Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone

A couple weeks ago, a friend from work and I drove to Indianapolis to meet her parents for breakfast. They came over from Illinois, where my friend is from originally. After breakfast, we all visited the Indianapolis Zoo, where the only animals that appeared to be unaffected by the heat were the dolphins enveloped in their cool-water environs. When my friend and I got back to her place, we watched the musical Chicago, which I had gotten from Blockbuster.com, being a member.

That early evening as I gathered my things to go, even though I expressed no interest in the book, my friend handed me her copy of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, the first in the Harry Potter series. She told me I’d like it.

I’m not really into fantasy or science fiction—things that can’t happen in real life—but I thought I’d give it a gander since my friend recommended it.

I started it a couple times in several days and got through the first two or three chapters and found it to be not quite as compelling as I expected with all the hoopla that occurs with each release of the story’s continuation.

However, once I read beyond the point where Harry is unassuming and pitiful—once he finds out that he is borne of a witch and a wizard—well, then the adventure begins.

I finished it this weekend, and my friend just stopped in my office and said she’d bring the second one. I can hardly wait.