Candy Justice's Blog
August 12, 2017
My Nancy Drew Summers
There were several summers when I was 10 or 11 that I read Nancy Drew mysteries all summer long. In our small town of Winona, Miss., there was no book store, and the library was a tiny one-room set-up in the town's Community House. Miss Nancy was the librarian — and a terrifying figure she was for those of us who sometimes accrued late fines (2 cents a day).
But fear of Miss Nancy did not keep me away from the library during the summer. The Community House/library was two streets from my house, but I could get to it without crossing any streets by going from my backyard, cutting across the Hightowers' front yard and running down a steep path that led to the back of the Community House. So my mother allowed me to go to the library alone any time I wanted to. Beautiful freedom!
The library had a separate entrance from the main part of the Community House, and most of the books were in the room presided over by Miss Nancy. But the Nancy Drews, Hardy Boys, Trixie Beldens and other youthful chapter books were on shelves on the back wall of the stage in the main part of the Community House. So I could return whatever I had read, take my scolding if it was late and then disappear through the door to the darkened stage. I would sit on the floor, cross-legged and study the Nancy Drews to see which I wanted to read next.
These were ancient Nancy Drew books, the ones that still used 1930s language like "roadster" and "chums," but that made them more exotic to me somehow, and I loved the musty smell of the books. Nancy had blonde hair like me — at least I was sure she did, even if some of the books said she was "titian-haired," and she was an only child like me, though her father was a widower, and my daddy thankfully was not. Her father, the dashing attorney Carson Drew, doted on her by giving her her own convertible and lots of glorious freedom. And inexplicably, Nancy always had a flashlight in her purse, so she could look for clues if a mystery crossed her path at night.
I've always been a slow reader, but I raced through Nancy Drew mysteries because the author, Carolyn Keene — whom I later found out was several people who wrote under the name over the years — ended every chapter with a cliff hanger, so you just had to keep reading.
After a couple of summers of heavy library use, my parents splurged and bought me my own set of Nancy Drews with color illustrations of Nancy on the bright yellow covers. They were updated — "roadsters" had become "cars" and "chums" had become "friends," and they had that wonderful new book smell. I was proud of the set, and my daughter read and loved them when she was a kid. Those books are still on my bookshelf, and I love them because they remind me of my darling Mama and Daddy. But nothing will ever take the place of the pure joy that came from running down the hill to the library and coming back home with a Nancy Drew mystery in my hand.
But fear of Miss Nancy did not keep me away from the library during the summer. The Community House/library was two streets from my house, but I could get to it without crossing any streets by going from my backyard, cutting across the Hightowers' front yard and running down a steep path that led to the back of the Community House. So my mother allowed me to go to the library alone any time I wanted to. Beautiful freedom!
The library had a separate entrance from the main part of the Community House, and most of the books were in the room presided over by Miss Nancy. But the Nancy Drews, Hardy Boys, Trixie Beldens and other youthful chapter books were on shelves on the back wall of the stage in the main part of the Community House. So I could return whatever I had read, take my scolding if it was late and then disappear through the door to the darkened stage. I would sit on the floor, cross-legged and study the Nancy Drews to see which I wanted to read next.
These were ancient Nancy Drew books, the ones that still used 1930s language like "roadster" and "chums," but that made them more exotic to me somehow, and I loved the musty smell of the books. Nancy had blonde hair like me — at least I was sure she did, even if some of the books said she was "titian-haired," and she was an only child like me, though her father was a widower, and my daddy thankfully was not. Her father, the dashing attorney Carson Drew, doted on her by giving her her own convertible and lots of glorious freedom. And inexplicably, Nancy always had a flashlight in her purse, so she could look for clues if a mystery crossed her path at night.
I've always been a slow reader, but I raced through Nancy Drew mysteries because the author, Carolyn Keene — whom I later found out was several people who wrote under the name over the years — ended every chapter with a cliff hanger, so you just had to keep reading.
After a couple of summers of heavy library use, my parents splurged and bought me my own set of Nancy Drews with color illustrations of Nancy on the bright yellow covers. They were updated — "roadsters" had become "cars" and "chums" had become "friends," and they had that wonderful new book smell. I was proud of the set, and my daughter read and loved them when she was a kid. Those books are still on my bookshelf, and I love them because they remind me of my darling Mama and Daddy. But nothing will ever take the place of the pure joy that came from running down the hill to the library and coming back home with a Nancy Drew mystery in my hand.
