Walk down memory aisle

Remember what it was like to get books from a local library? I certainly do. Let’s see if I can paint a picture of this.

The doors are always open (as long as it was within library hours, of course), welcoming one and all to the world of literature. As I move through the security detectors and walk into the main sanctuary, I am stunned by the sheer number of books within that wonderful enclosure. I feel a bit like Belle as she is escorted into the beast’s library, awestruck by the shelves of books that extend from floor to ceiling. It almost makes me want to waltz to an unseen orchestra in my joy. Almost.

On my right is the children’s section, and I see little kids sitting with their parents, being read to, and this gets me thinking about when my kids were really small. We used to go to the library once a week and gather as many books as our hands could hold. We would be amazed at the sheer number of books and would feel incredulous that these did not come at any cost. Then we would bring this truckload of literature home and spend the entire week appreciating this treasure trove that we had acquired. Every day, we would read 2 or 3 of the books, and my boys’ eyes were constantly wide open, as their minds were being filled with new images and ideas and stories. Their faces were painted with constant smiles.

Kind of like the smile on my face as I head over to the science fiction and fantasy section of the library. How can I express my feelings when I enter this sacred and hallowed domain? I am suddenly surrounded by the greatest authors of this genre, like some kind of literary smorgasbord. I proceed to do some glorified window shopping, travelling from book to book with my heart rate at 232 as I anticipate the discovery of the perfect book. I check out promising titles, I look at the wonderful artwork they have on the jacket, I might even check out the plot summary they have on the back … but I am usually leery to do this because I don’t want to have the story spoiled.

Before long, I have 4 or 5 books in my possession, and I bring this motherlode over to a nearby table or cubicle so that I can investigate them further. Does the book suit my present mood or needs? Is it an award-winning author? If I read an excerpt of the text within, will I be impressed with the writing style and eloquence? The point is, I just can’t choose any book. I am far more discriminating than that. I do not consort with pulp fiction in any form, and I will not sully my library bag with such drivel. (Yes, I am a book snob. I freely admit it.)

I boil the book selection down to one or two books only, since I know that it will take me a few weeks to make my way through them. God forbid I sign out a book and end up never reading it. Oh, the guilt I would feel if I denied another patron the delight of a book for no reason!!

I go to the checkout counter, delighted with the success of my foray into this wondrous literary jungle. and I cannot wait to get home and find that special place where I do all my reading, whether it might be a comfy chair, a couch that allows me to lounge, or even my bed if I am particularly lazy and do not want to truly arise when I wake up.

Ahh, those were the days. There is something really romantic about making the trek to an actual library and putting in some good old work to find a good old book.