When my best friend and I were young, we haunted the library even though Mrs. Brown, the librarian, was one grumpy old lady. To be fair, she had thousands of books she manually checked out and in, then had to shelve them all by herself. But we were kids. She scared us to death.
We read practically everything in the children's section (this was a small town library in years long gone) and asked Mrs. Brown if she would pick out some adult books we could read (no middle grade/young adult categories then). Yes, we were currying favor with her. But children weren't allowed in the adult section back then. We had no choice.
Anyway, the first things she gave us to read were the gentle romances of Grace Livingston Hill. Maybe you know her. Christian romances. Heroine didn't smoke, drink or -- heaven forbid -- wear makeup. This last was pretty radical even in our day. But we went through them fast, and she started us on some more authors like Emily Loring and others I can't remember. But she kept giving us Grace's books again. And again. And again. When she was finally too busy one day to pick some out for us, she told us to look for our own books. I think it was the happiest day of our lives. Never again, I told myself, will I hear about Grace Livingston Hill.
Well, years later, a friend was recommending books to me. Guess who was at the top of her list? Yep. Old Grace herself.
And today, I look at Kindle's free selections and guess who has a book there. You know it.
Will this woman dog my footsteps forever?