Commentary: The Wizarding World enchants adults too

My mother let us read comic books. Part of our weekly allowance was allotted toward a 10-cent “Archie” or “Superman.”

Dr. Feehan, our pediatrician, told her the best thing she could do was get us interested in reading, regardless of what we wanted to read.

Mother read to us, mostly from volumes of “My Bookhouse” and “My Travelship.” My sister Carolyn and I progressed naturally from storybooks and the funnies in the newspaper, to buying comic books, borrowing library books and ultimately purchasing our own books.

My days of reading to offspring had passed before J. K. Rowling emerged in the mid-1990s. But news of a young woman writer and her stories about a boy wizard’s fantastical experiences intrigued me. I read my first “Harry Potter” book, and I was hooked.

Each successive volume arrived from Barnes & Noble on its publication date. I loaned the books to Mark, and I told my grandkids about them, getting parental permission before giving Potter books as gifts.

Carolyn, Mark and many of my grandkids became enthusiasts.

I wept throughout the first movie because, being a writer, I was overcome with emotion seeing such imagination become “reality.”

I longed to go to Orlando and see the stories’ settings in life-size, substantive 3D.

And then 2 — Accio! The Wizarding World of Harry Potter opened at Universal Hollywood, in our own bailiwick!

Buying tickets months in advance, Mark and I could hardly wait to enter Hogsmead!

Of all the theme parks I’ve visited, Wizarding World is the most fanciful! Even a mature woman can become enchanted.

Mark and I thought we’d enjoyed every inch of the sights and shops, but as we were about to leave, we noticed a crowd in front of Ollivander’s Wand Shop.

What could it be?

The line moved at about 25 wannabe witches and wizards every 15 minutes. Mark got us some Butterbeer, and we settled in to people-watch for half an hour.

Frankly, I welcomed the recovery time. Theme parks are exhausting for adults who don’t run marathons.

Behind us in line were two young brothers. The glow of amazement and happiness on their faces reminded me of my sons when they first visited Disneyland.

The boys became restless standing and waiting. Their father, concerned that we might dislike having our handrail/leaning post joggled, spoke sternly with the boys, and then he left.

I felt bad for the kids. Come on! I’d been parentally chastised in public in my youth. It’s humiliating, and you feel like all the fun you’ve been having has been snatched away.

Mark and I engaged the boys in cheery chitchat. Tristan and Damon were 11 and 8 years old. Their mother was reading them the fifth book in the series. Their grandmother had been a teacher for 35 years. She said she’d read some of the first Potter book to her class, but a parent found out and complained to the principal.

How counter-productive! Sister Loretta read our rapt class “A Secret Garden,” and I passed along the book — and love of reading? — to my grandkids. Books connect generations.

The family was nice, our conversation lively.

Damon said, “It’s ironic, but Tristan who hates snakes, wants to be in Slytherin House!”

Mark told him he was impressed that, at only 8 years old, Damon knew how to use the word “ironic” correctly.

You know how it is when you connect with strangers, even for as little as half an hour, and you just feel better for it? It was like that.

Soon we were inside Ollivander’s. Tristan and Damon were the only children in our crowd and were invited to the front for the demonstration. The adults stood toward the walls of the small shop. The lights were dim, and only the brothers’ sweet faces were lighted — like a picture on a Christmas card, revealing all the trust and wonder of youngsters.

The Wand Lady — “Call me ‘The Wand Lady,’ ” she’d said— made thoughtful selections from seemingly endless stacks of beautifully boxed wands.

After each boy tried out his wand, the wrong thing happened. Instead of a bell ringing once, it rang repeatedly. Instead of a box flying from the shelf, the whole case buckled.

“Oh, no!” she said. “The wands made their choice, but I see that I’ve placed them backwards. This one is for you, Tristan. This one for you, Damon.”

I was sorry for the demonstration to be over. The boys were unconditionally “in the moment.” They were wizards! How awful it would be if they couldn’t have the interactive wands! I wanted that moment to continue! (I know, I know.)

Before anything was etched in stone, I whispered into the mother’s ear, “Would you allow me to buy the wands for your sons?”

The mother looked at me for a moment, as if scanning to decide whether I was a sorceress or a Muggle.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“I would love to! I couldn’t have done that when my boys were little, and it would mean so much to me if you would let me do it!”

The boys were as surprised, as if I’d exclaimed “Waddiwasi!” and all the wands started flying through the air.

The boys and their mother and grandparents gave me their thanks and hugs, and several of us had tears in our eyes.

Mark told me that before I’d spoken to the mother, he thought he’d heard her say, “You can have your pictures taken with the wands, but...”

I watched the boys later, at several of Hogsmead’s interactive windows, reciting incantations and waving their wands to make lamps light and boxes open.

Magical.

Author LIZ SWIERTZ NEWMAN lives in Corona del Mar.