After seeing the Celestine Prophecy with friends on Thursday, we decided to grab a cocktail at a cushy bar nearby. We crossed the street on our way, and a short older man stopped us on the other side to ask our opinions on the movie. We shared our thoughts. Great message, good supporting cast, bad acting in the lead roles. I found myself giggling at parts that weren't meant to be funny, which is never good. I realize it must be difficult to make a movie about synchronicity that doesn't seem totally contrived, but this one was frequently over the top in how it played up the not coincidences.

The funny little man continued to chatter on and on, and finally he said, "I thought the book was a little bland. It lacked spice. Do you think the movie needs more spice? Spice. Like ketchup." I loved that question. Yes, a dash of ketchup would solve all of the movies problems. After that, we were free to continue on our way.

When I got home that night, there was a small package waiting for me. Molly had searched online and found an old (1956) hardback copy of Beverly Cleary's Fifteen through a library sale and bought it for me. I adore, adore, ADORE this book! When I was a little girl, I used to read the paperback copy my mom had as a kid over and over, lost in a fantasy of meeting a boy like Stan Crandall when I got to high school (Oddly, I did. Right before I turned 16. It's crazy how you get what you ask for, even if you don't always realize it at the time). I still have the paperback, but sadly it took a beating over the years from frequent readings and moves to new houses, and now half of the last chapter is MIA. That's very disappointing, because naturally the last few pages are the best part. A few months ago I told Molly that I'd like to collect first editions of Beverly Cleary's books, especially Fifteen, and she found this one.

This copy is absolutely fantastic. It came from a school library in Washington, and, when I flipped through the pages, I found a library checkout card from the 90's and a yellow construction paper bookmark. I love that! I had totally forgotten about cutting strips of construction paper for bookmarks in grade school. Looking at it makes me smile in a way that brings tears to my eyes. It's funny that a plain little slip of paper holds the power to zip me back to another place and time.

I tore off the somewhat grimy protective cover the school had added, so I can enjoy the book in its original perfection. The pages are slightly yellow, and it has the comforting smell of wood shelves and old paper. It's full of cute black and white illustrations that I love to examine. I can't wait until I come across the next one. I'm reading the book again slowly and carefully, savoring every page, and I'm about a third of the way through so far.

Beverly Cleary is an excellent writer. I always thought of this as a sweet, simple story, but it also has a lot of humor and insights that appeal to me as an adult. It's interesting to experience the book from an older perspective. It turns out I can relate to the dating troubles of a 15 year old fictional character from the 50's. Here are some of my favorite lines so far.

The trouble with me, Jane thought, as the hill grew steeper, is that I am not the cashmere-sweater type like Marcy. Marcy wore her cashmere sweaters as if they were of no importance at all. Jane had one cashmere sweater, which she took off the minute she got home from school. Marcy had many dates with the most popular boys in school. Jane had an occasional date with an old family friend named George, who was an inch shorter than she was and carried his money in a change purse instead of loose in his pocket and took her straight home from the movies.

Uh huh. Been there. I'm more of a ratty old sweatshirt type myself.

Maybe he was the kind who would drive up and toot and expect her to come running out....Or maybe he would chew gum and snap it and guffaw at the love scenes in the movie. Maybe he would turn out to be like George and buy ice cream cones to eat on the way home and lick his cone the way George did. Maybe he even had a rock collection like George, and, like George, a scientific mind. Maybe she would have to listen to him tell about finding an unusual piece of contorted gneiss in the Sierras. George never picked up rocks that were just pretty. He always found specimens that he called by the exact scientific name.

So, basically, she was dating a socially-challenged nerd. Who doesn't get wrapped up in often legitimate, nervous, pre-date worry spirals like this?

But he had not asked her for another date. He had said he would see her soon. Soon. Jane did not like the word. It could mean anything - an hour or a week or a month. Men were so exasperating.

Preach on, sister!