Love for libraries

I wrote this in my journal recently and when I realized it was National Library Week this week, I wanted to share it.

I remember the old brick library in downtown Chipley.
I remember its musty book smell.

I remember the old KMS library. The top shelves covered in diaramas of Indian homes and solar systems. I remember the faded carpet we sat on. The stern librarian might have turned many kids away from books, but not me. I remember the large mural of book spines.
But mostly I remember the tall stacks on the far edges. I remember a story of a young girl in the Depression. She learned to make bread and sell it. She became the literal family breadwinner.

I remember the book fairs. So many shiny new books. Mostly I remember the 4th grade book fair with my stack of new books. Waiting in line. I waited until I should not have waited anymore. Afraid to lose my spot in line or my pretty stack of wonderful works and new places; I don't know. I waited til my body said "run!" Still I waited. My warm wet jeans told everyone that I waited too long! (I'll venmo you $5 if you have a more embarrassing story from 4th grade.)

Better memories came in fifth grade. I spent the night in the library with my nerdy peers. I slept in my sleeping bag, under a table next to my favorite stack.

Summers brought trips to the new county library. Its icy coolness welcomed us.

In middle school, my AR points quickly acheived...I wandered to the tall stacks again. These new stacks taught me new wonders and horrors. Here I first grasped an understanding of social justice as I read about Auschwitz. I read all the books in those tall stacks about the Holocaust and WWII. My friends read the Babysitters Club. I did too and then I read Anne Frank.

In high school, the library was for AV club and the computer lab.
But those earlier libraries had done what they needed to.
I was a voracious reader and spent my own money on books.
Mom let us loose in Books-a-Million and I read Pride and Prejudice. I read about heartbreak and loss. I read and read and read.

The Chipola library was for studying and avoiding old boyfriends.
The BYU library was for digital research but I still enjoyed its musty smell.

As a new mother, libraries came to aid again. I learned to breastfeed because of a library. The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding was my angel, rescuer, lactation consultant.
Later, at a loss for how to spend our days, we clapped and sang with a cheerful storyteller.
And I brought home stacks and stacks of colorful picture books. A deeper love for children's literature was re-born.

Again, I wandered to those tall stacks. This time I dipped my toes in environmental justice. In new parenting methods. In going back to local foods. Pregnant again, I pushed a stroller through the tall stacks. I found the books about natural birth. About midwifery. And in the woods, a new path opened up and I took it.

Library visits brought substance to our days. My two and then 3 small children cut their teeth on library board books. On Patricia Pollaco, on Cynthia Rylant.

Now in a new state, the library was our first outing. As home educators, it is our social scene, our playroom and it is our curriculum.

God bless libraries.