Enid

I must have been 15 when my godfather approached me for books for a friend's daughter. By then I'd developed a sharp possessiveness toward my library.

But he was the kind of man who treated books like a spendthrift treats money, reading one over the course of a few days and, once complete, leaving it with creased spine where visitors like me would find and take it away.

"I read it already," he'd say with a dismissive flip of the wrist. "Someone else can read it now."

So how could I say no to parting with mine? I dug through boxes of $20 hardcover Enid Blytons snagged in monthly trips to R.I.K., plucked out three of my favourites, well kept, and handed them over.

Sometimes I think about those books and the ones still boxed somewhere, testaments to my nerdy childhood, August vacations spent inside inhaling books. I wonder if I'll be able to pass them along to my children.

And I romanticize the gesture I'd made, hoping in some way that those books changed their receiver's life the way Blyton changed mine, turning my world into one where toys came alive and tiny patches of blue sky meant good weather ahead.