Until I moved away from home to start college, the nearest bookstore was more than 50 miles away at a shopping mall that, even if it was still standing today, couldn’t compete with a WalMart. I can still picture that bookstore, picture myself walking through the door, remembering the elation at having six dollars in my pocket when we visited there. Probably enough for two books.
It wasn’t a big bookstore, but it was better than the offering of V.C. Andrews paperbacks at the local discount department store by a country mile. It was full of books, and only books. No furry-topped pencils, or stationary, or lap desks. The selection of books that appealed to little girls – typical little girls or, like me, atypical – was laughable compared to today’s embarrassment of riches. But for me, it was not unlike the field of poppies that Dorothy and her friends encounter on the way to Oz.
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