“About 20 years ago, I had an old guy come in here. He'd been living out here for many years and said he was looking for a book he'd had when he was a kid, so I sent him back to where the boys' books are. Anyhow, about 15 minutes later, he's holding a book in his hand, and he's shaking. He not only found the book, he found his name in it, when he was 9 years old. Can you believe that? He found his own copy, right on the shelf. The guy was actually crying. He was 80 years old or something, and tears were rolling down his cheeks.” (Bob Weinstein, owner of the Book Baron, Anaheim, Calif., in a wistful Los Angeles Times piece about his bookshop's imminent closing.)
Evelyn Sibley Lampman, wife to a reporter, touched my life and stoked the coals of my imagination. The only place a talking stegosaurus can live is between the covers of a book. Evelyn—I feel comfortable calling anyone who leaves their fingerprints all over my brain by their first name—died in 1980. Pity. I’d like to thank her for the adventure.