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The phrase “instant classic” is a uniquely American oxymoron (emphasis on the moron). Breathless as we all are for the next best thing, and abundant as those dazzling new things are, who has energy to spare for the old? Woe to us.

Nobody guided my childhood reading, and it was pathetically scattershot. I was a devotee of “Nancy Drew, Girl Sleuth” and “Cherry Ames, Student Nurse”. Somehow I found my way to Pippi Longstocking and Mary Poppins, but I grew up ignorant of Narnia, Charlotte and her web, that famous little house in those big woods. It wasn’t till I had my own kids that I discovered how much I’d missed. Edward Eager! E. Nesbit! L.M. Montgomery! Dodie Smith! Of course it wasn’t too late–it never is–to enjoy these true classics.

My kids are grown but my education continues. My latest find is the dreamy enchantress Elizabeth Goudge. Some classics–I’m thinking Arthur Ransome’s delightful but poky “Swallows and Amazons”–are a hard sell with today’s kids, but not “The Little White Horse”, first published in 1946. For starters, its cover features a castle and a silvery unicorn bathed in moonlight, along with this quote from K.K. Rowling: “I absolutely adored The Little White Horse.” She’s on record as calling it her favorite childhood book.

Consider the character and place names: Maria Merryweather, Miss Heliotrope, Marmaduke Scarlet, Moonacre Manor and the village of Silverydew, the enormous dog (can he truly be a dog?) Wrolf.  (Hearing Harry Potter echoes, anyone?)

Lovers of language will be in heaven. Here we meet Maria’s eccentric, tender, puce-nosed governess: “Miss Heliotrope raised her book of essays and held it within an inch of her nose, determined to get to the end of the one about endurance before darkness fell. She would read it many times in the months to come, she had no doubt, together with the one upon the love that never fails.” Wit glints on every page. Our first glimpse of Maria’s uncle: “He had a huge white wig like a cauliflower on his head.”

Goudge’s descriptions are lavish and lush but rarely cloying. We read about embroidered waistcoats, dresses of primrose silk, silver branched candlesticks, luscious meals, whitewashed cottages thatched with golden straw, a vast park sparkling with moonlit frost. Oh, the atmosphere! Readers who love  being swept away into other worlds, look no further. Families looking for an all-ages read-aloud, ditto.

There is, of course, a plot, and it’s classic in the happiest sense. Maria, an orphan, is forced to leave her home in London to live with an uncle she’s never met. (Maria, by the way, is big-hearted, curious, and noble as can be, but also possesses a love of luxury and takes great pride in clothing, particularly her shoes–ever since reading the book, I’ve longed for my own pair of boots made “of the softest gray leather, sewn with crystal beads around the tops, and lined with snow-white lamb’s-wool”.) At first all seems too wonderful to be true, and so it is. Maria begins to learn disturbing facts. A tragedy haunts Moonacre Manor, where no woman has set foot for twenty years. The village lives in fear of the wicked Men from the Dark Woods. Maria’s ancestors were guilty of greed and treachery. If it’s true, as Old Parson says, that “Nothing is ever finished and done with in this world”, Maria has work to do.

Goudge was a Christian, and her beliefs color but never dominate her story. Maria sets old wrongs to right, triumphing through courage and smarts, topped by a nice scoop of magic. Needless to say, it’s a happily-ever-after ending, with the bad guys reforming, the good guys–even purple-nosed Miss Heliotrope–finding joy, and a mouth-watering feast.

“However old you are, you never forget the time when you were young, or the people you loved when you were young; indeed, the older you get the more clearly you remember the times and the more deeply you remember the people.”  Our classics sit patiently on the musty, dusty shelf, waiting to be re-discovered, waiting to be loved by yet another lucky generation. Please share your own favorites!

So yesterday I sat down, all prepared to write a post taking on this article that claims adults should feel “embarrassed” to read books “written for children.” (Cue massive, unashamed eye roll.)

Then, because I’m an epic procrastinator, I popped on over to Facebook. Figured I’d hang there a minute, check out my friends’ latest antics/kid pix/inspirational cat videos. Maybe post something witty about said procrastination.

Kent, just being Kent…

Instead, I was shocked to find people saying heartfelt goodbyes to one of my lifelong friends, Kent Batchelder — a guy I’d known since second grade, who sat next to me in classrooms all through elementary, middle, high school and college. The guy who nick-named me “Jan-baby,” and spent half of eighth grade enthusiastically chanting that from the chair to my right — much to my embarrassment — over. And over. And over again. When we got into high school, he then became the guy I could count on to call and ask me to every formal dance, even though I never said yes. (After all, he was my friend. My Kent. I didn’t want to wreck that by throwing dancing into the mix.) Still, he never stopped asking. And we never stopped being friends, despite my stubborn refusal to dance with him.

As I scrolled through my news feed with a growing feeling of dread, I began to hope maybe Kent had just moved. Or was taking a new job. He was definitely too young to die. But as more pictures appeared in his “memory” and word began to spread among mutual friends and old classmates, it was clear the worst had happened. Kent — one of the cleanest living, healthiest people I know — had been struck down in his prime by a very fatal and fast-moving cancer.

Suddenly, arguing with a so-called “grown-up” about what other grown-ups should feel “shame” about reading seemed silly. After all, the greatness of literature is not defined by the age of its characters or target audience. That’s just insulting — not only to the adults who enjoy and appreciate children’s literature, but to the people who write it, and even more so to the kids and young adults who read it themselves. I mean really… who is to say that your experience at forty-five is more important/meaningful/literary than a fifteen-year-old’s? Sadly, as I was reminded yesterday, you may not even live to see forty-five. The greatness in life is not how many days you spend living, but how you spend your days.

So today, I’d like to pay tribute to my friend Kent, a man who didn’t dismiss young people, but fostered their growth in his career as a middle school counselor. You may not have known Kent, but I bet (or hope) you’ve had a Kent in your life. As a kid, he was the guy who got along with everyone. As an adult, he was the cool grown-up kids could relate to — the young, active guy with an empathetic ear, constant smile and solid advice. Looking at his Facebook page, it’s clear how many lives he touched — whether he was mentoring students or leading one of his many international studies trips to places like France, Japan and Australia. Kent was a man who completely and fully embraced life and encouraged his students to do the same. The world won’t be the same without him.

Like most old school pals, Kent and I moved in different directions after college (he landed in Massachusetts, I wound up in Virginia). But we always kept in touch. When my first book was published, Kent promptly ordered it from the UK (and, of course, donated it to his school library). I last got to see Kent a year ago at our high school reunion. Thankfully, he didn’t chant “Jan-baby” at me. We did, however, have a great time chatting and catching up. Because that’s the amazing thing about friends who have known you since your banana-seat bike riding, braces-wearing days — once you get back together, the years just melt away.

I only wish he’d asked me to dance. Because Kent, I still owe you one.

Rest in peace, dear friend. I will miss you.