As a 10-year-old, I would read anything I could get my hands on. Living with my grandfather, I discovered one shelf of dusty, forgotten books in one of the bedrooms. The shelf was up near the ceiling, so I had to stand on a bed to reach it. From that shelf, I read everything from Steinbeck to Maugham to, yes, Hildegarde Dolson. As a 5-grader in San Diego, I had no context for this book of humorous essays by a young woman journalist in the 1940s. There was something about it though that I loved because I read it several times and I still remember some of the stories. One was about Duncan Phyfe chairs. I had no idea what those were. Another was about insomnia, and that one I could relate to as I already was suffering from it. The essay was a litany of ways to get to sleep, all of which only served to make Dolson more frantic. In one, you're supposed to count all the e's on a page, but Dolson got a different number each time. Of course, I'm not making it sound funny, but it was. I should pull it out and read it again, now that have have almost 40 more years of perspective behind me.