Let’s hear it for the little old ladies, who smell so nice and cook so well and spin their tales of long experience on planet Earth. Kalch gives them a 21-gun salute in a curiously impassive voice, but one that can get sly quickly: “they never miss an opportunity to celebrate…anything! Who knows when they’ll get the chance again!” The text gets considerable souping-up when paired with her fruity illustrations of rubbery-faced old ladies doing the essential, which is getting on with their lives with a suitable measure of brio. They are out and about, gathering local news like accomplished espionage agents, enjoying an interlude with a secret admirer (in this case he’s crawling through the window with a flower in hand) and most of all radiating a benign wisdom, a gaggle of graybeards without the facial hair. And though Kalch tips her hat to them, she doesn’t mind sticking the occasional elbow in their delicate ribs: “Little old ladies often don’t sleep well at night, but they make up for it during the day.” (Picture book. 3-5)
