Falling in Love Again

Once the library was where I went for story hour, sitting in a semi-circle around the librarian, listening enthralled as books were read to us in sing-songy, “everything-is-aaaaahhhhmazing” tones, every sentence curled like a springy ringlet. When I could read on my own, it became a weekly stop for the summer reading program, all the books I’d finished logged in careful large print, each awaiting a star sticker at the end of its row.  Later, as a “Volun-teen,” I spent part of the summer in the air conditioned glory of the basement children’s department, shelving books, learning the Dewey decimal system and handing out gold star stickers. Then, like an old toy left behind, I lost touch with the library as a place of reading pleasure. College will do that to you.  The library became a place to study, look up information in the Congressional Record, search articles on microfiche, Xerox stuff and steal kisses in the stacks. You go there when you have to, and for several years, I bought books here and there, without giving the library, college or otherwise, another thought.