I can’t wait to see Mr. Popper’s Penguins…

By Robin "Red Hot" Kaye






When I was in the third or fourth grade I went to the library to get a week’s worth of books. I had recently moved away from my dad in New York, AKA my supplier. When I used to visit my dad on the weekends, he’d take me to the bookstore, and let me buy as many books as I wanted. Books to my dad were like milk, something parents encouraged kids to have as much of as they could stand because it was good for them. It didn’t matter what I read. As long as I was reading, well, that was enough for him.

Imagine my surprise when I went to the desk to check out my stack of books and the librarian said no. Seriously, she refused to allow me to check out those books—all seven of them.

I was a very polite kid and never mouthy with adults. In my house, if the thought even crossed my mind, I’d be smacked upside the head. If I had been stupid enough to mouth off, I’d have had the pleasure of attending my own funeral or I would have found myself praying for it. Needless to say, I stood there in front of the librarian in a state of shock, wondering what I had done wrong, and frankly, too afraid to ask. But my biggest fear, the one that had all the blood draining from my face, was what would I do if the library never let me take out any books?

To me, reading was like breathing—it was necessary for life. Reading gave me a safe place to escape and after moving around a lot—about every nine months on average—I desperately needed that. The worst part was, I wasn’t going to my dad again for months. I didn’t know how I was going to survive.

I went home empty handed, called my dad in tears, and told him what had happened. My dad exploded over the phone. After his tirade ran down, he told me to go back to the library and give that librarian a piece of my mind.

Now, I had always listened to my dad, but I didn’t necessarily trust him to tell me everything I needed to know. You see, there was a time he told me if anyone hit me, I was to hit them back harder. He’d never said, except for nuns. I think I was the only kindergartener ever expelled from St. Paul’s Catholic School. Live and learn.

After explaining my trepidation, my dad assured me it would be all right, so off I went back to the library. When I asked the librarian why she hadn’t allowed me to take out the books, she told me that all the books I picked out were inappropriate for children my age. Which, looking back at it, was probably true. I was big into Robert Ludlum, Sidney Sheldon, Harold Robbins, Wilbur Smith, and the occasional John Le Caree. At the time though, I didn’t know what she meant. I’d been reading my dad’s books since first grade. She asked if she could call my parents. I offered to call my dad collect for her so she could speak with him.

When the poor woman got off the phone with my dad, I felt sorry for her. She asked if I would read a book for her. She went to a section of the library I had never been, and pulled out Mr. Popper’s Penguins. “Make sure you read this,” she told me, and then explained she’d ask me questions about it when I returned.

All of a sudden, reading felt like homework, but if that was what it took to get my other books, I’d do anything—even read what looked like a stupid kid’s book.

I went home and read every book I’d taken out. Finally, when I was out of fun reading, I cracked Mr. Popper’s Penguins, and for the first time, I fell in love with a book that was appropriate for my age. I went right back to the library and discussed the book with the librarian, and after that, every week she would have one appropriate book waiting for me at the desk. Still, Mr. Popper’s Penguins was my favorite, although The Mouse and the Motorcycle was a close second. The best thing about it was having someone to talk books with. My favorite librarian was the only person I missed when I moved away.

When I had kids, I couldn’t wait to read them Mr. Popper’s Penguins, and although they seemed to enjoy it, they didn’t love it like I did. Maybe it was because I never allowed them to read inappropriate books—not that it seemed to hurt me any—but my kids grew up on great kid’s books. Still, when they heard about Mr. Popper’s Penguins coming to the big screen, they were excited for me because that was, by far, my favorite book growing up.

What did you read growing up?