A picture of your most treasured item.
This was a tough one. I almost went with my guitar, Marie (Fender American Strat, Butterscotch, 60th anniversary edition). But after thinking long and hard, I figured it out. This is a picture of my first copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Why is this particular copy so special, you ask? Well, allow me to quote myself here and share with you the story of how this book came to be in my possession. (This story is from a previous entry entitled "The Boy Who Lived, and Harry Potter too).
"My tale regarding Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire is perhaps my favorite to recount of all stories I have involving the Boy Wizard and myself. At the time of its release, my family was in Illinois for our annual summer trip to see friends and family (the vast majority of my extended family lives in Illinois and Wisconsin; I was born in St. Charles, Illinois). We were staying at the home of Mike and Mary Ohm, old friends of my parents from high school. Their two sons, Dave and Ryan, were the same ages as Zack and myself, and thus we greatly enjoyed spending time at their house. Dave and I were close during our younger years; although distance prevented us from regularly corresponding, we would pick up where we left off whenever we would see them next. He also shared my love for Harry Potter. Now, despite our begging, pleading, and attempts at bribery, our parents were not willing to bring us to the midnight release of Goblet of Fire. They just didn’t understand why it was so important to have the book at the stroke of twelve, when we could just as easily pick up our copies at Borders the next morning after a night’s rest and a healthy breakfast. Dave, if you read this, please feel free to correct me if I get any details wrong; I have a tendency to embellish on occasion (or perhaps I have a bad habit of rarely telling things exactly the way they happened).
So we sat at home that night, lamenting our misfortune (we were dramatic young snots), until Dave’s grandmother called without warning and announced that she would be arriving at the house soon to take us to purchase our copies at midnight. Now, if I remember correctly, this particular relative of Dave and Ryan’s was often referred to affectionately as “crazy Grandma,” and thus, her willingness to take us to the bookstore at midnight was not entirely surprising. The actual act of calling and volunteering to do so, however, came as an absolute shock. Our parents relented, and not long after that we were on our way to Borders, barely able to contain our excitement. When we arrived at Borders, however, a rather surly sales representative informed us that if we did not have our copies pre-ordered, we would not receive a book at midnight, but were more than welcome to return the following morning. Perhaps any other trio would have given up at this point, but instead we traveled across town to Barnes & Noble, to try our luck there. Barnes & Noble was harboring no such animosity; we were cheerily at the door and directed to the end of the “non-reserved” line, which seemed to stretch, to borrow a Buzz Lightyear quote, “to infinity and beyond.” There was no turning back at this point, however, and we lively struck up conversations with those around us as midnight approached. Eventually, the books were carted forward, the crowd cheered, and the line began to move. After around a half hour, we reached the front of the line and rushed to the next available cashier, a young witch (woman, sorry) who was enthusiastically decked out in Harry Potter paraphernalia. She asked Dave’s grandmother for her last name, and Dave and I were too excited to realize at first why she asked. She then informed us that this was the pre-order line, and the line for non-reserved copies had not begun to move yet. My gaze traveled over to that line, and perhaps I should have saved the Toy Story reference for this description, because I could not phrase it any better if I tried (which, of course, I will). It seemed to go for miles, wrapping around bookcases, through the aisles, and out of sight. The young woman at the counter spotted our dismay immediately; for one second, she appeared torn, and then after casting a furtive glance around to verify the absence of a superior in her area, said quietly, “Alright, don’t tell anyone, but I’ll sell you the books.” Thirty seconds later, we rushed out of the store after thanking her approximately seventeen million times, copies of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire clutched tightly in our arms."
I could not have said it better myself. (How's that for a confusing thought?) But in all seriousness, this book and the experience we had in getting it took my love for Rowling's world to an entirely new level. I feel like the whole experience is comparable to Harry, Ron and Hermione fighting the troll together way back in book one; there are just some experiences that you can't go through without emerging as best friends, and Goblet of Fire and I were immediately linked by the strange circumstances under which we first met. The book has deteriorated over the years due to extensive reading and general wear and tear, but I don't see that as a bad thing. To me, no sight is worse than a book remaining untouched, and that is what makes this copy so magical; it bears the physical signs of the love affair that a boy has with an imaginary world.
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