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As a book lover, going to library was a favorite pastime for me as a kid. We would go almost weekly, and I made some great memories doing so.
I remember when I was maybe around ten years old, my mom would drop me and my two older siblings off at the local library. It was small, but we’d spend over an hour there, perusing the books, while she ran errands. I loved seeing what was new and grabbing the next book in a series. All the librarians there knew my mom, so they would chat with us when we checked out. I would meet up with my sister and brother at the front, and we’d sit in the vestibule, waiting for my mom to pick us up. We’d compare our finds, and then sometimes we’d chat, and sometimes we’d just sit there and read. I loved spending time with the books and spending time with my older siblings.
Fast-forward several years, I was able to drive to the library myself, and we had moved to a city with a much bigger library that had multiple wings and floors. It was incredible to me. I’d take my two younger brothers with me, and we’d divide and conquer. Unlike with my older siblings, my brothers and I like the same genre, so we’d share nearly all the books we checked out.
I remember going to the teen fiction wing. I’d go to the request computer to request that the library buy a new book that had just come out, and the brother closest to me in age would race to the catalog computers to place holds on the books we were waiting to read. Then we’d just look at the books, choosing at least ten to take home with us (each!). We’d run into each other often as we walked up and down the aisles, and we’d excitedly show each other the new discoveries we’d made.
After we’d made our selections, we’d go to the junior fiction to meet up with my other brother. As a self-conscious sixteen-year-old, I would have felt strange going to the junior fiction section by myself, but with my ten-year-old brother at my side, I could act like I was just keeping an on him (and maybe surreptitiously snag a few more books).
Then we’d all walk down to the front desk together, toting our piles of books (seriously, I don’t know why we didn’t bring a book bag). Again, I loved the books, but a big part of why I enjoyed the library trips was the chance to spend time with my family, sharing something we all loved.
Now, as a mother, I’ve taken my own son to our local library. He’s a little too young to be very excited by it yet, but I’m looking forward to making some more great memories with my family.
What memories from the library do you have? Let me know in the comments below!
Happy reading!
I have always been a voracious reader since an early age, reading anything and everything I could get my hands on. As a young teen, I was refused entry to the school library, being told by the librarian that until I had straight A’s I could not check out any more books (I had a C in physical education – all the rest were A’s)! I told my dad, he talked to the school officials, and lo and behold, was told I could have access to the library again. Of course, I went to the town library on Saturdays after the movies (Roy Rogers, Sky King, etc.) and got a stack of books too! As a mother, my son and I had great Saturdays together going to the Orlando Public Library (nearly a block square and several floors high!) – besides books they had movies, audio tapes, geneology information and art that could be checked out to hang on our walls at home! Afterwards, we would walk around the corner and have lunch at Olive Garden. Great memories for me ( and him, I hope).
As an only child, books were my lifeline, even on the many occasions when I lived in the foster homes my mother chose for me and when she sent me to a private boarding school twice. When we relocated to New Haven, CT, I was 8 and already a voracious reader. This is when I started visiting the library. No matter how many times I was moved around, there was always a branch library in the neighborhood. My library card was my most precious possession because it could help me travel to every destination I wanted to learn about as well as provided me with stories that fed my insatiable appetite for stories. For the next six years, I frequented the public libraries in New Haven. As soon as I turned 14, I found out that I could work at the main branch as a library page on as long as my mother would cosign my request for working papers and I would maintain a B average in school. I worked there for two years, earning a whopping 75¢ per hour. I absolutely loved my time there, but chose to leave so I could work for minimum wage of $1.25 an hour because it was almost twice as much as I had been paid.
Many, many years have passed since then, but libraries still mean the world to me. When I moved to rural Maine 24 years ago, I found out that in the next town, just 8 miles from my home (definitely not walking distance like in my childhood), there was a small library that was run by volunteers with donations from the nearby towns and patrons. Within six months of first going there, I was invited by its founders to be a member of the library board. Over the past 10 years, I have also “worked” there as a volunteer librarian, and over the past 5 years have been the president of the board. I absolutely love the time I spend there, especially when I am able to give suggestions for books/authors that might interest them. I especially love my conversations with the “summer people” who have camps on the amazingly beautiful lakes within and nearby my home, most of whom live in other states.
There is another, much larger library in the closest “big” town (30 miles north) where we do our grocery shopping, have medical appointments, and pick up our prescriptions. Because my town is within the same county, I don’t have to pay a fee to use it. Because so much of our state, especially everywhere north or west of Bangor, is sparsely populated, many people also take advantage of interlibrary loan of books.
I’d also like to add to my tale by revealing that my personal home library consists of somewhere in the vicinity of 3,000-4,000 volumes. This is a guesstimate based on the fact that I just started cataloging my books about a month ago and am already close to 600 volumes even though I still haven’t finished my bedroom’s double-sided bookcase that overlooks my entryway on the first floor of my home.
I started reading murder/mystery books when I was around ten years old. My mother loved Agatha Christie and had all her books so I read the whole lot and became addicted to reading. I too, used our local library and at 15 years old I got a Saturday job there which was awesome! Filing books might not be to fun to most folk but it brought me into contact with lots of authors and increased my reading. The hushed atmosphere was wonderful: no shouting and shrieking! Many years later I am lost if I don’t have a book to read! I feel rather a traitor, as although I love real books, I have the Kindle App which has been so useful as I travel a lot and can now take hundreds of “books” with me wherever I go. I am part of a lively and lovely book club but still enjoy the occasional trip to the library. Our local library displays paintings, sketches and local history too. My husband has recently discovered that he loves books now that he has more time on his hands (and has wonderfully eclectic taste!) I have had so many hours of pleasure reading, thanks to my mum and my Saturday library job.
My favorite memory of the library occurred when I was about 8 years old. I already had a library card and could walk alone to the library in or small town (about 6 blocks). I went to the library every Saturday, weather permitting, and routinely checked out my allotted three books. On one particular Saturday, after I’d enjoyed the somewhat musty stillness of the library and picked out my books, I went to the front desk to check out. I handed the librarian my books. She glanced over them and told me I couldn’t have one book. When I asked why she said it was too grown up for me. Somewhat dejected and more than a little upset, I walked home. As soon as I walked in the door I poured out my lament to my mother.
“The librarian wouldn’t let me check out one book I wanted. She said it was too grown-up.”
“We’ll see about that!,” my mother said.
Suiting action to words, she snatched a hat (ladies were NEVER seen outdoors without a hat in those days) and her purse, grabbed my hand, and speed-walked down to the library. (N.B., my mother, in those days, had the stamina of a horse and her pace routinely gave me a stitch in my side.)
Arrived at the library, in record time, I might add, Mom stormed up to the desk, tapped her finger on the counter, and said in no uncertain terms and in a tone of voice that brooked no discussion, “My son has my permission to check out ANY (heavy stress on “any”) book in this library! Do you understand?”
My mother was the wife of the county judge, so her word carried a lot of authority.
“Yes, ma’am,” the librarian replied meekly.
“Where’s that book,” my mother demanded.
The book was duly retrieved, checked out, and handed over, and I went home in triumph.
Sure wish I could remember the title of that book!
Oh what a sweet memory! My mom took me to our very small town library as early as I can remember. I can still invision it’s tiny rooms, and the small, round, blue table in the children’s section. I checked out as many books as allowed, and felt like the richest kid anywhere, as I walked out with my treasures. I am very thankful for the gift of the love of reading, and continue to employ it daily. I am 51 years old now, and going to the library on Friday, and checking out a bag full of books to enjoy on the weekend, is still my absolute favorite thing to do.