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?

The Gift of a Good Book - by Diane Kelly

Yesterday, I attended a baby shower. My gift? Why, books, of course!

As both a writer and an avid reader, I enjoy picking out books for gifts. Books have always had a special place in my life and, when I think back on my childhood, I can create a virtual chronology based on the books I read at the various stages.

I remember reading a book called “The Fat Cat” when I was pre-school age. The fat cat swallowed people whole, including a man named Sir Hottentot and another named Sir Linksalot. Of course, with such a high-protein diet, the cat became extraordinarily obese. Fortunately for both the cat and his victims, all problems were resolved when someone cut the fat feline open and the men he’d swallowed emerged miraculously alive, like Chilean miners. The cat also survived the surgery, though he was no longer fat after the tummy tuck procedure.

When I was in second grade, I’d sometimes sneak into my oldest sister’s room when I was feeling especially brave and read a book of scary stories and poems she had. I can still recite part of one of the poems that scared the bejeezus out of me:

Something lurks upon the stair,
Something that is,
And isn’t,
There.

Yikes! It still scares me!

As an adolescent, I adored Laura Ingalls Wilder’s “Little House” books. They took me back to a simpler time - you know, when women had to sew clothes by hand for their family and wash them by beating them on a rock in a creek. So much simpler than these days of Abercrombie and Fitch and washing machines, right?

I also remember a book called “The Witches Buttons” in which two girls were given magical buttons by an old woman. One of the buttons made them invisible, and another caused them to shrink and pulled them inside where they could fly the button like a spaceship. I must’ve read that book a dozen times. There was also a book called “The Secret Language” about two roommates at a boarding school who developed a secret language to communicate. Their greatest wish was that their families’ issues could be resolved so that they could move back home and live with their parents. Kinda sad, huh?

One creepy book I read was called “Dorp Dead” in which, for reasons I can’t recall, a pre-teen boy is forced to live in an isolated house with a man who suffers from obsessive-compulsive disorder. The man is cruel and imposes strict, harsh rules on the boy. The boy discovers the man is building a cage to keep him in and somehow manages to escape. Before the boy leaves, he picks up a rock to scratch “Drop Dead” on the man’s front door, but ends up misspelling the word “drop,” an irony which is sure to cause the man to go into an obsessive-compulsive meltdown.

At a slightly older age, I’d test my brain power with Encyclopedia Brown books. I could never seem to solve the puzzles, though when I read the answers, which always seemed obvious, I managed to convince myself that I would’ve solved the mystery if only I’d given myself a few seconds longer to mull it over. Yeah, right.

Later, when I had my own children, one of my greatest joys was reading bedtime stories to them. Cuddling with them in their beds with a good book, putting my nose to their soft hair to sniff their baby shampoo scent, what a gift that special time was. I must’ve read “Jamberry” to my kids a thousand times. I could probably still recite it by heart. (It’s one of the books I bought for the baby shower.) I read my kids all of the Dr. Seuss books I’d loved as a kid, as well as “Go, Dog, Go!” and “Are You My Mother?” When they outgrew the bedtime story ritual, I cried. There’s nothing like bonding with your child over a good book.

What books did you enjoy as a child? Were they the same books you read with your children and grandchildren? Do you have a special book you've received or given as a gift?