder’d,
And we of freedom sacred rights
By trait’rous foes be plunder’d?

Chorus--Arise! arise! arise!
And gird ye for the fight,
And let our watchword ever be,
“May God protect the right!”

2. The first gun is fired!
Its echoes thrill the land,
And the bounding hearts of the patriot throng,
Now firmly take their stand;
We will bow no more to the tyrant few,
Who scorn our long forbearing,
But with Columbia’s stars and stripes
We’ll quench their trait’rous daring.

3. The first gun is fired!
Oh, heed the signal well,
And the thunder tone as it rolls along
Shall sound oppression’s knell;
For the arm of freedom is mighty still,
But strength shall fail us never,
Its strength shall fail us never,
That strength we’ll give to our righteous cause,
And our glorious land forever.

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Manic Muffins for February

2/4/2019

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Last month I posted a recipe for a muffin mix that you could make up in advance and have on hand for those manic mornings when you wanted something quick and satisfying. If you didn't make up a batch of mix then, you can now. Here's the link to the original recipe. 

This month's adaptation of the original recipe features two yummy additions: cherries and chocolate, plus a little addition to sprinkle over the top to finish them off.


February has two big holidays. One, Valentine's Day, is the more celebrated, but the other, President's Day, gives the day off! I think most of us teachers appreciate President's Day more than Valentine's Day because we get tired of the sugar coated frenzy of children who've been eating chocolate all day and are anxious about who might or might not like them. Don't get me wrong: I love chocolate, just not when it's affecting the already radical mood swings of a middle school student.

Cherries are associated with George Washington because of the lovely myth of our future president refusing to tell a lie as a small boy. Although this story is undoubtedly apocryphal, it's still a good excuse to eat cherries in February.

The cherries I chose to use are dried bing cherries, available from Trader Joes. These are big and juicy, and I love to use them in winter salads, sprinkling them over dark greens along with sliced almonds and goat cheese. They're good to just eat straight from the bag, too. 

I chop them until they're about the
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size of raisins, then mix them with a little of the dry muffin mix. This step keeps the chopped cherries suspended in the batter so they don't sink to the bottom of the muffin cups. 

I sprinkled a little bit of cinnamon sugar over the top of each muffin. The difference it made was subtle, but I think pleasant. You can sprinkle any remaining cinnamon sugar over buttered toast if you're feeling nostalgic. I store mine in a glass jar intended for parmesan cheese.

The addition of cherries and chocolate stretches the recipe a bit. Instead of getting 12 muffins, I got 16.

Cherry Chocolate Manic Muffins

Preheat oven to 350. Line muffin tins with paper liners.

2 eggs
1 1/2 tsp vanilla
1 cup water
1/2 cup oil

2 3/4 cups manic muffin mix

1 cup dried cherries
1 TBS. manic muffin mix
1/2 cup mini chocolate chips

1/4 cup sugar
1 TBS cinnamon

Chop cherries. Stir together cherries, 1 TBS dry muffin mix and chocolate chips and set aside.

Mix together sugar and cinnamon and set aside.

Mix together eggs, vanilla, water, and oil in a bowl. Add muffin mix and stir until no lumps appear. Blend in cherries and chocolate. Fill muffin tins 3/4 full.

Scoop up 1/8 tsp cinnamon sugar and sprinkle over two muffins. Continue until each muffin has about 1/16 tsp. sugar sprinkled over it.

Bake for 18-20 minutes, or until golden brown.
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Chocolate in New Mexico

1/28/2019

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PictureJicaras, or chocolate cups from Abo and Quarai New Mexico, 17th C.
Chocolate made its way up to New Mexico through the same trade routes that brought scarlet macaw feathers to Chaco Canyon. The same residue found in ancient Olmec bowls has been found in the pottery of the Four Corners region, and it dates perhaps a thousand years back. The Spanish reintroduced cacao into New Mexico when they began exploring the region. In 1692, Diego de Vargas, the Spanish Governor of New Mexico, met with a Pueblo leader names Luis Picuri in his tent. The meeting included drinking chocolate. ​

