Fourth grade was mostly the pits.  To begin with, I was sure that my teacher, Mrs. Barber, kept her broomstick -- for quick trips on Halloween -- hidden somewhere in the coatroom.  After three teachers who could have sprung from the imagination of Norman Rockwell, Mrs. Barber was a rude awakening.  She also had her favorites -- teacher's pets we called them back then.  I, of course, was not among the fortunate few.  Maybe that clouded my judgment then -- and now.  But, I digress. 

To add insult to injury, the Brooklyn Dodgers beat my beloved Yankees in the World Series that fall -- the first and last time that would happen.  (The Dodgers pulled up stakes for Southern California in 1958, and they were the Los Angeles Dodgers when they beat the Yanks in the 1963 and 1981 Fall Classics.) 

Joe Pate, a classmate and rabid Dodgers fan, got to miss school to attend the Series.  I imagine that he was the only kid in the whole school who had been to New York.  To the rest of us, marooned in rural America in an era before interstate highways and affordable air travel, any city seemed distant and exotic, and New York was almost beyond imagination. 

The only good thing that I remember about fourth grade is the Hardy Boys.  In the earlier grades, we had laid our heads on our desks after lunch and rested.  Whether we were tired or not.  (I discovered much later that it was our teachers who really needed a break.)  In fourth grade, however, that tradition ended.  Instead, Mrs. Barber read us a chapter from a novel each day after lunch.  Sometimes, if the story was particularly exciting, we pleaded for a second chapter.  And, sometimes -- it seemed entirely arbitrary to us -- she agreed. 

As luck would have it, one of the books Mrs. Barber read to us was The Tower Treasure, by Franklin W. Dixon.  It chronicled the adventures of two young detectives -- sleuths, the author called them -- and I was hooked from chapter one.  So were many of my classmates, and when we discovered that there was a whole series of Hardy Boys mysteries, we begged for more.  And, over the course of the school year, Mrs. Barber read several of the titles in the series.

Frank and Joe, the Hardy Boys, were the teenage sons of a world-famous detective, who often allowed his precocious sons to help with his cases. They lived in Bayport, a fictitious city on the New England coast, and had every toy a young boy could dream of: a roadster, twin motorcycles, and a speed boat. And more freedom than I could imagine. 

They were always on the go -- tracking down hidden treasures; exploring caves, tunnels, and deserted coastal islands; stumbling upon secret passages and trap doors; and outwitting a host of pirates, smugglers, counterfeiters, and thieves. 

In their spare time, they were honor students and star athletes, and each had a pretty girlfriend, with whom they maintained a close but chaste relationship.  The girlfriends were a bit of a mystery to us boys since we were at an age when we'd rather kiss a frog than a girl.  But, the rest was pure gold. 

How could a young boy not be seduced by these fictional sleuths? Especially one stuck in an isolated outback where roadsters, motorcycles, and speed boats -- not to mention adventure -- were scarce and curfews were strict. 

I identified with Frank -- the older brother -- because he was more serious and had dark hair.  Joe was blond and more carefree.  For a couple of years, I read (and re-read) every Hardy Boys novel I could get my hands on: The House on the Cliff, The Secret of the Old Mill, The Shore Road Mystery, Secret of the Caves, The Mystery of Cabin Island.  Secrets and Mysteries.  Adventures.  That was the key.

I read and I daydreamed and I tried to create my own adventures.  We lived on the edge of town, and there were lots of places to explore -- woods and creeks and fields.  I desperately wanted to stumble upon a mystery and was always on the lookout for clues.  But, to no avail.  Nothing, I finally decided, ever happens here, and nothing ever will. 

After fourth grade and the Hardy Boys, I would never again be content with my small, isolated hometown.  We also got our first television that year, but it was books -- beginning with the Hardy Boys -- that alerted me to the larger world and seemingly infinite possibilities beyond our quiet hamlet. 

I eventually grew up and moved away.  And, I've had my share of excitement and adventure.  I've also learned that writers have been inspiring wonder and wanderlust at least since the Greek poet Homer put pen to parchment in the 8th Century B.C.   I happened to discover the Hardy Boys first, and they helped spark in me a love of reading that would lead to Homer in time.  Not to mention a taste for discovery that would take me far from home -- literally and figuratively.