THE FIFTH PAGE

Soon, though it seemed like forever, I walked out the first-grade door and into the third. Armed with my newfound vision, I found the prescribed vitamins and the Royal Canadian Exercise Program petty nuisances. I had found my calling; I was reading. To hell with vitamins, my true nutritional needs were snatched from the refrigerator between chapters. The best exercise I could muster was hefting shopping bags crammed with books from the library and big, faraway city newspapers from wealthy neighbors.

There were only two authors whose work embodied all that I wanted out of reading. They were named Franklin W. Dixon and Carolyn Keene, creators of the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew. All the days and nights of my life since I read the first Hardy Boy book have been employed in my quest for books that satisfy my reading needs as well as these mystery series. They gave me youthful detectives, the offspring of successful detectives and lawyers; exotic settings, gothic trappings, cool vehicles to run around in, resourceful chums, and plots that kept the pages turning against all odds.

Was it because these were early, formative reading experiences that the imprinting was done? Or had the authors found a fail-proof formula? Hooked forever, and perhaps ruined, my subsequent life has been no more than a search for the satisfactions of their adventures.