Each fall, as award season heats up and the Interwebs start buzzing with kid-book love, we all should revisit Vicky Smith’s “Reader, Know Thyself.” Originally posted at Heavy Medal in September 2013, Vicky's essay encourages readers to understand and respect their genre preferences in the context of award consideration: “Are you, as a friend of mine is, 'allergic to talking animals'? Do you see a map of a fantasy kingdom and shut the book right away? Do you notice that the narrator is relating the story in the present tense and begin to gag? Do you see long paragraphs and begin to glaze over?”

This is chapter-book territory that Vicky is referencing, but the same holds true for picture books. Every person who has served on the Real Caldecott Committee has his or her own personal preferences, but as Vicky says, one must get past those aversions and look at each book for what it is. That’s just part of the charge. But to be honest, I find it far more difficult to reconcile hugely positive feelings for a book. When one connects emotionally to a book, it is really hard to remain objective. In situations like this, there’s a good chance that one can miss issues with the book (*cough cough* Wonder *cough cough*). That hurts one’s ability to discuss the title in question — and to speak to concerns from other committee members.

So here’s where I expose a few skeletons in my closet: first, I gravitate toward picture-book biographies. If you were to look upon the copious bookshelves at my house, you’d likely recommend that we dedicate an entire room of shelving to picture-book biographies. Second: I love Virginia Lee Burton. I grew up reading Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel and The Little House. There’s something deeply comforting to me about the way Burton shows Mary Anne chomping away large chunks of earth, as well as the round shapes in The Little House. The white space, the book design, those long shots of bustling crowds — mix it all together and it's like the monographic version of a bowl of mac and cheese.

Naturally, the first time I saw Big Machines: The Story of Virginia Lee Burton, written by Sherri Duskey Rinker and illustrated by John Rocco, I was over-the-moon in love. But how much of it was due to my own predisposition to the genre and subject matter, and how much was due to the distinguished features of the book itself? (And how much of it was due to the hand-lettering in the title and author displays? Did I mention just how much of a sucker I am for hand-lettering? Look at that cover. Swoon!)

Anyway, Rinker’s adulatory text breathes life into Burton the person: “This is Virginia Lee, but everyone in seaside Folly Cove simply calls her Jinnee.” Rinker hooks child readers by showing Burton’s propensity for drawing, especially those titular contraptions, for her sons Aris and Michael. After all, what kid wouldn’t love a mom who can draw kick-ass trains, steam shovels, and snowplows?

But while the text is strong, Rocco’s illustrations take this title to another level. Rocco so thoroughly inhabits Jinnee’s world that it’s downright spooky. From the endpapers, which feature what appears to be stamps of the machines circling a familiar-looking little house, to that aforementioned house overlooking the sea on the book’s first spread, to the flowers on Burton's dress (the same as the ones on the cover of The Little House), it’s like Rocco is channeling her ghost. And the visual story flows in distinctly Burton-esque ways, with both the shape of the text and pictures zigging and zagging across the page. Plentiful white space makes this rather text-heavy story feel much shorter and lighter than it really is — another hallmark of Jinnee’s books.

Rocco seamlessly incorporates Burton’s preliminary sketches by showing Jinnee in the act of creation. For example, on one spread she works on Choo Choo the train. Or, more accurately, five Jinnees fill in the train’s details, much to Aris’s delight: “With each sweep, Choo Choo comes more to life.”

But I worry about a biography that fails to show any of the subject’s faults. Too often our children are presented with incomplete pictures of the humans they read about (or see on TV or online) and, therefore, are unable to see the humanity of the person profiled. And make no mistake: this is an unabashed homage. Now, I’m not saying that Rinker should have dug up dirt on Burton, but if I were on the Real Committee, you can bet your britches I would be going a bit more in-depth to see what was left out. And that brings me to another issue with Big Machines: the back matter — or rather, the lack thereof. When I was on the Sibert committee (RFS15 represent!), one of the most important things I learned was that in an informational book, back matter matters. All we get here is an author’s note (which doesn’t really add that much, to be honest) and a very small-print note on the verso page (where no one looks) that acts as a de facto list of works cited. This really isn’t good enough for a kid who wants to learn more.

Is this a fatal flaw, akin to Mary Anne being stuck in the basement after digging the cellar of the Popperville Town Hall? Or will the Real Committee choose to smile on Rocco’s work “in a way that isn’t mean at all,” like Henry B. Swap at the end of Mike Mulligan? Tell us what you think in the comments!

Read the Horn Book Magazine review of Big Machines.