There are any number of Happy Birthday celebrations going on today for National Book Award honoree, National Medal of Arts winner, and general all-around good neighbor, Stephen King!

As the Bangor Daily News notes in their sensational article about Stephen King’s impact on his local community, “Many people have some sort of a Stephen King story.”  And, because you only turn seventy once (most of the time), I thought I’d share mine.

While I was a resident of the U.K., my parents and I met up in Florida for a spring break getaway, and part of that trip included a trip to a Red Sox Spring Training Game.  It was a gorgeous day, with plenty of sun, surprisingly low humidity, and a breeze that carried the smell of growing flowers, hot dogs, and an incoming tide.  And, if memory serves me well, the Red Sox were winning.

So, in between innings, my dad and I went to get some lemonade (they have the fresh-squeezed stuff there, dear readers.  It’s worth the air fare), and as we passed one of the many food vending places, my father nudged my shoulder: “That’s Stephen King!”  He whispered, with the fervor that is most commonly heard from kids at the mall who see Santa.  My dad is the reason that I became a Stephen King fan.  There were so many Stephen King books around our house when I was growing up that I thought he was a family friend.  I saw the first episode of the 1990 version of IT when it aired. Don’t worry…I was too young to be actually afraid of clowns…I was afraid of storm drains, and was therefore convinced that this poor person had fallen into one on his way to the circus.  I had started reading his books, like many people around New England, when I was too young, but I loved them nevertheless.

And now, here was The Man Himself.  In a Red Sox hat.  Putting mustard on his hotdog.

Now, I am not a good talker.  I get nervous leaving voice messages.  I clam up making small talk with people I have known for years.  But this time, I was convinced I was going to Say Something To Stephen King.  To thank him for the years of reading joy he had given both me and my dad.  To thank him for loving libraries.  For writing about libraries, both real and fictional.  For helping me to be a better writer. 

But by the time we were in speaking distance, I didn’t have any actual words that were ready to come out.  And because my feet were moving faster than my brain–I bumped into Stephen King.  So, instead of pouring out years of gratitude and profuse praise, I instead ended up apologizing for walking smack into a stranger–and assuring him I was ok when he apologized to me.

Dear Stephen King: I know you probably don’t remember that interaction, but I want to apologize for getting mustard on you all those years ago.  And to thank you, however belatedly it might be, for all the stories.  For starting so many discussions between me and my dad.  For the years and years and years of writing, of helping, and of generally being a very cool human being.  The passages about New England in ‘Salem’s Lot are some of my favorite words ever put together on paper.

Here’s to many more.