The children’s library in Rochelle, IL was in the basement of the library building which was only a few blocks from my house. It was the ’70s and little kids like me were free-range, roaming the grid on bicycles -- my pride and joy being one with a metallic gold paint job and a banana seat.

The library building was just on the other side of US Highway 51, a busier street than my parents were comfortable with allowing me to cross on my own. So going to the library required “special permission” - permission which I now admit to having attained only when I was going to check something out. I frequented that basement room and read all the books.

To paraphrase Ron Swanson:\ I want to make sure you are not misunderstanding me. I’m afraid you think I mean “I read a lot.” But what I mean is I read all the books.

I devoured the Hardy Boys and the Three Investigators. I read the Nancy Drew mysteries that were there, as well, although it was somewhat begrudgingly, and I didn’t let anyone know. I blew through the worlds behind the wardrobe (Chronicles of Narnia) and interplanetary adventures led by Mrs. Who, Mrs. What, and Mrs. Which (A Wrinkle in Time series). I liked the autobiographical homesteading adventures of the Ingles family, from which I learned many things — including the fact that potatoes can explode.

Some of the last books I remember checking out from the children’s library in Rochelle, IL (before getting my first Agatha Christie novel from the upstairs Adult Library), was a series of books by Ralph Moody called “Little Britches.”

“Little Britches” was not a memorable series for me. In fact, I forgot the series even existed until interviewing for the upcoming “Quinquagenarian Writer” podcast last week. I remember it being a bit slow and a little tedious for a 5th-grade boy.

What is interesting to this 52-year-old boy is the story of the author, Ralph Moody.

“Little Britches” is somewhat autobiographical, and almost a memoir. Moody grew up on a Colorado ranch, working with his father. Tragedy struck his family when was 11. His father died and he had to take over the work of the ranch, as the oldest son.

The Moody family (Mom and kids) eventually moved to Boston. Ralph was a rebellious teenager and got into some trouble with local authorities and he eventually became something of a vagabond. He moved his way around the country doing itinerant work, sending funds back to his family when he had it.

Finally, Ralph settled down, got married, and took a job with the Proctor and Gamble company in St Louis, MO (later moving to California).

This sounds like the epitome of 20th century American life.

Until Ralph Moody took a writing class at age 50, wrote and published his first novel at age 52, and proceeded to write and publish 16 more novels after that.

There isn’t an expiration date for creativity and creative thinking while we’re still breathing. Those of us who have the privilege of living through days that put an exclamation point on the frailty of life should be even more keenly aware of this.

There are so many things over which we have zero control.

But we do have control over what we do with the time we’ve been given. And if you are reading this on a Monday morning (or any given morning), you have today, whether you’re 15, 50 or 85.

Ralph Moody’s work may not reach the Narnian stratosphere for me. (It may be better than Narnia for others. There are always more opinions.) But Ralph Moody’s work deserves a lot of respect. He wanted to do better. He learned. He did the work. He overcame the Resistance. He did the work some more.

And a grown-up little boy who spent a lot of time at the library in Rochelle, IL is better off for it today.

Be like Ralph.

Go and make.