For more years than I care to count, Maurice Sendak’s classic children’s book “Where the Wild Things Are” rested atop one my my stereo speakers.
That fact alone is evidence that I carried this book with me far outside my childhood — call it my extended childhood and then some.
As a kid I used to sit on the floor of the Stokes County Library in Danbury and read the misadventure of the mischievous and hard-headed child Max as he journeyed minutes, hours, days, weeks … well, you know, to the land where “The Wild Things Are.” I always loved when the wild rumpus would begin.
My favorite book as a kid, bar none. Among my favorites to this day, too.
RIP Maurice Sendak, a crumudgeon who wrote the children’s book of several lifetimes. You will never be forgotten. And wherever you are, let’s hope your supper is still hot.