Captive time

My childhood took on new meaning the day I discovered the public library had an entire section of horse books, neatly arranged on four consecutive shelves. Clearly, someone had placed them there just for me.

I was already a fan of our school library. I had met some wonderful authors there, like Marguerite Henry, a woman I could always count on for a good horse story — “Misty of Chincoteague,” “King of the Wind,” “Justin Morgan Had a Horse,” “Sea Star” and a host of others. I gazed for hours at the illustrations by Wesley Dennis, studying every detail. I tried to draw horses the way he did, and though I never succeeded, his pictures made me think about shapes and colors and the way things fit together.

But the public library was something new. It offered books in the wild, with no educators curating my experience or shepherding me toward my “section.” I could even check out more than two books at a time. I was hooked.

I started on the top shelf, left side, and worked my way through most of those horse books over the years. I read all the Black Stallion stories, Robert Farley imagining and re-imagining the intertwined fates of an Arabian horse and a 1940s-era boy from New York. I also found additional books by Beverly Cleary and Jim Kjelgaard, more than we had at the school library. Thanks to those writers, I grew up feeling a distinct kinship with motorcycle-driving mice and brave Irish setters. I took it for granted that all those adventures had been placed on the page just for me.

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