I’ve never met Stephen King and almost certainly I never will.

He lives in Maine, for one thing.

This is not exactly in my neighborhood.

And geography aside, I don’t operate in social circles that include world-famous authors who have sold hundreds of millions of books.

But strangers though we are and probably will always be, this summer I welcomed the novelist as I would an old friend for whom I have the greatest affinity.

That King was neither involved in nor, I’m sure, aware of this greeting in no way diminishes my gratitude to the man.

I own perhaps half of King’s books.

This would be a small collection indeed if the author were instead, say, J.D. Salinger.

But with a writer as prolific as King — he’s published more than 60 novels — even half of his output commands a significant amount of shelf space.

I’ve been reading King’s work since I was a teenager. And since then I doubt I’ve ever let more than a few months pass during which I didn’t read one of his novels or collections of short stories.

Or, rather, re-read, in most cases. I’ve always believed that a good story, like a good song, actually improves with repetition.

And King is a consummate teller of tales.

But as much as I have relished his creativity over the decades, never have I appreciated King more than during the coronavirus pandemic.

When the Baker County Library was closed for part of the summer — I know ebooks are available but I prefer to feel the soft brush of paper on my fingertips when I read — I relied on the bookshelves in our home to satiate most of my appetite for words.

In the early days of the pandemic, though, I tried a different approach.

I needed little prodding — none, actually — to start perusing online bookstores. I reasoned that it was an ideal time to expand my personal library.

I placed an order for a few books, none of which I had read, and these kept me occupied for a couple weeks.

But even though these were used books, with commensurately modest prices, I realized that having to pay for all of my reading material was not financially sustainable.

And so I made a tour of our bookshelves. These are distributed among three rooms and include a variety of construction designs, some of which require a fair amount of kneeling and peering into nooks where almost no light reaches. As my eyes slid over the volumes I waited for that instant of inspiration when a title would suddenly come into focus, the story within immediately remembered, and savored.

I waited, and was disappointed.

Not a single book seemed compelling.

But then I returned to where I started — the bookshelf in one corner of our bedroom.

And about halfway down I noticed a thick hardcover, the spine of which I had many years ago repaired with silver duct tape when the binding began to fray.

The tape covers the title but I remembered that this was one of King’s epics — “It.”

I prised the book from between its neighbors. This required more effort than is usual in such matters, as the volumes were packed tightly and “It,” in common with many of King’s novels, is hefty — the edition I own tops 900 pages.

I sat in my favorite cushy recliner and began to read.

I did this with a certain trepidation.

I worried that the story might not immediately capture my attention. This has rarely been an issue with a King novel, to be sure. But on a few occasions I’ve started reading one of his books for what might have been the 7th time and, after my interest strayed a few pages in, replaced it in the bookshelf and sought my entertainment elsewhere.

The possibility that this might recur, at the same time I was deprived of the public library, where I’ve never come away disappointed, was distressing.

I needn’t have worried.

After the first turn of a page — such a small yet sensuous gesture, that — I was entranced by a story I have probably read 10 times since it was published in 1986.

This is a uniquely pleasurable experience, starting a book — most especially a lengthy one that will enrich so many hours in the days ahead. Just looking at the great thick span of pages waiting to be read gives me a thrill.

Notwithstanding my reference to this as being a unique experience, it does remind me, at least superficially, of one other — the exhilaration you sometimes feel when you embark on a long journey.

I relish that moment when I settle into the driver’s seat and back out of my driveway, knowing that hundreds of miles of roads await, rich in vistas I have never seen and with the prospect of meeting people who will add brief but memorable chapters to my own life story.

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I asked my son, Max, what he wanted for lunch and his response made me feel the way I do when I listen to Harry Chapin singing “Cat’s In The Cradle.”

“Do we have Top Ramen?” Max asked.

This product, so intimately associated with college students and their parsimonious budgets and undiscriminating palates, made me think of Max not as a boy of 9 but as a man of 19.

This maudlin feeling quickly dissipated as I hunted through the pantry.

Max saw the ramen package before my eyes could adjust to the gloom.

I put a pan of water on the stovetop to boil and opened the crinkly plastic wrapping to get at the noodles and the foil packet of flavoring.

I noticed that the packet was labeled.

“Please tear along this line,” it read.

Lots of packages include instructions about where you ought to rip them, of course.

But I believe this was the first time I had read such a recommendation that was prefaced with a polite request.

I was surprised, and not a little pleased, to read that extra word.

It wasn’t necessary, strictly speaking.

But I don’t believe there can ever be too much politeness in the world, and I am gratified to find it in unexpected places.

Jayson Jacoby is editor of the Baker City Herald.