When I was a kid in Harrison, New York, a family tragedy crudely interrupted our happy household, and the two already quiet Hicks boys (my brother Steve and I) became even quieter. I can’t speak for Steve, but I know that for solace, I turned to books–both at home (I especially loved the $.50 Peanuts collections) and at school, where my teachers (I had two in first grade, because I was such a good reader I spent half my day in a second-grade class) all prioritized the importance of reading in their classrooms. But when summer came, and there were no books in the house I hadn’t already read, I discovered the Harrison Public Library. And it’s not too much of an exaggeration to say that it saved my life.

At the very least I can say that it shaped my life. The library, along with my teachers at Parsons Elementary (remember those SRA reading tests? I loved those), along with my parents’ patience with me when, day after day, I became so absorbed in my books that I literally didn’t hear them when they called me down for dinner or asked me a question, all made it possible for me to . . . no, not escape into another world–that wasn’t it, exactly–but enrich my life, and fuel my imagination, with other people’s stories. I read so much and for so long that my cousin Cheryl started calling me “The Professor.”  

And guess what? I became an English major, earned my PhD in Literature, and became . . . a professor. And then, even better, a writer.

All because I started reading at such a young age, as a way to stay quiet at home, not to bother anyone.

Yes, it’s possible I would have ended up as a teacher and writer anyway, but who knows? And besides, I have no complaints: it’s been a really good life. Because of all that reading, without anyone telling me what I should or shouldn’t read (before puberty I was reading the steamy romances of Sidney Sheldon, the horror of Stephen King, and the literary novels of Philip Roth), I became a curious, tolerant, openminded person who knows that everyone has a story to tell and that everyone’s story deserves a compassionate listener.

And it all started at the Harrison Public Library. The place outside my home where I felt completely at home.

When I was old enough to walk there by myself (about a mile each way, in a very safe town), I would go there and camp out, reading for hours until I started getting hungry or until the library closed. I did that several times, walking to the library and reading for hours, before one of the librarians tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I’d like to bring a book home.

I could take a book home? Seriously?

She walked me to the big desk, gave me a library card, and I took one book home that day. But the next time I came to the library, I brought my red wagon. I don’t remember how many books I put into that wagon, but as I recall, I had enough reading to last me the rest of the summer.

This, then, is the story of my new children’s book, The Magic Ticket. (The “magic ticket” of the story is the boy’s library card.)

It took me a long time to write it, even though it’s the essential story of my life. I guess I’ve been avoiding it, afraid of evoking such a sad moment in my family’s history. But writing it as a children’s story, using the “Once upon a time . . . . Then, one day . . .” fairy-tale structure, gave me the freedom to see my childhood as not quite the downer I sometimes remember it as. In fact, even in the midst of that sad time in my life, there was joy. And there was love. There was food to eat and friends at school and parents who loved me and a brother who was my idol.

And there were books to read. So many lives being led. So many adventures. So many stories.

I was sad, yes. But every time I read a book, I felt less alone.

Today I saw a woman in downtown Scranton walking to the majestic Albright Library wearing a tee shirt that said, Raised by Libraries. While that’s not quite true for me–I was raised by the most loving parents a person could ask for–the Harrison Public Library certainly helped–that tee shirt, that phrase, resonated with me. I may not have been raised by libraries, but I find sanctuary there, still. And I still get that feeling, even now in my sixties, every time I walk into one–the Boulder Library in Boulder, Colorado. Centennial Park Library in Greeley, Colorado; Children’s Library in Scranton, PA; Osterhout Library in Wilkes-Barre, PA; Pack Memorial Library in Asheville, North Carolina.

Home.

 

                                                                                                          [Illustrations by Kateri Kramer.]

 

 

 

 

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