This week I re-discovered a treasure. When the book first came out, twenty years ago, I read Frank Rich’s Ghost Light: a Memoir. I remember I was so taken by it that I sent a copy to a dear friend, a friend I wanted to share my childhood with. Last week, when another friend mentioned he’d seen the term “ghost light” and had not known the meaning until then, I thought of Rich’s memoir. I knew that my friend needed to read the book, not to find out about ghost lights, but rather to find out more about me. So that was twice I was sharing myself by sharing Frank Rich. And that prompted me to re-read the book. In the book, Rich, a celebrated writer who was for many years a New York theater critic, tells of his introduction to musical theater and how the love he developed for it got him through his childhood. It is not an autobiography of his adult years, as so many are. Ghost Light is a memoir of his life from early childhood to college. He tells of how he was the kid who was never chosen for teams, the kid who was never without a book in hand, the kid who had few friends, the kid who was bedazzled by theater lights and the wonder of plays that told stories by using songs. Upon this second reading, I was reminded of how much the book touched me the first time around and how it has once again touched me. I was that kid. Though I lived far away from Rich’s home Washington DC, though I didn’t travel to New York City until I was well into my twenties, I—the friendless loner with a book—was entranced at an early age by musical theater. Growing up in Ft. Worth, Texas, there was little chance to actually see live musicals until a wondrous new theater arrived in the early 1960s, Casa Manana Musicals. And my life was transformed: over the course of the next six or eight years, I saw over sixty productions of Broadway musicals, like Rich did when he attended every show he could at the National Theater in DC. Rich’s description of each of those performances he witnessed—like a spiritual awakening—threw me back to my teen years. He may have seen stars like Robert Preston and Mary Martin and Gwen Verdon while I was seeing summer stock lookalike performances, but the magic we both felt was equal. Reading Ghost Light was like re-experiencing my early life. Rich’s life was so closely akin to my own in so many respects, mostly emotional but physically when it came to the theater obsession, that I truly was reading my own life story, down to the fact that we both had fourth grade teachers named Mrs. Young. Rich has a talent for capturing the voice of each experience, from the wide-eyed child to the confused teen to the pathos of the older young man dealing with loss. I wept at the end, some tears for the loss told, some tears of joy for having this wonderful book that, even as I am in my seventies now, validated my childhood and pointed out how incredible it was despite the ups and downs. Thank you, Frank Rich.