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The Palace of the Governors, New Mexico’s History Museum, has on display some artifacts that are associated with chocolate.  This storage jar was used to keep cocoa powder. New Mexico was quite isolated and life was rough here. People had few luxuries. The fact that cocoa was stored in such an ornate jar, with a metal lid indicated just how highly prized it was.
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This is a molinillo, or chocolate whisk, from about 1830. The large end would be placed in the pot of hot chocolate and the thin handle was held between the palms of the hands and spun to make the beverage frothy.
Want your own molinillo? Jennifer Bohnhoff will be giving one away, along with a package of Mexican chocolate, and a cookbook that contains a recipe for a traditional New Mexican chocolate drink. Join her Friends, Fan, and Family email list by February 1 to be entered in the drawing. Sign up here.
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A History of Chocolate

1/21/2019

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When I think of hot chocolate, I think of mugs of warm, sweet comfort. I lived in Massachusetts for three years in my childhood and have many memories of sledding until my fingers and toes burned with cold, then rushing home to cocoa in a steamy kitchen. I also think of a warm chair by the fire, and curling up with a good book.

But hot chocolate didn’t originate in the frozen north, and its history has more to do with diplomacy than comfort. 

PictureStill from a YouTube video on cacao production.
Chocolate is made from the fruit of cacao trees. These small trees are native to Central and South America. They produce fruits, called pods, that are roughly the size of a person’s hand and are shaped like footballs. Within their tangy-sweet, gummy white flesh, each pod contains around 40 cacao beans that are bitter in taste and nothing like the chocolate we know and love. ​

It appears that the ancient Olmecs of southern Mexico were the first to dry and roast cocoa beans. Because they kept no written history, it’s hard to know exactly where, when, or why the Olmecs began processing cacao beans, but pots and vessels dating back to around 1500 B.C. have traces of theobromine, a stimulant compound found in chocolate. Archeologists believe that early recipes were for drinks or gruels that were likely very bitter and used for ceremony rather than pleasure.
After the Olmecs, the Mayans continued to use chocolate. Fortunately for historians, the Mayans kept written records, and through them we know that Mayan chocolate was thick and frothy. It often included chili peppers and honey. We know that cacao drinks were commonly drunk in everyday situations, and became part of the Mayan identity like wine is to the French, coffee to the Arab world, or craft beer to many locations today. Records indicate that many Mayan households drank chocolate with every meal.
But cacao wasn’t just a drink. Mayan written history indicates that chocolate drinks were incorporated into religious ceremonies, were used in celebrations, and helped finalize important transactions. These beverages were part of initiation rites for young men and celebrations marking the end of the Maya calendar year. In the early 12th century, chocolate was part of the dowry used to seal the marriage of a Mixtec ruler in the sacred Valley of Oaxaca.
The Aztecs continued the love of cacao beans, which they considered more valuable than gold. Although it’s likely that Spanish historians have exaggerated, they claimed that Montezuma drank fifty cups of chocolate each day, both for the energy it gave him, and as an aphrodisiac. It’s likely that Spanish conquistador Hernan Cortes was introduced to chocolate by Montezuma and in turn introduced it to the Spanish court of Philip II of Spain in 1544.
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A Drum from History

1/20/2019

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Two weekends ago my husband and I took a little trip to Santa Fe. We spent a very delightful morning wandering through the New Mexico History Museum.

New Mexico's History Museum has a lot of history, even without the exhibits it contains. It is housed in a building called The Palace of the Governors, which was built by Pedro de Peralta soon after the King of Spain appointed him to be the governor of a Spanish territory that covered most of the American Southwest. That was 1610. Governors appointed by Spain, Mexico, and America have used the building, and it has served many other functions besides governor's mansion and museum. It is the oldest continuously occupied public building in the United States.
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I went specifically to see the relatively new exhibit on New Mexicans who served during WWI, but I don't have much to report on that.

​What did impress me, though, was a snare drum that I hadn't noticed before.

This snare drum, the label indicated, was found in the Pecos River about a decade after the Battle of Glorieta Pass. 

