Many years ago, a little 10-year-old girl in grade 5 named Dayna had a friend named Julia. Both were avid readers, both had ties to England through their nanas. When Julia brought back a new book she'd read while on Christmas vacation in England in 1999, called Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, by an unheard of author, J. K. Rowling, she loaned it to Dayna to read. It wasn't available in North America as yet. Dayna almost literally fell into the story, talking non-stop about a character named Harry and magic and his awful aunt and uncle and a school of magic where he was going to go and his friends Ron and... Hermy-OH-knee? (what kind of a name is that?) and something about an owl and a special magical train...
As Dayna's mum, I thought, "Who would name a main character, a kid, Harry?" first of all, and then, "Just what IS all her fixation and waxing poetic exactly about?" And so, one day when both girls had left for school, but I was part-time and didn't have to start teaching until block 2, I picked up the book, standing in our new-built house in Calebo Estates, Sherwood Park, Alberta, leaning against the kitchen counter by the door to the attached garage, such a clear memory. I started reading it, and... guess what happened? Yeah, I was nearly late for school, I got so completely pulled in. I got Dayna's obsession.
Her obsession that has lasted to this day, 28 years later.




