In my early teens, I went through what I can only describe as a Tolkien phase. I obsessed over the reclusive author of The Lord of the Rings, devouring biographies, essays, poems, short stories, and even the good Professor’s noted treatise on Beowulf—my first foray into the confusing world of literary criticism. When I ran out of books about J.R.R. Tolkien, I began reading books about his colleague C.S. Lewis.

Yes, I was a strange child. This should come as absolutely no surprise to anyone who now knows me as a strange adult.

(Fun fact: My obsession with tea, which was diminished slightly by my later obsession with coffee, began with my fascination with British authors. I also wanted to imitate Tolkien by drinking beer and smoking tobacco, but my parents disapproved.)

It wasn’t until my high school and college years that my literary horizons broadened far beyond Lewis and Tolkien. In those early years, however, there was one more author whose books I loved dearly—a storyteller whose world delighted me as much as any Narnia or Middle-earth. Although this author was British, like Lewis and Tolkien, he was no professor.

No, he was a veterinarian.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you a man whose stories of men, women, and animals have charmed me for more than a decade.

I give you James Herriot, who penned enchanting tales of creatures great and small.

James Alfred Wight, who wrote under the name James Herriot, was a veterinary surgeon who served farmers and residents in England’s Yorkshire Dales. He spent many years treating cattle, sheep, horses, pigs, cats, and dogs. Herriot was a vet in more ways than one: he served in England’s RAF (Royal Air Force) during World War II. His books are slightly fictionalized memoirs, full of real-life experiences tailored for dramatic effect.

The life of a vet may not seem interesting, but Herriot’s stories reveal a career of excitement and unpredictability. Have you ever seen a medical drama on television? Have you felt the tension of a tough case, the thrill of a clever cure, or the grief of a death the doctors couldn’t prevent? Imagine all that, but with animals instead of people, farms instead of hospitals, and wry optimism instead of cynical angst. I will always prefer James Herriot to Gregory House.

The animals in Herriot’s stories are often as interesting as the people, and the people are plenty interesting. Herriot’s boss (and eventual partner) Siegfried is eccentric, charismatic, short-tempered, and absent-minded. Siegfried’s younger brother Tristan is an unstoppable force of cheerful irresponsibility. Their clients, from tough-as-nails gaffers to delusional old ladies, are a fascinating bunch.

The stories themselves range from hilarious to heartbreaking. One day, Herriot holds back laughter as Siegfried cowers beneath the tyrannical bossiness of his secretary. Another day, Herriot holds back tears as a poverty-stricken man loses his dog to cancer. Add a burgeoning romance to the mix, one with enough humor to appease even a cynical reader like me, and Herriot’s stories become something truly special.

For someone with no background as an author—Herriot didn’t start writing until the age of fifty—his style is remarkably good. His books have a warmth and sincerity that practically shine through the pages.

In conclusion, ladies and gentlemen, James Herriot is awesome.

And while we’re on the subject of Little Women, I should mention that Lousia May Alcott is a wonderful author… especially when she’s not trying to be.

I’ve read only two books by Alcott, and they’re very different. Little Women is her most enduring work: a fine novel with a heartwarming story and relatable characters. Her other book, a little-known memoir titled Hospital Sketches, is short, messy and bursting with unbridled charm and humor. Alcott is remembered for her characters, but she was also quite a character herself.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you a lady who balanced humor with pathos and sense with sentiment.

I give you Louisa May Alcott, whose life and imagination were truly remarkable.

Little Women is a delightful novel, equal parts coming-of-age story and romance. In my (admittedly idiosyncratic) opinion, it feels like a pleasant mixture of Anne of Green Gables and Pride and Prejudice as its little women grow up, learn lessons, make their way in the world and find love. (Alcott’s ladies, unlike Austen’s, are rather likable.) All this wibbly-wobbly, icky-sticky sentimentalism is balanced by a refreshingly frank and sensible outlook. Every time the book comes close to being mushy, some wry witticism or unromantic plot point brings it back to earth.

As much as I like Little Women, I enjoy Hospital Sketches far more. It’s old-fashioned, unpolished and crammed with out-of-date language and obscure literary references. Needless to say, I love it.

Hospital Sketches is a memoir compiled from Alcott’s letters home during her time as a nurse during the American Civil War. Her novel Little Women is neatly structured and carefully worded. By contrast, Hospital Sketches gives the impression of being dashed off at high speed and in high spirits. It gives fascinating, often funny and sometimes touching glimpses of life amid the excitement and horror of war.

One of the things that strikes me most about Hospital Sketches is its relentless cheerfulness and optimism. Even the sadder parts of the book, which are very sad indeed, have a kind of poignant sweetness.

Both of Alcott’s books have a surprising balance of sense and sentimentality. Heaven knows I’m no feminist, but I admire the way Alcott brings together fiery emotion and cool pragmatism, especially in her memoir. She is even cheerful and sensible when breaking down in tears, crying, as she puts it, “in a very helpless but hearty way; for, as I seldom indulge in this moist luxury, I like to enjoy it with all my might, when I do.”

In conclusion, ladies and gentlemen, Louisa May Alcott is awesome.

This blog’s recent contest has been concluded, and the winners chosen at random from the Fez of Destiny have been notified. My thanks to everyone who participated!

Dave Barry was given a Pulitzer Prize in 1988 for writing about boogers. With that, I think I can wrap up my explanation of why he is awesome.

All right, he wasn’t given a Pulitzer specifically for writing about boogers. It was for “his consistently effective use of humor as a device for presenting fresh insights into serious concerns.” By serious concerns, the people who administered the Pulitzer evidently meant exploding whales, owl regurgitation and yes, boogers.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the man respected for being snarky and immature in the most hilarious, brilliant, wonderful ways possible.

I give you Dave Barry, whose commentaries have never failed to make me smile.

Dave Barry was a columnist for The Miami Herald and currently writes books. In his days as a columnist, he tackled such important issues as exploding livestock with quick wit and even quicker subject changes. Barry writes the way some people think, bouncing from one topic to the next like a mountain goat leaping from peak to peak.

Like James Thurber, the writer who claimed his sense of humor was “set in motion by the damp hand of melancholy,” Dave Barry has an unexpectedly bitter philosophy: “A sense of humor is a measurement of the extent to which we realize that we are trapped in a world almost totally devoid of reason.”

Fortunately, Barry’s writing is anything but philosophical. He points out the absurdities we overlook, such as silly government spending and cultural phenomena, and mocks the heck out of them.

Barry is the one from whom I picked up the bad habit of coining names for rock bands. To assist him in his endless efforts to invent band names, he uses the acronym WBAGNFARB: Would Be A Good Name For A Rock Band. Another common phrase, following a description of something truly ridiculous, is the straight-faced assertion: “I am not making this up.”

Besides humor columns, Dave Barry has written some fiction and a number of books on government, travel, history and other subjects. I disliked his novel, Big Trouble, but his nonfiction books—well, supposedly nonfiction books—are delightful.

Dave Barry informed me that Indiana, my state of residence, is called the Hoosier State because hoosier is the noise pigs make when they sneeze.

When Dave Barry visited Japan, his major objectives changed immediately from things like “try to determine attitude of average salaried worker toward government industrial policy” to “try to find food without suckers on it.”

Dave Barry gave this illuminating commentary on a fundamental right of Americans: “The Second Amendment states that, since a well-regulated militia is necessary to the security of a free state, you can buy high-powered guns via mail order and go out into the woods with your friends and absolutely vaporize some deer.”

In conclusion, ladies and gentlemen, Dave Barry is awesome.