PictureWillie, as I imagine him
Those of you who've read Valverde, the first book in my trilogy of Civil War novels set in New Mexico, will know that it has a Confederate Drummer Boy named Willie. Willie is a fictional character, but this is exactly what I think he looked like: small and dark eyed, with a pale, round face. The drum that he would have carried into the battle of Valverde and, if he were there, the Battle of Glorieta Pass, looks very much like the one that was found abandoned in the Pecos River.

I'm presently writing a first draft of Glorieta, the second book in the series, and I'd had other plans for Willie than for him to lose his drum in the Pecos River. However, sometimes real life interprets fiction. I just may have to have him lose his drum in the river somehow.   

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Valverde is available in paperback and ebook from Amazon. If you want more information on Valverde, or would like to buy a signed copy directly from the author, click here.

​
There is also a drummer boy in The Bent Reed, my civil war novel set in Gettysburg.

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The Continuing Saga of the amaryllis that could

1/14/2019

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On the last day of last year I posted a story about an amaryllis bulb that had started to grow while stick in the box. I didn't think it would amount to much, but I was impressed with how determined it was to become all it could be. You can read that blog entry and see a picture of that first, failed, flower here.
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That determined little bulb has surprised me. After I cut off the first, stunted blossom, the leaf part started to stand straight. It's turned green. And surprise of surprises, it has two more flower blossoms coming!

There's a big moral here for everyone: sometimes life is hard. Sometimes it can leave a person a little damaged. But perseverance - that quality now popularized as grit - can see you through.


I'll continue to post pictures of my miracle amaryllis. I'm hoping to follow its lead and make this year the year that I overcome a lot of obstacles, stand tall, and really bloom where I am planted. Here's wishing the same for you.
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Jennifer Bohnhoff is a middle school English teacher in rural New Mexico and the author of a number of novels for middle school and above. You can learn more about her books here.

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Manic Muffins

1/7/2019

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​Ever have manic mornings when you wish you could get something good, hot, and satisfying on the table quickly? I know I do. 

Having Manic Muffin Mix in your pantry might just help. Today I'll post the recipe for the mix and for basic muffins. On the first Monday of every month throughout 2019 I'll post a new recipe that uses the mix. That adds up to 12 different  muffins that I hope will take a little of the mania out of your mornings. 

Manic Muffin Mix

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9 cups flour
2 1/2 cups sugar
1 cup buttermilk blend
3 TBS baking powder
1 TBS baking soda
1 TBS salt
1 1/2 TBS cinnamon
1 1/2 tsp nutmeg

Mix all ingredients well and store in a sealable container.

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Everything in this recipe is a common pantry staple with the exception of buttermilk blend. I use Saco Pantry Cultured Buttermilk Blend, which is kept next to the yeasts and baking powders in my local grocery store. If you can't find this, or a similar product, substitute powdered milk and your muffins will turn out just fine.

Basic Manic Muffins

These are sweet and a little spicy. Making up a batch will make your kitchen smell wonderful. I recommend you put out butter and jelly to go on them, but my husband likes to split them and slather them with peanut butter.
​Preheat oven to 350. Put muffin papers in 12 standard-sized muffin cups, or grease cups with spray oil.
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Mix together in a large bowl. The batter should be slightly lumpy: 
2 eggs
1 1/2 tsp vanilla
1 cup water
1/2 cup oil
2 3/4 cup manic muffin mix.

Fill muffin cups 3/4 full. Bake for 18-20 minutes until the tops of the muffins are golden. 

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These muffins freeze well. If your family is small, I recommend putting single muffins in sandwich bags, then putting them all in a ziplock freezer bag so you can pull them out one at a time. Frozen muffins are ready to serve after being  reheated in the microwave on high for 30 seconds.
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Jennifer Bohnhoff writes fiction for middle schoolers and adults, but she has to eat, too. You can find out more about her at her website or Facebook page.
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Bloom as if your life depended on it

12/31/2018

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My Christmas miracle.
Some dear friends came to visit just before Christmas. They brought an amaryllis that was part of a kit: a bare bulb, a red planter can, and a disk of dehydrated soil, all sealed up in a box and ready to put together.

