Summer on the farm. The weather is hot and dry, a cool breeze tickles the leafy canopy overhead, the comforting hum of combines harvesting in the distance is audible, my chores are finished, and a stack of fresh library books awaits me under the apple tree. Life is marvelous.
When I was growing-up, books were a way of life. I always had books. My great aunt owned a book store and my grandma was a librarian, thus there was no way to avoid reading and books of all kinds. Books were everywhere in my house; the shelves in our home were filled with all kinds of fascinating volumes. Books were given as birthday presents and as a special treat on holidays; Christmas meant a copy of the latest Caldecott Medal or Newberry Award book.
During my second grade summer, however, an entirely new world was opened to me. For some reason, unknown to me, my mother decided to take me to our local public library. (We had spent time at “Grandma’s library” in the city, but up until that time had not explored our local branch). The Valley Branch of the Spokane County Library was a magical place. Shelves upon shelves of tall books, short books, plain books, and colorful books were everywhere. Of great interest to me were the tomes with new bindings, the ones with those tiny numbers and letters written in skinny white pen on the spines.
That summer I learned that, remarkably, one could go to the library and check-out whatever they wanted. The whole world of the public library was open to anyone who had that special membership – a library card. A member of this elite group could check-out an entire heap of fabulous volumes and take them home to enjoy for weeks – and they were free!