My Most Unforgettable Read
THE SUMMER I REMEMBER AS MAGICAL wasn’t defined by sleepaway camp, a teenage crush under a boardwalk, or even my girls’ first steps in the ocean. My magical summer was in 1978. That was the year I read A Wrinkle in Time, by Madeleine L’Engle.
I was 11, on the cusp of sixth grade. MTV didn’t exist yet, so I spent my days at the pool, my nights in a book. Sadly, there’s never again been a time when I’ve read with such feverish abandon. (“Elizabeth, turn off that light and go to sleep!”) By middle school, reading would be lost to me as a pastime. Friends and boys, TV and music, sports—then serious study and work—would take its place for years.
But that summer, I…