What none of us realized until we opened the box was that it had been kept in a place that was too warm. The plant had begun growing in the dark enclosure and the flower stem, when it met the lid of the box, turned downward seeking space. What we found were white nubs of leaves and 

a ghostly pale bud bending down. It was clear that this plant would never amount to much; it had been crippled by the box and was doomed from the moment it began its premature growth. Obviously the thing to do was to throw the bulb away. 
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But I didn't. I planted it anyway and set it in a sunny window. And on Christmas Day, defying everyone's predictions, it bloomed.

If I were the writer of feel-good stories for children, I would say that my little amaryllis saw the sun, and the flower bulb changed directions and stood up, proudly becoming the most beautiful of Christmas flowers. But this isn't the story of the Ugly Duckling. This story is more honest and more true.
The stunting that occurred in the box dealt irrevocable damage.This poor bulb didn't become much to look at. On New Year's Day the petals are already browning on the edges and the leaves, although a little greener, still haven't grown much. 

This is the message this amaryllis brings us: We can be irrecoverably damaged by this world, but in spite of all that is done to us we must bloom. We will not all become the most beautiful of blooms, but we can be the bravest.

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A Clear Creek Christmas

12/24/2018

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Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=12459168
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​The wind outside our little tent howled pitifully, sounding God-forsaken and destitute.  I wasn’t fooled.  Along with dry, sharp snow, that gale was throwing around plenty of gold dust. That’s why I’d laid down a claim among these desolate peaks. Rocky Mountains winds don’t howl so much as shout for joy. No land has been more God-blessed rich since God laid down manna in the wilderness. All a man has to do to prosper in this wilderness is listen with an attentive ear and open his eyes.

George Nelson, who held up the other side of our foursome, groaned. George is a big, meaty galoot, with broad hands that can rip apart rock and a back that can carry a hundred-weight without complaint. But he’s not big on brains. Without me, he’d have frozen, or starved, or been cheated out of his claim long ago.
Luther and Key slept between George and me , the four of us nesting like spoons in a drawer. It can be hard to sleep when one of us twitches in the throes of a nightmare or has the trots from some rancid bacon or undercooked potato, but sleeping like this keeps us from freezing. Out here, comfort is secondary to survival.

“Samuel? You awake?” George’s voice was somewhere between a whisper and a groan. I might not have heard it over the wind if I weren’t already listening for it.
“I am,” I answered. “Still an hour or such ‘til dawn. Need to roll over?” That’s what we did, turning as one when one side of us or the other got too cold. Right now I was facing out, my back warm against Key and the blankets tucked under my knees. George, with his back out, would be the first to feel the chill.

“I’m fine,” George said with a sigh that matched the wind and told me that he really wasn’t. “Just ruminating. This here’s Christmas Eve, ain’t it?”

“That it is,” I agreed. I let the conversation lie, waiting for George to tell me why that would matter in a place such as this, where the closest church is miles away, in Golden City.

“Samuel, what did your mother serve on Christmas when you were a child?”

Ah. So this wasn’t about going to church. The big baby was missing his mother and the comforts of holiday traditions. I salivated, thinking of the sumptuous meals of my childhood. “T’warn’t my mother made Christmas dinner. We’d all bundle up and take the sled to grandmother’s. Oh, Lordy, what a feast she prepared! She’d roast a turkey of uncommon size, and there’d mashed potatoes and turnips, and boiled onions, and dressed celery. And always mincemeat pie for dessert. How about you?”

“Roast pig, and applesauce, mashed sweet potatoes and pickles. And large pitchers of sweet cider,” George said. “My granny was there, too, but she was addled in the head by the time I come along. Couldn’t be trusted for anything beyond shelling peas.”

“Boiled goose with oyster sauce,” Luther pitched in. “And plum pudding when my Father hadn’t drunk away all the money.” I didn’t know Luther was awake until he spoke. Luther is thin as a rail, which is why he sleeps in the middle most nights. He’s all elbows and knees, and his words can be as sharp as his elbows. He didn’t often share much from his childhood, but what I’d heard was ugly and had turned him mean. But I understood Luther. If not for me, he would have been killed in a squabble over something of no account. My men need my leadership.

