My life in the stacks began in the 1930s and 1940s when I was growing up in Westfield, New Jersey. As soon as I learned to read, I seldom had my nose out of a book. That was when I discovered the Westfield Public Library. I used to ride my bike down the hill to the little brick library every Saturday morning. The Children's Room, which smelled of steam heat and library paste, was in the dark and dreary basement. I piled the books in my bike basket but I could never wait until I got home to start reading. On my way, I'd stop at a beautiful copper beech tree, climb the tree and perch like a bird to spend the next hour reading.

When I was into a book, I traveled to new worlds (and out of this one). I remember my mother saying, "Don't try to get Judy's attention when she is reading. She won't even hear you."

One day I was reading by my bedroom window on the second floor of our house. I was so caught up in my book that I didn't see my father on a ladder painting the trim on my open window. And he didn't see me. Without warning, he cleared his throat...loudly. I looked up, saw a man at my window and let out a scream. The scream startled my father so that he wobbled backwards on his ladder, reached out and grabbed the window sill just in time. Whew!