Last post left me standing in the middle of the Claremore Public Library, age 12, in a shock of rapture.

The nice lady librarian typed up a temporary library card and told me I could only have one book the first time. She would be a big part of my life until I left for college and I still remember her face, but I never knew her name.

My mother was waiting, so I quickly picked up a book. It was the last time I had to rush; afterward she dropped me off, did all her shopping before picking me up, and I could be sure of an unhurried hour and all the books I could carry.

Readers today are contemptuous of Tom Swift and his kind, and with good reason. I had loved those books up to my first day in the library because they were all I had. They had filled lots of hours with lots of entertainment, and had opened me up to worlds beyond the farm.

Now, I took home Star Man’s Son by Andre Norton, and things would never be the same. Here was a real writer; she had something to say, and she said it with grace and style. Ultimately, I would find Heinlein, Zelazny, Dickson, Le Guin, and hundreds of others beyond science fiction. But Norton was the first and she taught me how to write. Fifty-five years later I still hear the faint echo of her style in my writing.

Forty years later, the school where I was teaching had a special day in celebration of reading. My friend Crystal invited several of us to talk to her class about our early reading habits.

I went to the local library here in California and found an original copy of Star Man’s Son still on the shelf. Thank God for libraries that never throw anything away. When my turn came, I was able to hold it up and say, “Here is the first book I ever checked out.” Then I could hold up copies of Jandrax and A Fond Farewell to Dying and say, “And here are the books I’ve written, because long ago I learned to love to read.”