On a balmy spring day toward the end of the school year, my sixth-grade teacher announced a surprise field trip to Eeyore’s, the iconic children’s bookstore on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. We were going to meet Judy Blume, she told us, and we could have our books signed if we liked.
If we liked? What a question! Judy Blume was – and still is – the queen of all things tween, and the thought of meeting her in the flesh her was, well… indescribably delicious.
I’d be lying if I said I remember every detail of the subway ride uptown, or how long we stood in line at the bookstore to meet Ms. Blume. But I do remember this: When I came face to face with the author herself, and I handed her my armful of books (Deenie; Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret; Iggie’s House; It’s Not the End of the World; Blubber; Then Again, Maybe I Won’t), she smiled that lovely Judy smile and graciously signed each and every copy. I danced on air all the way home.
Where are my signed copies now, you ask? They have pride of place on my living room bookshelf, next to their redesigned counterparts. (Me, touch my vintage Judys? Nevah!)
Where are your Judys?