“You’re making my stomach pinch,” Key’s melodious voice chimed in irritably. “Go back to sleep, the lot of you.”

I chuckled. Key’s like a feisty little lap dog among a pack of mastiffs. He’s just a little slip of a lad, too young, even, to shave. When he sings, he sounds like a girl. Or, perhaps, an angel. But the thin arm he throws around me when we sleep is as strong as bailing wire. His manner can be just as steely. Key’s young, but he’s been through a lot that’s hardened him.

Key’s orphaned and alone in this world. He was working at a livery stable in Denver in exchange for one meal a day and the right to sleep in the hay. I happened past the stable and saw the stable owner, a man well known for his irascible nature, beating him him for being a lazy Irishman. Key’s name, I should tell you, is not really K-E-Y.  It’s C-I-A-N, and it’s pronounced “key in.” It’s Irish, but I don’t hold that against him. I am of a liberal mind when it comes to foreigners. Especially those who work hard and take hardship without complaint.
The beating clearly hurt, but Key was determined not to give the man the satisfaction of tears. I decided then and there that Key was the sort of fellow I could use in my company. I offered him a position in my growing company, signing him on as cook and general errand boy.  

“Since everyone’s awake, let’s roll over. Key, tell us about the Irish. What do they eat on Christmas?”

Key tensed, and I sympathized with him. His lineage sets him apart and marks him as a target for derision. But his accent itself marks him. “I canna speak for all the Irish. I left Ireland when I was but a wee lad. But mi Ma, she was a canny cook, and thrifty. She took whatever the other housewives passed by and made it a feast.”

“No special foods? On Christmas?” Luther’s voice cut sharply, derisively.
“We had special foods. Every Christmas Eve, we had oyster stew.”
“Oyster stew? I love oysters,“ George said. I smiled, glad that we’d just rolled over so that George wouldn’t drool on Luther.

“So do I,” Luther said earnestly.

“You’ve never had them as rich as mi Ma made.” Key’s voice quavered on the edge of tears.

Inspiration dawned on me as clear and bright as a prairie sunrise. “If I got a tin of oysters, could you make stew like your Ma used to make?” I asked.

Key belly-crawled halfway out of the blankets and rummaged through his rucksack until he pulled out a metal handle with a bull’s head and a wicked, curved knife at the end. The fact that I could see it made me realize that my dawning ideas weren’t the only dawn that had occurred. “Here’s me tin can opener!”
​
“And a fine one it is, too,” Luther said, grabbing it away and examining it closely.

“Stole it off an English tar in Boston Harbor,” Key said proudly.

“Oysters . . .” George gurgled dreamily.

“Oysters it is, then.” I threw back the blankets and pulled my feet into my shoes, pleased that I’d thought of how to make this holiday a good one for me and my men.

“And cream and butter. And a little bit of black pepper to crack over it!” Key shouted at my retreating back.
​
The tent was still deep in the shadow of a nearby ridge, but the peaks above and the valley below both gleamed golden in sunshine. I breathed in the cold, pine-tinged air and began the long trudge down to Golden City. As I passed into the sunshine the sparkle in the snow changed from silver to golden, but I knew that I’d already found my true goldmine: men who would follow me to the ends of the earth and back because I’d won their loyalty. With oysters.

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    ABout Jennifer Bohnhoff

    I am a former middle school teacher who loves travel and history, so it should come as no surprise that many of my books are middle grade historical novels set in beautiful or interesting places.  But not all of them.  I hope there's one title here that will speak to you personally and deeply.

    What I love most: that "ah hah" moment when a reader suddenly understands the connections between himself, the past, and the world around him.  Those moments are rarified, mountain-top experiences.



    Can't get enough of Jennifer Bohnhoff's blogs?  She's also on Mad About MG History.  

    ​
    Looking for more books for middle grade readers? Greg Pattridge hosts MMGM, where you can find loads of recommendations.

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