How I loved these books…. Just looking at the covers fills me with happy memories.
In fact, my earliest desire to write a book began with Nancy Drew.
I was around seven years old when my mother first placed her own childhood copy of Caroline Keene’s “The Secret of the Old Clock” into my eager hands. From that moment on I was hooked – and hungry for more.
But as a child of the 1970’s, living several miles outside town in the remote Catskills of upstate NY, I had little access to libraries or book stores.
Those were the days before the Internet, before cable TV, before cell phones.
And my parents were not of the attentive or doting variety, they were too busy struggling to pay bills and struggling to stay married – so I spent a lot of time alone, with nothing but acres of woodland and my own imagination to keep me company.
It was a big deal when my parents occasionally announced a shopping trip to the Middletown Mall. It was an hour’s drive down Route 17 and in 1973, that was an epic journey seldom contemplated. For me it meant even more, because on every trip, my parents would direct deposit me to the bookstore, where I stayed quite happy amongst all the books while they conducted whatever shopping had brought them to the Mall.
But money was tight. The $2.95 price tag was a dear price to pay and I felt so lucky that my Dad promised to buy me even one. I know that doesn’t sound exorbitant these days, but when you put it in terms of inflation – $2.95 in 1970 is the equivalent of $18.15 in 2016.
One of my most vivid memories is the day my Dad finished his shopping early and arrived at the book store to find me in torment. I had narrowed my choice down to just two Nancy Drew books – an incredible feat for my ten year old self – but for some reason, I couldn’t decide which one to choose.
On that day, and never again, my Dad bought me both books. I was so overjoyed that I clutched them to my chest for the whole ride home. It’s hard to describe the happiness I felt, but suffice it to say, that over 40 years later, the little girl who lives inside me still remembers.
What is remembered, lives.