So the plan was to spend the last two weeks re-reading J. K. Rowling’s engaging tale of the little orphaned muggle boy who suddenly discovers he’s a wizard. It’s a wonderful yarn that appeals to our childhood fantasies of one day being informed we are next in line for the throne, that we are not ordinary or average at all, but rather very special princesses and princes – only better. In the case of this fabulous fairy tale, we get to have magic.
By the time Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was released this morning, I expected to be just finishing up Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, and could thus move right on through the story continuously.
Well, events unfolded (as they tend to do) in unforeseen twists, and I am only half-way through Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. In between sessions of writing and re-writing The Lilith Quotient (which barely resembles the version on this blog now), I zipped right through the Sorcerer’s Stone (or Philosopher’s Stone on the far side of The Big Puddle), merrily moved through the Chamber of Secrets, and was freely flowing through Prisoner of Azkaban.
Then, as some of you know, Aunt Helen – Savior of Thanksgiving – fell ill. She got better, got worse, got better, got worse. She’s looking and sounding much better, but the long-term prognosis is not so good. I may give a better accounting of her condition a little later, or I may just let The Boy handle that. I’m kind of having issues discussing that myself.
So, despite the fact that I still have half of Prisoner of Azkaban left, and Goblet of Fire, Order of the Phoenix, and Half-Blood Prince still ahead, I was there. I was there before the doors opened. For the first time in my life, I was standing in the line before the sales clerk’s key entered the lock to begin the day of business.
My pre-paid express line voucher in hand, my palms all sweaty, my nasty recurring headache raging behind my eye, I was there. No coffee yet, no shower yet (it was a very late night of restlessness – please forgive me all you Jacksonvillians who stood downwind), barely a lick and a promise to my rat’s nest of hair, I braved the freezing cold 75 degree weather, and secured The Precious.
It is mine, and you can’t have it.