I made many trips to the beach as a child, but this story is not about that. This story is about a book I wrote in third grade. I found that book in my little house in Virginia during my last trip down there. I had written it with the most loving care imaginable. My manuscript printing is meticulously neat. The illustrations, of two mice heading for a beach vacation, are filled with loving detail. The book itself, sitting on that shelf for half a century, is somewhat worse for wear, in part because of visits from real mice.

When I was writing this story, our teacher taught us about writing dialogue: where to put the commas and the quotations and the “said Harry the Mouse”-es. I was captivated. On one page I took bold poetic license, and had Harry say, quote: “C’mon, Barry!” My teacher put a gentle curlicue over the “C’mon” and wrote underneath it, “Come on.” I was not impressed, but neither did I argue.

The day came for us to share our books with the class, and I was beyond excited. Wretchedness and despair struck when, right before my turn, I realized that I had taken my book home the night before to share with my family, and had forgotten to bring it back. I knew how things went by that time: the teacher would say that I could read my book to the class the next day, but by then the moment would have passed, and anyway, she would probably forget. And I, wearing my second-favorite dress and clutching my precious book, would be too shy to ask.

So, somehow, I wrangled permission to go the headmaster’s office and call home. I called, and called, and called. My father was out delivering eggs and my mother was evidently out on errands, because nobody answered. After I had made many, many attempts, the secretary suggested gently that my parents were not at home, and perhaps I could share my book with my class tomorrow. I began to howl, and she let me keep calling.

Now, in those days, we had party lines on the telephone. For those younger than dirt, that means that multiple households were on the same line, and each family had a separate ring pattern. Ours was one long, and one neighbor’s was two shorts. Now, the neighbor of the two short rings was at home that day, and had obviously been treated to the marathon of one-long rings. Eventually, she picked up the phone.

“Hello,” she said. “I believe the Jerveys are out. Is there anything I can do?”

This kind lady went to my house, found my book, and brought it to school. I dried my tears, shared my book with the class after lunch, and have been known to tell the story a time or two over the years.