Yesterday I shared a dream with a friend who was in it, and revealed that the end of it likely came from the key challenge in L. Frank Baum’s storybook Ozma of Oz. She hadn’t realized there were more Oz books (Baum wrote thirteen more after The Wizard; even more were written by several authors after his death) and through the magic of technology she immediately downloaded the audio version of this one. I’m grateful for her enthusiasm to escape into it, which inspired me to pull my copy off the vintage book shelf and also enjoy it for my bedtime story.

I got a hundred pages in pretty quickly last night, and then turned out the lights. It was easy enough to finish it in increments today, first with morning coffee as I ran a sprinkler and enjoyed the quiet morning in the yarden, and later in the shade after work. The feel of this old book, with its soft yellowed paper and faded smell, add poignance to my third or fourth reading of it. Originally published in 1907, this may well be a first edition as there’s no subsequent information in the front matter. I’ve had it almost sixty years. Despite some dated references, it feels surprisingly relevant.

I’m grateful to have it, to have been able to pull it off a shelf in my bedroom, where it rests alongside The Wizard of Oz, a complete Dr. Doolittle series, most of the Little Women books, and numerous other old and fragile paper and board storybooks. I keep them out of love and respect, because they are part of who I am, and besides who else would want them? Perhaps they’ll go to the dump when I die, but not until then. In the complicated life of an adult, in these complicated times, I’m newly inspired to turn to these classic storybooks for an occasional quick and happy respite.