The swing hung from the branch of a willow tree split in two by lightening. It was my quiet place. Under its shade I observed the world, contemplated life and read more books than I can count. The books came from a wonderful city library with circular stair cases and a heady book-smell, a school library with a librarian that knew her students, and as gifts from my parents. In those days of five TV channels and no air conditioning, being outside with a book was the best way to spend a summer day.

That still-remembered school librarian, Miss Moruski, suggested a friend and I pick our books together so we could trade mid-week or we would run out of books to read. She told my mother she didn’t know what to do because she thought I’d read all the books in the library. There are books in every room…