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Maxie
A woman who lives alone with her cat and parakeet discovers the entire neighborhood depends on her
- GenresPicture BooksChildrens
33 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1970
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Displaying 1 - 11 of 11 reviews
April 23, 2026
10/10+
There are books that teach, and there are books that reveal—that lift a corner of the ordinary world and let you glimpse the shining machinery underneath. Maxie is one of those, and reading it feels like being let in on a secret so simple and so enormous that it’s almost dizzying.
Maxie herself is, on the surface, the most unremarkable of people: an elderly woman in a small city apartment, living quietly among her pets and her habits. Her days are made of repetition—curtains opened, meals prepared, small tasks completed in the same order, at the same times. As a reader, it is easy at first to accept her own quiet judgment of this life: that it is small, contained, perhaps even negligible.
And then—this is the moment that feels like magic—Maxie decides it is negligible. She stays in bed. She steps out of the pattern.
What follows is so gentle it might almost be missed, and yet it is the heart of the book. The world does not go on unchanged. It wobbles. The milkman pauses. Neighbours notice. A rhythm has been broken, and suddenly the air is full of questions. Where is Maxie?
And with that question, everything opens.
Because what Maxie thought was nothing—those tiny, repeated gestures, those habits she barely valued—turns out to be something radiant. Her life has been threaded into the lives of others all along. Not dramatically, not in ways that would ever call attention to themselves, but in a way that is constant and real and—this is the part that feels almost like a discovery—necessary.
It’s such a thrilling idea. Not the grand, declarative kind of meaning we’re taught to look for, but something far more intimate: that simply being present, being part of the daily fabric of a place, matters. That the ordinary is not empty—it is alive with connection. The book doesn’t argue this; it reveals it, quietly, unmistakably, and with a kind of trust that the reader will feel its truth.
The illustrations by Emily Arnold McCully deepen that sense of revelation. They attend to the smallness of things—the arrangement of a room, the view from a window, the contained world of Maxie’s apartment—and in doing so, they make that smallness feel complete rather than diminished. Nothing is exaggerated, and because of that, everything feels real enough to matter.
Only after sitting with the book on its own terms do I realize why it has stayed with me so vividly. I read Maxie with my daughter when she was 5, 6, ... —over and over and over again, as children insist when something has truly caught hold of them. From the very first reading, she was enchanted. She didn’t simply enjoy it; she returned to it, drawn back by something she could feel but not yet name.
And I began to see that what had caught her heart was the very thing the book reveals so gently. Each time we reached the moment where Maxie stays in bed and the world begins to tilt, there was a quiet anticipation between us—as if we both knew that something important was about to be shown again. She understood it instinctively, as children do: that people matter simply by being there, by being part of the rhythm of things.
Reading beside her, I felt that same realization unfold in a different register—more conscious, perhaps, but no less full of wonder. It is rare to share a book that speaks so completely to both child and adult at once, without changing its voice for either. Maxie does exactly that. It meets the child in delight and the adult in recognition, and somehow those two responses become the same.
By the end, when Maxie returns to her life, nothing has changed—and everything has. The same actions, the same rooms, the same quiet patterns—but now they are illuminated. And each time we closed the book, I was left with that same bright, steady feeling: that the world is held together by threads we rarely see, and that even the most ordinary life may be quietly, invisibly essential.
There are books that teach, and there are books that reveal—that lift a corner of the ordinary world and let you glimpse the shining machinery underneath. Maxie is one of those, and reading it feels like being let in on a secret so simple and so enormous that it’s almost dizzying.
Maxie herself is, on the surface, the most unremarkable of people: an elderly woman in a small city apartment, living quietly among her pets and her habits. Her days are made of repetition—curtains opened, meals prepared, small tasks completed in the same order, at the same times. As a reader, it is easy at first to accept her own quiet judgment of this life: that it is small, contained, perhaps even negligible.
And then—this is the moment that feels like magic—Maxie decides it is negligible. She stays in bed. She steps out of the pattern.
What follows is so gentle it might almost be missed, and yet it is the heart of the book. The world does not go on unchanged. It wobbles. The milkman pauses. Neighbours notice. A rhythm has been broken, and suddenly the air is full of questions. Where is Maxie?
And with that question, everything opens.
Because what Maxie thought was nothing—those tiny, repeated gestures, those habits she barely valued—turns out to be something radiant. Her life has been threaded into the lives of others all along. Not dramatically, not in ways that would ever call attention to themselves, but in a way that is constant and real and—this is the part that feels almost like a discovery—necessary.
It’s such a thrilling idea. Not the grand, declarative kind of meaning we’re taught to look for, but something far more intimate: that simply being present, being part of the daily fabric of a place, matters. That the ordinary is not empty—it is alive with connection. The book doesn’t argue this; it reveals it, quietly, unmistakably, and with a kind of trust that the reader will feel its truth.
The illustrations by Emily Arnold McCully deepen that sense of revelation. They attend to the smallness of things—the arrangement of a room, the view from a window, the contained world of Maxie’s apartment—and in doing so, they make that smallness feel complete rather than diminished. Nothing is exaggerated, and because of that, everything feels real enough to matter.
Only after sitting with the book on its own terms do I realize why it has stayed with me so vividly. I read Maxie with my daughter when she was 5, 6, ... —over and over and over again, as children insist when something has truly caught hold of them. From the very first reading, she was enchanted. She didn’t simply enjoy it; she returned to it, drawn back by something she could feel but not yet name.
And I began to see that what had caught her heart was the very thing the book reveals so gently. Each time we reached the moment where Maxie stays in bed and the world begins to tilt, there was a quiet anticipation between us—as if we both knew that something important was about to be shown again. She understood it instinctively, as children do: that people matter simply by being there, by being part of the rhythm of things.
