Dear members and friends,

When I read Veronica Kaliski’s letter-to-the-editor reporting an initiative to provide free books to youngsters, I was reminded of an incident that had occurred while I was employed as an editor by SI Communications, publishers of a group of community newspapers.

The catalyst for the incident was my friend Ruth.  A lovely, intelligent woman with a pleasant sense of humor and an aura of style, Ruth played tennis, attended concerts and the theater, maintained urbane friendships, and frequently did lunch at tablecloth restaurants. Ruth and I met as colleagues on our local newspaper. I was staff; she was freelance. — Freelancers never have to get into the dirty, day-to-day hustle of putting the paper to bed. Freelancers write their stories, file them and, in Ruth’s case, meet friends for lunch. I, on the other hand, was covered to the elbows with black newsprint. Ruth was the paper’s book reviewer. I was the feature editor.

I wrote hundreds of features about local people and events. But somehow, no matter how sensitive the situation or how well the stories might have been written, they lacked that conceit, that sense of high-mindedness that one associates with books and their reviewers. What goes with Sunday morning coffee and a sweet roll? The New York Times “Book Review Section,” of course. Maybe the crossword puzzle. “Local Mailman Gives Up Route After 40 years.” Not likely to engage.

Typically, Ruth would stop by the newspaper office once a week to pick up her loot — the new releases sent in by publishers eager for a critique, even a mention, by the reviewer. Ruth would arrange them in her canvas book bag and retreat to her comfy office at home with its easy chair, good over-the-shoulder lighting, and elegant mahogany desk kept clean of all writing detritus. She’d scan every volume, sorting the wheat from the chaff before finally choosing a main selection and several recommendations from among what she felt were the lesser works, nonetheless noteworthy.

But on this occasion, Ruth had been vacationing for several weeks, during which time the books had filled the basket where we stored them for her. By the time she returned, they had spilled out onto the floor and were causing quite a traffic hazard. Ruth just stared at what had amassed during her absence.

“Don’t worry, Ruth, I’ll help you get them to your car,” I offered. Together we began to gather them up, Ruth filling her big canvas bag and I wrapping my arms around a goodly stack. Once in the parking lot, Ruth opened a rear door, and with a great heave-ho, emptied the bag’s contents onto the back seat. I followed suit with my armload. She shut the car door and turned to walk back into the building for the second load.

And that’s when I said, “Aren’t you going to lock your car?”

And she replied, “Oh, it’s not necessary. Nobody steals books.”

Nobody steals books? Nobody steals books! Nobody cares enough to covet the rich aroma of fresh ink against new paper, to wrap their fingers lovingly around a smooth volume, to caress the cover in anticipation of the delights to be found inside — words, words that when set down in the proper order have the power to educate, inform, intrigue, persuade, transport, entertain, amuse? Nobody steals books?

Would you leave your coat, your wristwatch, or even a bag of donuts on the seat of your car and walk away? Of course not.  Yet, according to Ruth, you wouldn’t think twice about leaving Tolstoy, Shakespeare or Conrad. Can your coat set your mind aglow or your heart to racing? Your watch is no more than a tool, a simple device, a contrivance. And who cares about donuts anyway? Starchy, gooey junk food gumming up your brain waves. Apple crumb, raspberry cream, double-chocolate-filled crullers — all gone. Faulkner, Hemingway, O’Neill — left on the seat.

Take the Harry Potter phenomenon. J.K. Rowling, a struggling single mother in Edinburgh, Scotland, created the orphaned boy with the wizard powers and wrote a wickedly popular series of novels about him and his exploits. And so it was. “Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire” brought youngsters to their knees. “Please Lord, let me be one of the lucky ones to get a copy of the new adventures of Harry Potter.”

Maybe these children — the ones who heretofore have read a book only under duress — may enjoy Harry Potter enough to be tempted to pick up another book. And another. Maybe they will find that they like books so much that, if pushed to make a choice, they’d rather have a book than a donut.

Now you understand why I’m excited about free books for kids thanks to the Floyd Memorial Library in partnership with Dolly Parton, and grate to Veronica Kaliski for bringing the project to our attention. I hope the project will be overwhelmingly successful, introducing these youngsters to new worlds, new ideas, and the opportunity to lose themselves within a compelling story.

Imagine if people were so desperate to read, so eager to have a book that they would actually steal one.

Nobody steals books. What a shame.

—Sara Bloom