I have always loved going to the library. This love has certainly stemmed from my love of reading. When I went to elementary school, my school didn’t have have a library. Classroom libraries were practically nonexistent. My parents occasionally bought me a book from the monthly book order, but they couldn’t possibly afforded to keep me stocked in reading material. Enter the local library.
I would love to say that my first visit to the library was a magical one and that it is a day I will never forget. But I don’t. I can’t tell you how old I was, what books I took home, or how it made me feel. Instead of remembering the first time I went there, I can recall that it was a place that I frequented throughout my childhood.
My mom sometimes had to work on Saturdays. The local library was across the street from her bank. Once I was old enough, she would drop me off on her way in and I would be in heaven. Hours to spend wandering through the shelves. I would pick old favorites, new titles, anything I wanted. I often had to sort through my stack to narrow my choices to a manageable pile. After checking out my selections, I would use a quarter to call my mother from the payphone. We would pick a time for her to meet me on the corner. As she finished up her work, I would pour over the new books excited to get my hands on them as quickly as possible.
My love for the library has not ended. Today my son and I visited our local library. Although small, it is still a magical place. While I selected some new titles for us to take home, he wandered around the children’s room. He climbed on chairs, made puzzles, pulled dog toys, and read books. He had a great time. When it was time to leave, he cried. Though I hate to see him shed any tears, crying because it’s time to leave the library made my reading heart happy.