I have just become acquainted with a woman who designs squished pennies for squished penny machines. I think I might pass out.

But this is even weirder…

Thirteen years ago, three months after I came to New York, I stumbled upon the old New York Is Book Country book fair on 5th Avenue. I don’t think they have them anymore, which is a shame. I had spent the night at a friend’s in Westchester, and took the train to Grand Central, as I recall.

Anyway, it truly was one of the most magical experiences I’ve ever had here. Not only is a 5th Avenue packed with books a wonderful introduction to the city I would come to love, I discovered two more great things that day. No, three: the Books of Wonder table, a hardcover copy of A RING OF ENDLESS LIGHT (my favorite book in the world, complete with my favorite dust jacket in the world) on the table, and…

… Madeleine L’Engle herself sitting behind the signing table.

But that wasn’t all. Sitting next to her was a girl I’d just graduated with. I mean, what are the odds?

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Um, I work for the district attorney,” I said, my jaw on the ground. “What are you doing here?”

“I live with Madeleine L’Engle,” she said.

“I hate you,” I said.

Okay, so I didn’t say that. I can’t even remember what I said. I mumbled and stared at Madeleine, who was happily yammering away with a Books of Wonder person, and then I tried to act all casual as I bought a copy of the book and brought it up to her to sign.

Living in the same house with Madeleine L’Engle. I so cannot wrap my head around how awesome that must have been. I can only remember one other part of the conversation with that girl, whom I never saw again. It was the part where she said, “we have a lot of interesting conversations.”

Cha.

So I’ve been carrying this book around since then, and this ticket stub in the book. I’ve looked at it a number of times over the years. For some reason I never threw it away. Who is Barry Moser? I thought. And why on earth did he sign his ticket stub?

Later, I also added, and how the hell did it get into this book? Somehow that got lost along the way. I’m sure I knew at one point… but as of, oh, probably ten years ago, I don’t remember.

All right. So let’s talk Barry. I confess, while I’d like to claim encyclopedic knowledge of important things such as this, my illustrator-fu has only recently morphed into something somewhat resembling respectable. He was kinda on the down-low in my world, at least by name (okay, so at least I recognize the Moser when I see it, at least I have that going for me), until a few months ago when Leland got Barry on the brain for a few days and pulled some books off the shelves and waved them under my nose.

I think it may have been when I was writing the FRANKENSTEIN adaptation. There may have been some Barry/Bernie cross-pollination. Yeah, that must have been it.

Wow, this story is getting long. Bear with me, yeah?

Anyway, Leland’s birthday was not so long ago. And since he seems to have this sixth sense that reveals everything I get for him before I get it for him, I was determined to foil it, just this once. Actually, you caught me: that was an accident, too. Walking into Books of Wonder right before his birthday was an accident. Picking up THE UFO HUNTER’S HANDBOOK was an impulse buy (hey, I knew he wouldn’t have it).

Finding a signed first edition of this, well, that was just serendipity:

I was thrilled when I found this. “Polly Vaughn” is actually an old British folk song. My favorite version is by Anne Briggs, who will show up in a story or seventeen one day.

One of my favorite songs plus one of Leland’s favorite illustrators, I thought. Now that’s something you don’t see every day. Perfect present.

And indeed, that may have been the end of it, at least for a little while, were it not for the fact that I took the old copy of RING down off the shelf today for a cuddle. And I fingered the old Amtrak stub like I always do. Except this time, the name made my brow go all furrowed and then the signature stopped me dead in my tracks.

Barry Moser’s thirteen-year-old ticket stub in my Madeleine L’Engle book. Well, I’ll be.