Reading beside her, I felt that same realization unfold in a different register—more conscious, perhaps, but no less full of wonder. It is rare to share a book that speaks so completely to both child and adult at once, without changing its voice for either. Maxie does exactly that. It meets the child in delight and the adult in recognition, and somehow those two responses become the same.
By the end, when Maxie returns to her life, nothing has changed—and everything has. The same actions, the same rooms, the same quiet patterns—but now they are illuminated. And each time we closed the book, I was left with that same bright, steady feeling: that the world is held together by threads we rarely see, and that even the most ordinary life may be quietly, invisibly essential.
July 12, 2017
A solitary old woman living in an apartment follows a strict routine until she starts asking herself why she even bothers. When she fails to get out of bed one day, her neighbors all become concerned and investigate.
Illustrations by Emily A. McCully, who I suspect is the same person as Emily Arnold McCully.
This is a realistic portrayal of the loneliness and isolation that often afflict retired or homebound individuals who don't have family or hobbies to give meaning to their days. When Maxie's neighbors realize how she feels, they make an effort to connect with her. And that's nice! But I did think Maxie could have made an effort, too. She did not try to make friends, or find activities that would interest her.
My first "real" (i.e. non-babysitting) job at 14 was helping seniors in their homes. Those folks were much worse off than Maxie. Maxie seems mentally sound and is able to go out on her own if she wants to. The people I assisted were trapped, often unable to get out even with help. Frances, for instance -- the widow of a WWII veteran, no family, only her long-dead husband's meager pension to live on. She lived in a tiny, decrepit flat, above a video rental. The stairs were narrow and rickety, and she couldn't move without a walker, which meant she couldn't leave the apartment. Ever. In the year I knew her the only time she left was when the EMTs took her away on a stretcher to die in the hospital. The rest of the time... I don't know what she did. She had an old cat, and a fern in a hanging pot. An ancient radio, maybe she listened to that all day. Her stove was the old gas type where you have to open the bottom and light the pilot before you can turn it on, so she couldn't cook. I came once a week to clean and water the fern and get groceries (cat food and whatever else I could get for $5), and then cooked things and put them in the fridge for her to live on during the week. There was no microwave so I guess she ate them cold. Did she really like pies or did she just ask for them because they're good cold? It's two decades too late for me to ask her, or to find out if anyone took care of her cat.
See, Maxie, things could be a lot worse! Stop being such a grump and smile at your neighbors. Frances didn't even have neighbors. And what's with lying down to die when you have a cat depending on you? That's the problem with old people these days, no sense or responsibility, no initiative...
Illustrations by Emily A. McCully, who I suspect is the same person as Emily Arnold McCully.
This is a realistic portrayal of the loneliness and isolation that often afflict retired or homebound individuals who don't have family or hobbies to give meaning to their days. When Maxie's neighbors realize how she feels, they make an effort to connect with her. And that's nice! But I did think Maxie could have made an effort, too. She did not try to make friends, or find activities that would interest her.
My first "real" (i.e. non-babysitting) job at 14 was helping seniors in their homes. Those folks were much worse off than Maxie. Maxie seems mentally sound and is able to go out on her own if she wants to. The people I assisted were trapped, often unable to get out even with help. Frances, for instance -- the widow of a WWII veteran, no family, only her long-dead husband's meager pension to live on. She lived in a tiny, decrepit flat, above a video rental. The stairs were narrow and rickety, and she couldn't move without a walker, which meant she couldn't leave the apartment. Ever. In the year I knew her the only time she left was when the EMTs took her away on a stretcher to die in the hospital. The rest of the time... I don't know what she did. She had an old cat, and a fern in a hanging pot. An ancient radio, maybe she listened to that all day. Her stove was the old gas type where you have to open the bottom and light the pilot before you can turn it on, so she couldn't cook. I came once a week to clean and water the fern and get groceries (cat food and whatever else I could get for $5), and then cooked things and put them in the fridge for her to live on during the week. There was no microwave so I guess she ate them cold. Did she really like pies or did she just ask for them because they're good cold? It's two decades too late for me to ask her, or to find out if anyone took care of her cat.
See, Maxie, things could be a lot worse! Stop being such a grump and smile at your neighbors. Frances didn't even have neighbors. And what's with lying down to die when you have a cat depending on you? That's the problem with old people these days, no sense or responsibility, no initiative...
October 18, 2020
Yes, the isolation and uneventful routine contribute to Maxie's depression, but I think we're mixing cause and effect. Moreover, being needed is insufficient... she also needs, and deserves, friendship, and I hope these neighbors drop in for a chat or a game of cards at least weekly.
(And yes, I do know whereof I speak, and no, I don't want to explain.)
(And yes, I do know whereof I speak, and no, I don't want to explain.)
January 1, 2020
Love this book from my childhood. I interpret it as addressing depression in the elderly. Maxie feels that her life is monotonous, lonely and boring. Only when she realizes how many people her existence affects on a daily basis does she start feeling better about herself.
December 18, 2023
Love this perfect condition kid’s book from 1970 I found in a little library near our house . Great story of how we are all literally connected in a neighborhood. Love the main character was allowed to be in her housecoat and slippers the entire story lol
February 24, 2018
another favorite children's bok
June 8, 2020
One of my favorites as a child. Still have it.
December 2, 2023
This is a worthy story, but it's probably a little gloomy for a young child.
February 25, 2026
a friend recommended this to me because it reminded them of the movie It's a Wonderful life and honestly it's pretty damn close. however I think it's sadder than the movie.
August 30, 2011
A favorite from my childhood.
May 18, 2014
a wonderful picture book about the importance of the individual and the neighborhood
Displaying 1 - 11 of 11 reviews