tearing a page from an old book

A memory...

Given my occupation, it’s probably no surprise that, even as a child, I loved books.  My mother read to me from the time I was an infant, and, by the age of three, I could read by myself.  I almost always had a book in my hands, and some days, I had quite a few of them.  My favorite excursions with Mom were to the local library after my older sister went to school.  The gray Queen Anne architecture with the storybook white trim, the antique desk and typewriter displayed in one front bay window, they utterly captivated me.  It was love at first sight…and I was only four years old, definitely a nerd in the making.

The place was small by comparison to other libraries I’ve since visited, but I didn’t know that then.  I only saw a magical realm, a wondrous landscape carved of weathered spines and towering shelves, scuffed tables and mismatched chairs.  And when my mother set me free, I could barely contain the skip in my step as my quest commenced.  Every time I returned to her, I beamed as if I’d just been handed the whole wide world.

I had.

There was no other feeling like it.

Cradled in both arms, I hauled my newfound treasures to the front desk, never failing to achieve the maximum check-out limit.  On the first occasion, I hadn’t wanted to hand them over.  I’d chosen those titles so carefully.  But the librarian assured me she’d give them right back, and she was, it turned out, a woman of her word.  With a number of quick stamps and reinsertion of the loan cards, my mission was complete.  A new story would ignite my imagination the moment I’d been buckled into the car.

Each time we exited that beautiful building, my eyes lingered again on the old typewriter in the window, Mom urging me along as I inched closer and closer to the glass, as if I might reach through and tap the contraption's waiting keys. While no one knew then what the future might hold, if my early childhood had been the opening chapters of a novel, the foreshadowing would have been nigh impossible to miss.

Children today are raised on screens, using their devices for education, recreation, and socialization alike.  I’m grateful that I was not brought up in a world like this, that I knew the pleasure of the hunt for my next read, the tactile sensation of a book in my hands, the whoosh of eagerly turned pages, the smell of old paper—for that matter, the bibliosmia of an entire library.  Despite modern tech, it is the kind of thrill every child should still have from a young age, should still be able to appreciate as they grow, despite—and because of—its analog simplicity.

Libraries are tremendous assets, serving our communities in far more ways than you probably realize.  So this month, I challenge you to show your support and benefit young minds in the process.  Even if you haven’t stepped foot in one in ages, take your children or grandchildren, your nieces and nephews to pick out their own books at the library.  Be excited about the experience, and get them excited about it too.  Instilling a love of reading at an early age will reap a lifetime of rewards, and giving them the autonomy to make their own age-appropriate selections, to pick up the books, flip through them, and choose something that truly resonates with them, that, too, will be a prize they’ll long remember.  Who knows?  You may find yourself walking the stacks with tomorrow’s esteemed novelist, playwright, poet, or screenwriter.