Sid Fleischman died in March this year. I just found out, and I am mourning. I loved his books when I was ten. Still do. He had a way with language that delighted me when I was young and awes me now as I write my own books. He wrote like a magician, which he was: with plot twists and surprises that felt like rabbits pulled out of hats and Houdini-style escapes. His characters were my friends. When I signed up for the summer SCBWI conference in L.A. last year, it was largely because Sid was supposed to be there. When he canceled last minute, I was seriously bummed. Most people are familiar with Fleischman's Newbery-winning book The Whipping Boy . Unfortunately, few seem know the fabulous Jim Ugly, or Ghost in the Noonday Sun, or Humbug Mountain. My ultimate favorite Sid Fleishman story is one that has been out of print for years, which I consider a horrible crime: it's called Jingo Django , and I've got a copy that I'll be giving away this month. Jingo has a pe