People do a lot of griping about winter, especially those of us who see snow seven months of the year (or more), but a snowfall in the woods is an undeniably beautiful thing. Once Upon a Northern Night is the story of a snowfall, a not unfamiliar subject in children’s picture books, nor indeed, adult literature ( Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost, etc.,) What distinguishes Once Upon a Northern Night from other publications of this frosty genre is the aura of enchantment. If books have souls, then Once Upon a Northern Night is an old soul. Like Pendziwol’s words, Isabelle Arsenault’s luminous illustrations belong to a bygone era of limited palettes and charmingly stylized imagery. The gentle poetry of Jean Pendziwol has the lilt and reverence of an old bedtime story, the kind without irony or guile. After several readings, I am still amazed that this glorious book has been in existence for a mere few months, not fifty years.
Oddly out of time, and yet timeless, Once Upon a Northern Night is a breathsucker, a gust of cold winter air awakening the senses. Once Upon a Northern Night is a such a book. On rare occasions, a picture book comes my way that is so evocative, it feels like a lost memory from childhood, revealing itself page after page.
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