The sweet rush of air conditioning when you open the door, the musty smell of secrets archived and forgotten, the reverent silence; I’ve always loved libraries. I went with my mom to the library whenever possible, and by the time I was nine or ten, she’d just drop me off at the door and pick me up one or two hours later. The freedom of being left to my own devices for an hour or two was only magnified by the freedom I found in books.
Nothing was left untouched. I read all varieties of fiction, non-fiction, even encyclopedias. I loved flipping through the index cards in the card catalog to find just the right title (yes, I’m that old.) P ----- Pandas ---- BAM! I was off and running. I read whatever caught my fancy.
Eventually the distinction between children-young adult-adult fiction blurred and faded into obscurity. Anne Rice and Jean M. Auel sat side-by-side my stack of Babysitter’s Club books. Gone With the Wind next to Where’s Waldo.
Here’s where the dork part comes in. What kind of 14 year-old spends 3 straight hours on a Saturday at the library, checks out a stack of books, and returns the next week to begin the process anew? Me, that’s who!
Tonight I watched my husband and daughter read “Cars and Trucks and Things That Go.” They found Goldbug on every page. My heart sings.