Those books always made me wish for an adventure in a real treehouse, which our small Japanese maple would not support. What child could resist a free, mini pepperoni pizza?Ī series that I zipped through one year happened to be Magic Tree House, my imagination vividly carrying me along with Jack and Annie on their adventures with Merlin and Morgan le Fay.
(The library limit is sadly now 10.) I would have taken every book that piqued my interest, but participating in the annual summer reading challenge always sweetened the deal. I was the kid who wobbled out of the library with at least 20 books quivering under her chin, arms barely long enough to hold the stack. It enveloped me in an enticing cloud and begged me to meander up and down the aisles, running my fingers along the spines until a title caught my fancy.
Few things were as thrilling as walking through those air-conditioned doors into the smell of old, probably germ-filled, plastic-covered books.
Childhood summers usually meant a few sure things: Trips to the pool, a vacation by the beach (if one was lucky or close by), playing outside until the porch light came on, and, of course, trips to the library.
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