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I remember only one book at home during the earlier years of the Great Depression. It was about pirates and had large glossy pages—a Christmas present, probably from a grandmother. As there were four of us in a small bedroom with bunk beds, there was no real place to keep it; so I squirreled it away in a small living room closet and took it out on occasion.

I lived out on San Juan Ave., but soon got a bicycle for my birthday—and my first real job, part-time at the local library. In the months ahead I read all the Oz books (and believe me there were plenty) all the Edgar rice Burroughs “Tarzan” books and all the Zane Grey western novels.

The following 80-or-so years moved quickly and among other things swallowed up the work of Theodor Giesel.