I’ve been doing a lot of mental preparation for the upcoming blogathon, including formulating a survey, and planning a stack of books to talk about. I’ve kept most of my favorites from childhood, but every so often someone will mention a book that I loved, also, and I’ll realize I’d forgotten about it, or at least, stuck the memory in an old, dark, disused corner of my brain.

On the First Book blog, for example, someone recently mentioned Marguerite Henry’s Misty of Chincoteague, which was a favorite of mine for the longest time. I was more drawn to Phantom than to Misty, of course, and could never decide if I wanted to RIDE her or BE her (I was seven at the time). Years later, when I was in temporary ownership of a small black pony, I realized how very zen horses can be. I miss that. There’s a very deep part of me that is still a ten-year-old girl with braids and jeans with rainbows on the back pockets who is crazy for horses.

Well, for horses and books.