LITMIR.BIZ

      Author’s Note

      THE BOOKCASE is long gone. So too are the books that used to sit on its shelves. Their disappearance is a mystery to me. The yellow bindings beckoned me with their intriguing titles: The Secret of the Old Clock, The Hidden Staircase, The Bungalow Mystery.

      My collection was not large. I was raised in a family with six children, and my father’s was the only income. A purchased book was a rare gift. The bookmobile that arrived weekly near my home provided the solution in my quest to read about Nancy Drew’s latest adventures.

      I would pedal my banana-seat bike over the hot tar-covered road, with the basket carrying what I had read the week prior. I couldn’t get to the library on wheels fast enough. I’d scan the shelves from floor to ceiling, hoping for a new work by Carolyn Keene. If I was lucky, I’d walk away with another volume of the mystery series in hand.

      My sister and I would smuggle home-baked cookies into our room during mandatory quiet time in the afternoon. The summer breeze from the box elder tree just outside the window offered a break from the heat. We’d settle in, with our books spread across our beds, and our sun-kissed faces tucked into the pages filled with action and adventure.

      I loved Nancy’s ability to overcome any challenge independently and admired her ability to come and go as she pleased. Nancy reported only to her father and had a housekeeper to look after her. I envied her. I wanted to be her.

      Nancy Drew created a reader out of me. Or should I say Mildred “Millie” Benson, the original writer of the Nancy Drew series, did?

      As a young mother, I shared my love of reading with my children, daughters Claire and Kyle, and their younger brother Ian.

      When Claire died at just ten years of age, my family, including my husband, Brad, established an organization that stages a children’s

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